Chapter 13 Blue #2
I tried to buck the system my senior year of high school, and that didn’t go well.
Dutton was entering the draft, and I was getting interest, too.
I got caught up in the possibility of it all, the idea that playing my favorite game could be my actual job.
Dad was quick to set me straight and let me know I’d be on my own if I dared to pursue that track.
I was a hotheaded eighteen-year-old, so I thought about it.
But hockey’s a risky career, and the competition is insane.
Only the very best of the very best actually make it to the NHL.
I may not love math, but I understand statistics, and the numbers aren’t in my favor.
When you add in the chance of injury, it was an obvious no for me.
I did retain one victory from the battle, though.
I agreed to his terms, one one condition.
I secured myself four glorious years of college hockey.
That’s the compromise we agreed on. So even though he wants to make a dig about my schedule or explain that a boys’ weekend in Vegas will serve me better in my future than chasing a puck around the ice, he can’t do it.
I promised not to bitch about following his orders, as long as he doesn’t comment on my hockey career, short-lived though it is.
You’d think most guys in his position would want to brag about their son and his team’s accomplishments, and I’m sure he uses it to his advantage whenever he can. But around me? It’s like hockey doesn’t exist. Like it’s my mistress and he’s choosing to turn a blind eye to my affair.
It’s so fucking weird, but it’s my life.
My dad wads up his linen napkin and places it on the table, drawing my attention back to our meal. Our waiter approaches the table, check in hand, and that means I have about five minutes left before I can get out of here.
Until my father opens his mouth. “It was chewy and overcooked,” he says, pointing to his nearly empty plate. “Yes, I ate it. I had no choice. I motioned for your attention several times, Jake,” Dad says, peering up the server’s name tag.
They go back and forth for a few minutes, but I tune them out completely so I can check my phone and make it to the Wolf’s Den in time for our meeting and for conditioning afterward.
I’ve watched this play out a million times and it always ends the same way: with my dad winning.
He doesn’t shout or draw attention to himself.
That’s not his style. He doesn’t even care about the money.
That’s not what motivates him. And he knows damn well there was nothing wrong with the food. That’s why he practically inhaled it.
What he’s pissed about is being ignored.
He tried to flag down our server a few different times, and couldn’t.
My dad is not a patient man and he wholeheartedly believes that the customer is always right, and if the servers don’t appear within seconds and if they don’t cater to his every desire and basically read his mind, then they aren't doing their job.
And his job is to set them straight.
It’s embarrassing as hell, and I’m not sticking around for it. I motion to my watch before flinging my thumb over my shoulder, indicating that I’m going to be late, so I need to hustle.
My dad nods absently and waves me off. He’s far more interested in dressing down a waiter and making sure that the cost of his meal comes out of the poor kid’s paycheck.
I can’t deal with my dad’s bullshit today. Nope. I’ve got a year and a half of freedom left and I’m going to soak up every second.
“All right, hive mind, gather round,” Ollie announces as we shuffle into the weight room.
Our meeting is over, and since some of the guys came in for morning workouts, they’ve already headed home or to the dining hall.
Lucky bastards. But those of us who chose to sleep in this morning have to hit the weights now.
It’s not so bad. We have state-of-the-art equipment, and we have enough team comedians to keep us entertained for hours.
Honestly, like most of the guys in this room, I love a good workout.
There’s something about putting the work in every day and seeing results that keeps me motivated.
The other thing is the fact that, come game day, guys who are every bit as big as I am will be barreling down the ice at full speed.
I have no desire to get run over, and that's all the motivation I need. I prefer to be the steamroller, not the steamrolled, and that’s what keeps me in this gym day in and day out.
But I couldn’t leave even if I wanted to right now, because our team captain is holding court and he’s enlisted our help for who the hell knows what.
Because it’s Ollie, it really could be anything.
He could just as easily be asking for recommendations for a world language tutor, or he could be asking us all to vote on which tie he should wear for his next job interview.
Bound by responsibility and curiosity, we convene around his weight bench like we’re trying to answer some strange riddle, and he’s got a hint for us.
