Chapter 2
Sven
two
. . .
I love my job. I love my job. I love my job.
Glaring at my idiot teammates, I lift my beer to my lips and take a sip. How much longer until this excruciating torture is over?
We’re on day three of a seven-day road trip. The Western Canada swing is always my least favorite because it lasts forever. There’s no such thing as a “quick” jaunt to Edmonton—when the league sends us to western Alberta, we’re here for several games at a time.
Being on the road is challenging enough because it sets my routines off-kilter. Being on the road for what feels like forever is worse.
I don’t mind sleeping in hotels. I don’t mind the late-night flights to new cities. I don’t mind being surrounded by my teammates.
It’s everything else.
Breakfast, lunch, pre-game dinner, and post-game meal with the team. Going out to the bar after the game. Outside of junior hockey, when that sort of team morale bullshit was mandatory, I haven’t willingly participated in any of the team get-togethers or parties.
Maybe I’m antisocial. Maybe I’m a dick.
Or it could be that I just don’t want to socialize with these numbskulls. I have to spend enough time with them on the ice and in the practice facility.
I like being on my own. By choice, I’m a loner. I thrive being alone.
So getting dragged out to the bar for the third time on day three of what feels like infinity? Kill — me — now.
Aidan MacGregor, the center on my line, gives me a side-eye.
“You could at least pretend like you want to be here,” he mutters, lifting his beer.
“Why?” I’m not trying to be snarky. I’m genuinely asking.
MacGregor sighs. He’s one of the few people on the team who knows that I’m autistic. It’s not that I hide it; I just don’t talk about it with the other dudes. I don’t talk to the other guys at all if I can avoid it.
I keep my head down, take my reps, skate my hardest, and score the fucking goals. That’s what I do. They’re paying me six million dollars a year to put points on the scoreboard, not to smile for billboards.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve been the odd one out. While I don’t mind the occasional drink, I don’t like bars, and I outright refuse to go clubbing. A quiet night on the couch playing video games with Rupert or tinkering in the kitchen is enough for me.
Being on my own is relaxing. Spending time with a few close friends—I can tolerate that.
An extended amount of time with people who exhaust me, doing activities that exhaust me, with no chance of recalibration at the end of the day? That sounds like a stupendously stupid idea.
Too bad it’s, well, my job.
Okay, so, technically, my job is to play hockey. But there are a million requirements that go along with the contract to play in the national hockey league, and while there are several I dislike, I’d rather play hockey than not play hockey, so I go along with it.
The rest of the guys are drinking and talking, having a good time. The single guys are chatting up women. Some of the married guys are, too. I don’t understand that. It’s against the rules. Why would you want to throw away your life for one night of meaningless sex?
Beside me, MacGregor is on his phone, texting relentlessly. He keeps tilting the screen away like he’s afraid I’m trying to sneak a peek. I’m not. I don’t give two shits who he’s texting. He could be talking to the team owner’s wife and I wouldn’t care. It’s none of my goddamn business.
Jenkins sits across the table, looking glum. The only reason he’s allowed to drink is because we’re in Canada — he’s not 21 yet. His girlfriend is the single most annoying person on the planet. For some reason, he can’t see that. Or maybe he does and he’s choosing to ignore it. I don’t know.
Next to him is Lewis. Goalies are fucking weird, and he’s even weirder than most. Normally he’s pretty chatty. Tonight, he’s mellow, and that’s even more unusual.
About half of the guys on the team are settled with partners, and the other half are enjoying the bachelor lifestyle. Even though, technically, yes, I’m single, that’s by design. I choose not to date.
People exhaust me. The physical demands of keeping up with my job exhaust me. Everyday life exhausts me.
How do neurotypical people function? I honestly have no clue.
My phone rings at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning. There are only a handful of people who are allowed to call me; everyone else goes straight to voicemail.
My agent? Yeah, I’m picking up his call.
“It’s the third fucking week of the season, bud,” Brad barks into my ear.
“I hadn’t realized.” Scrubbing a hand over my face, I try to wake up a little. “What do you want?”
He snorts. “You could at least try to act like you give a shit.”
“I’m talking to you. I’m giving a shit.” Does he not realize that just getting through to me is a major step above everyone else? I don’t even answer my parents’ phone calls.
