6. Ace
SIX
ACE
Steam fizzed off our wet hair as Mikey Holmes and I left the stadium.
“Is it just me, or are our practices getting more and more brutal?” Holmes rubbed his elbow. “I don’t remember the last time I took that many slap shots in a row.”
The brisk winter air hitting my face was like a shot of caffeine after a long day. “It’s not just you.” I rubbed my gloves together and blew into my hands. “Coach is going to kill one of us if he keeps pushing us like that.”
Holmes, Banksy, Ethan, and I left practice with the intent of going to get something healthy to eat, but somehow had ended up at a bar in the west end, drinking more than we were eating.
By the third pitcher of craft beer, the stuff was starting to taste almost okay. “I might as well be drinking a loaf of bread.” I held up the glass of dark beer that was supposed to have hints of hops and verbena, but the notes I detected were closer to that of a Reuben sandwich. Cringing, I gulped down the dark liquid. I preferred to eat my cured meat sandwiches rather than drink them.
Holmes chugged his beer and proceeded to fill up all of our glasses while simultaneously ordering another round. The pretty bartender who was taking care of our table was doing a damn good job making sure our glasses never dipped below half full. Other than the bar patrons, we were her only table. I think it had something to do with Banksy.
“Do you guys want to order something to eat?” She leaned on the table.
My stomach growled. “I don’t suppose you have Reuben sandwiches on the menu, do you?”
She laughed. “No, but we have a Waygu beef on focaccia that’s pretty close.”
She might be an expert in doing her hair, and showing off her cleavage, but the girl didn’t know a thing about sandwiches. “That will do.” I shot her a smile.
“What about you?” She rested her hand on Banksy’s shoulder. “Are you interested in anything…to eat?”
The innuendo was as subtle as a slap shot from the blue line. A smile crept across Harrison’s face. An expression that said the only thing he was going to eat was the bartender.
“Maybe later.” He winked and swayed a bit on his barstool as he sipped his IPA.
After the bartender left, Ethan rolled his eyes. “Are you going to leave any bartenders un-fucked in the west end?”
Harrison shrugged. “I can’t help it. I like their authority, and the way they grab the bottles.” There was a slur in his voice, but there was likely one in mine too.
“Watch it.” There was caution in Ethan’s voice. “Coach wants us to stay focused.”
Banksy scoffed. “What’s the point? We’re fucked.” He sipped his beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Sorry, Ace.”
I knew exactly why he was apologizing. He blamed the team’s bottom-of-the-standings position on the Bailey brothers. “Why are you sorry? We’re in last place and unless we pull off the Toronto Tigers’ miracle on ice, our golf season will start in a few weeks.” Until management figured out how to get rid of us, the team was screwed. We truly needed a miracle.
“But really, what is up with your brother?” Ethan was drunk enough to push the issue. As he took a sip of beer, Harrison elbowed him and it splashed onto his jeans.
“Enough work talk,” Harrison grumbled. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“No.” Ethan took a napkin and dabbed at the beer on his crotch. “I’m serious, Ace. Your brother has the biggest ego I’ve ever seen. Sometimes, ego is good, but he plays like he’s the only guy on the ice.”
Ethan was right. Gideon was selfish, both in life and on the ice. “That’s just the way that he plays.”
Mikey decided to enter the conversation. “He wasn’t always like that. I’ve seen old game tapes of him. He led in assists in his junior year. He is capable of passing the puck, or at least he was.”
“He’s like a moldy lemon,” Banksy said.
“What?” I asked. “Like he’s sour?”
Harrison Banks laughed. “Well, yes, but when there’s one bad lemon in the bowl, it contaminates the others. It’s like that. Ever since he came around, his bad attitude has spread faster than the bartenders’ legs are going to later.”
I hoped to hell she hadn’t overheard. “He’s under stress too.” I wasn’t sure why I was defending my brother, but it wasn’t as though he wanted to be a shitty player. Sure, he had wide shoulders, but that didn’t mean he had to take all of the blame for the team’s standing.
“He’s one of the highest paid players in the league. The only stress that guy has is buying enough fancy houses to make sure he’s got enough write-offs.” Ethan finished his pint and filled up everyone’s glasses.
They had Gideon all wrong. He didn’t give a shit about the money, or the houses. He loved the game, and even though we hadn’t spoken off the ice in almost a year, I knew that his piss-poor performance had to be getting to him. “I’m not sure what’s going on with him. Hopefully coach can get it sorted out.”
“I hope so too.” Banksy finished his beer. “You still haven’t told us why he hates you so much.”
There it was.
I shrugged. “He’s competitive and we’re not close. I don’t really consider him my brother.” Anymore , I wanted to add. I had always looked up to Gideon, a tiny step shy of idolizing him.
“So you didn’t fuck his girlfriend?” Ethan looked me right in the eye. The room tilted and the loud electronic music dulled. My hands gripped the edge of the table, not in anger, but in an attempt to stop myself from toppling off the stool.
“Ethan. That’s enough.” Holmes raised his voice for the first time in the conversation.