“What’s up?” Dime, one of the freshmen, asks.
Ollie eyes each of us for a beat, apparently finds us all worthy, and opens his mouth. “I need to know where to take Fallon for our anniversary.”
No one says a word, but we’re all wearing the same what-the-fuck? expression. Unsurprisingly, my bestie, Dutton, is the one to call Ollie on his shit. “Your anniversary isn’t until Halloween, jackass. And it’s still January.”
“Technically, we got married at one o’clock in the morning, so our anniversary is November first,” Ollie corrects him.
Dutton wipes his brow with his middle finger. “Which means you’ve got the better part of a year to figure it out.”
“No, I don’t, dumbass,” Ollie returns. “I’m not talking about our one year anniversary.
I’m talking about the three month one. It’s two days away, but it’s gotta be good.
Month number one was awesome. We didn’t actually leave the house, but I got Fallon this—yeah, she’ll kill me if I run my mouth about that, so I’m going to stop talking now. And month number two was—”
“I thought you said you were going to stop talking?” Dutton asks, and then ducks as Ollie whips a water bottle at him.
“I meant I should stop talking about furniture that doubles as a sex prop. Anyway, as I was saying, month number two was New Year’s, so I did the whole champagne and candles thing.
It’s predictable, I know, but Fallon loves champagne.
Especially when I—” Ollie pauses, clears his throat, and does a conversational u-turn.
I’ve got to give the guy some credit. He knows he yaps too damn much, and he’s trying to do better.
He just can’t help it, though. He was born to overshare.
“Hold up,” Mickey says, his face scrunched up like he’s trying to solve a complicated math problem. “You celebrate each month? I thought you were only supposed to do the years?”
“That’s nothin you gotta worry about, Mick,” Jenksy tosses in. “You need an actual girlfriend to celebrate any kind of anniversary, and you can’t out of the fucking friend zone, so—”
I scoop up the plastic water bottle that dropped to the floor after it missed beaning Dutton in the head, and I smack Jenksy with it. That guy’s such a dick.
“Hell yes, I celebrate each month,” Ollie scoffs. “Fallon’s way too damn good for me, and I know it, so I want her to know exactly how much I adore her. It’s called a mature, adult relationship. Maybe some of you guys should try it sometime.”
Leo Santos raises his hand, like we’re in elementary school and Ollie’s the teacher. Now that would be a total shit show.
“Baby Santos, I changed your fucking diapers. How the hell do you have relationship advice to offer?” Ollie asks, his blond brows furrowing.
Leo scratches at his mop of curly hair. “I met you when I was in high school. You definitely did not change my diapers. Also, just call me Leo, and—”
Ollie waves him off. “Not gonna happen, Baby Santos. But please, continue.”
The poor kid sighs because almost everybody in here only sees him as Pete Santos’s brother.
That’s not a bad thing. Pete was captain of this team, and though Dutton and I only ever played against him, there’s no doubt he’s a solid guy.
Still, it’s gotta suck being constantly associated with your brother instead of being known as just yourself.
And when you figure in that Pete is one of those larger-than-life, everybody-loves-him types, and Leo’s much more reserved, well, that’s gotta suck twice as hard.
“I was going to tell you that it’s not an anniversary,” Leo says, settling onto the weight bench. “That’s the wrong word. It literally means ‘turning year’ in Latin because ‘annus’ means ‘year.’”
“Did he just say anus means year?” Jenksy asks, and three guys hold up their water bottles, ready to blast him.
“It’s ‘annus’, dumbass,” Leo mutters before turning back to Ollie. “You can say ‘lunaversary’ or ‘mensaversary’ because of the monthly moon cycles. People also say ‘monthsary’, even though that’s not technically a word. I mean, anything is a word if you say it and people understand you, so—”
“That’s it, Baby Santos, we’re changing your name to Einstein.” Ollie declares, cutting him off.
Our freshman winger rubs his temples. “I prefer Leo.”
Ollie ignores that and starts throwing out date ideas so he can get some feedback and choose the best option. Some of the guys are still razzing him about being a total sap for his wife, and that makes my mind veer off in a bizarre direction.