Not that they call me.
Brad sighs. “There are photos.”
“Great. Of what?”
“Of you at a bar, looking pissed off and annoyed.”
That… is my default expression. I’ve been told on multiple occasions I have “resting bitch face.”
“So?”
“So there’s already rumors of friction on the team.”
“It’s the third week. I don’t even know half the guys’ names yet.”
Mainly because we brought in a lot of rookies this season. I know their numbers and their last names, if only because it’s stitched onto the backs of their jerseys.
“Start acting like you do,” Brad says. “Fix it.”
“Why do I have to fix it?”
“Because otherwise, you’ll be labeled a bad egg, and no team will want you. Remember, we’ve got to think bigger.”
He hangs up without ceremony, the way I like it, and my hyperfocus starts spiraling.
Think bigger? Bigger than what?
My contract is up at the end of this season. Ideally, I’ll score one more lengthy, long-term contract before my playing years start dwindling — and with it, my salary options. Twenty-seven is basically middle-aged in the hockey world.
I like Boston. In my fourth season with the team, I’ve settled into my life. I don’t want to pick up and move.
Not again.
My apartment is nice. It’s a two-bedroom townhouse in a quiet neighborhood where I can be alone and enjoy it. There’s a gorgeous, custom-built chef’s kitchen with countertops that actually suit my height, and space for all three of my stand mixers plus my sourdough starter, and a walk-in pantry to house all my supplies.
I’ve got Hildy, the little old lady who lives in a shoe, down the street. She always has a new recipe for trade or a sample to take home.
Rupert and I have a routine. Even though she’s okay when I leave, I like to think she’s happy when I come back. I don’t know that she has many feelings aside from hunger and apathy. I understand that. My two main emotions are hunger and apathy, too.
Yeah, I know that I can find a new house in another city and build my own kitchen. Through the years, I’ve played on enough hockey teams to know it takes time to settle in and assimilate, but it’s not impossible. Rupert would come with me. We’re a mated pair. Just, you know, cross-species.
Pulling myself further out of sleep, I stand and stretch and dress and steel myself for another day with too many people. As I head down to the team room for breakfast, I see a few guys eyeing me suspiciously. Or is that my hyper paranoia?
Brad’s words ring loud in my head as I fill a plate and find a seat. Usually, I sit by myself. I like sitting by myself. I can read the news on my phone—or rather, check the stats on last night’s games, update my fantasy football roster, check in on Rupert’s camera, scroll mindlessly through social media.
On the plane, I sit alone. On the bus, I sit alone. Everywhere I go, I’m alone. That’s how I like it. That’s how I want it.
Instead, I find myself looking at the empty space beside MacGregor. He’s hunched over his plate, his elbows cast out to the side as if to ward off the other guys.
Across the table are Jenkins, a second-year player, and McKittrick, the older veteran who spends more time in the press box than on the ice. Lewis, who sat silently with us last night, is across the room with the other goalie. It’s rare to see them apart—I wonder what was up last night.
MacGregor lifts his eyes to mine and he nods, so I take the seat beside him, careful to watch his wayward elbows.
My skin feels like it’s going to crawl out of my body. I’m itchy and sweating, even though it’s freaking freezing in here, and my heart is pounding like I’ve just tried to beat an impossible icing call.
I’m trying.
Pulling out my phone, I check on Rupert and then dig into my breakfast. It’s the standard hotel fare, and it’s not particularly good, but there’s not much they can do about that. It’s part of the routine.
After breakfast, we head to the arena. Warm up, stretching, morning skate… it’s what we do. There’s a familiarity to it no matter which city we’re in.
On the bus, I sit by myself, but that afternoon at lunch, I find myself taking the seat beside MacGregor again. Until he complains, I’ll be stuck to his fucking side like glue, and then I’ll find someone new to stalk.
His brows lift. “You got the message, then?”
I shrug. “Guess so.”
Hiding a smile, he shakes his head and laughs. “Cool. I’m down with that.”
I can’t tell if he’s making fun of me, or if he thinks I’m in on the joke. I’ll pretend it’s the latter. I don’t think he would be deliberately mean. Sometimes I wish I could understand people better.