I cleared my throat and the music and din of the restaurant returned to their original volume. “No. I don’t know where that rumor came from. But that’s all it is, a rumor.”
“If you say so.” Ethan didn’t seem convinced, but I didn’t care. I didn’t owe him, or anyone, an explanation. The only person in the world that needed to hear what really happened was Gideon, and he chose not to believe me. My own brother. Why would I waste my time trying to convince a couple of third-string defensemen that I wasn’t a total piece of shit?
The waitress arrived with my sandwich and set it on the table in front of me, along with another two pitchers of beer. “From the table over there.” She smiled, but focused the majority of her eye contact on Banksy.
We instinctively turned toward the table in the corner. A trio of blondes giggled and held up their glasses. “Please tell them thank you.” Holmes held up the pitcher and smiled at the girls.
“Yeah, and we will take care of their tab,” Banksy added.
“Really?” The bartender’s brow furrowed. I’d be confused too. Banksy had been flirting with her all night and now he had shifted his attention to the table of bunnies.
Harrison rested his hand on top of the bartenders. “I’m a gentleman. In no world is a woman buying a drink for me.”
She relaxed. “I’m just about to go on a break. If you guys need anything, I’ll get it for you now, and I’ll add their vodka sodas to your tab.”
We were on a crash course to an all-day hangover, and there was more beer on the table than we could possibly drink. “I think we’re good for now.” I took a bite of my sandwich. It was no Reuben, but it was delicious and would hopefully sober me up a little.
Banksy slid from his stool to stand inches from the bartender’s body. “Before you go on your break, I was wondering if you could point me in the direction of the restroom.”
If his comment caught her off guard, she didn’t show it. “I’ll show you. Right this way.”
Banksy’s grin stretched as wide as an Olympic-sized rink. “Gentleman, my ass,” Ethan muttered while Banksy was still within earshot.
Banksy turned. Maybe , he mouthed.
“Wow.” Banksy did his fair share of flirting, but I couldn’t see him bending a bartender over a toilet bowl in a west end lounge.
“I wonder how many times that guy has had chlamydia this season?” Holmes shook his head.
“This season?” I popped a truffle fry into my mouth. “How about this week? That whole thing”—I swirled a fry in the air —“has got to get old sometime. I mean, I got tired of bunnies in triple A.”
“I still like one or two every once in a while.” There was a wry smile on Ethan’s face.
“Don’t tell me you’ve been inspired by mister romance.” The sandwich was helping with my drunkenness. I no longer felt like the floor was crooked.
Ethan looked over his shoulder at the bunnies. “Maybe Banksy is right. This season is a bust. I’ve been so focused on training, drills, and practice. Maybe it’s time to have a little fun.” I’d only played with Ethan for a few months, but this behavior seemed out of character. Maybe he was right about that whole lemon thing: shitty attitude, like a cancer, spreads. “Want to go talk to them?”
The girls hadn’t looked away from our table. One of them was biting her lip and then they all were biting their lips. I’d had many women just like them over the years, and I couldn’t remember one of their names. Not one.
“I’ll pass.” I finished the sandwich and washed it down with the gross yeasty beer.
“Tell your brother how to do that.” Ethan winked. I knew it was a joke, but it stung. The Toronto Tigers were in last place, and as much as I liked to think there was only one bad lemon in the bowl, as long as Gideon and I were on the ice together, we were both rotten pieces of fruit slowly eating away at the entire team.
Was there a way to fix the team that didn’t involve tossing us both in the trash?
A loud round of giggles told me that Ethan had approached the table of bunnies. I settled up our tab with the other bartender, the one who was not currently in the bathroom with number nine, and stumbled out onto the street. It was one of those nights where if I were in the country, the stars would’ve been shining. I knew they were there somewhere, hidden beyond the light pollution and smog of downtown Toronto. As I staggered home, I realized I was twenty-seven years old and if I wasn’t careful, my career would be in my rearview mirror, before it really got started.
I lurched toward the corner of a red brick building and puked my guts out into a dirty snowbank. I was playing in the NHL, had more money in my bank account than I ever dreamed possible, and women were buying me pitchers of beer and throwing themselves at my feet. If I was living my dream, why did it feel so empty?
The phone chimed and I cracked open one of my eyelids. I was home, in my bed, but I didn’t remember how I got there. My phone buzzed and I grabbed it to turn off the sound. It was five thirty in the morning. Before I could silence it, another call came in, the light from the phone screen brightening the entire room.
It was Jamie. I silenced the call and then saw that there were three missed calls from him. I groaned and rolled out of bed. My T-shirt was wrapped around me like a swirled ice cream cone and I was still wearing my jeans. I padded to the kitchen and drank from the faucet. My head pounded and my mouth felt like sandpaper. My vision was blurry and I started to accept the possibility that I could still be drunk.
I returned to my bedroom as my phone was in the process of buzzing to the edge of my nightstand. Clearing my throat, I picked up the call, knowing that I would regret it.
Jamie barked at me. “Emergency Practice. Six a.m.”
Twenty-six minutes from now.