9. Ace
NINE
ACE
The temperature had dropped and the sidewalk was slippery as hell. I should’ve been wearing skates instead of running shoes. My shoes crunched on the pebble-sized chunks of salt the city dumped to melt the ice. Ahead, a husky-like dog trotted next to its owner, its feet wrapped in what looked like balloons. After growing up in the country where our dogs ran free and instinctively knew to shit in the bush, watching owners put boots on their pups and pick up shit didn’t seem like fun.
Was it Goldie and Morton up ahead? My heart rate monitor inched up a few beats per minute, returning to normal when I realized it wasn’t the brunette and her malamute. I took it easy on my run. If I got the blood pumping too hard, my bruised racoon eyes started to pulse.
A lot of the guys didn’t run. They felt that it fucked with their gains. I didn’t run for the workout, I ran to clear my mind. It was where I did my best thinking. I thought I was all right with Gideon hating me, but after practice, I realized that even though he was a complete fucking asshole, I missed him. I hated to admit it, but he influenced my playing, both good and bad. Running the play with him last night reminded me of the fucking domination we had in our days playing together in the Junior league.
The wind whipped across the frozen channel and bit into my face as I rounded the corner and headed south towards Lake Ontario. The cold actually felt good on the spot where Gideon’s fist had met my face, but I tucked my chin into the collar of my workout jacket and veered onto the next side street. I turned up the volume and ACDC blared through my headphones.
When I got back home, I stripped out of my running clothes. While I waited for the shower to heat up, I flipped through my vinyl collection. It took me two times to find what I was looking for—ACDC. They had amped me up on my run, and I wanted to keep the intensity going. If I’d have alphabetized my vinyl collection, like Gideon told me to do, I wouldn’t have stepped into a steam room of a bathroom. For being banged up, I felt good. The music was cranked and the glass shower walls shook with the bass.
I had promised myself that I would stop thinking about that girl, but I found myself wondering what kind of music she liked. I would never see her again, and maybe it was a good thing. Maybe I’d find out that she listened to Michael Bolton.
I didn’t jerk off before games; that was my ritual. Coming before playing messed up my concentration, but today it was only a practice. If I was going to forget about Goldie, I would do it once I shut off the water. Until then, I shut my eyes and imagined what kind of panties she wore. A thong would look incredible on her ass, but I had the feeling that she was more of a boy short girl, which was equally as hot, even more if they were the colors of my jersey. My cock pulsed with the thought. Number eleven would curve nicely over her butt. If the eleven was on the front, that would be even sexier, the bottom of the ones would be damp. The fantasy was working for me, especially when I imagined her biting her lip and tucking her thumbs into the waistband of the orange and black undies.
I continued slowly stroking with my eyes closed, my dick veins rigid in my palm. What if she was wearing my jersey, my name across her shoulders? Instead of pulling down the boy shorts, I slid my hands up her belly and inhaled her hair.
Vanilla. Fuck. Would I ever forget the way she smelled?
She turned and licked her lips.
I groaned and shuddered as I came, imagining Goldie’s lips wrapped around my cock. “No more,” I promised myself. That was the last time I was going to think about her. From now on, I would have to jerk off thinking about some random bunny.
Rinsing the shampoo out of my hair, I realized that the idea of a random bunny felt…boring. Yeah, there were plenty of smokin’ hot girls out there, but they didn’t have whatever it was that Goldie had, and I wasn’t even sure what that was. Was it her intelligence that set her apart? She was witty as hell. I shut off the shower and toweled off. Was it her humor? She was damn funny. Was it the fact that she didn’t give a shit that I was a hockey player?
The last few notes of side A of the record played and then I was met with silence.
Or was it because I couldn’t have her? Rejection was new territory for me, and I didn’t like it. But I had more important things to think about, like the upcoming game and making it through practice with Mr. Punchy, my big brother.
I got into my practice gear, flipped the record, and gave it more volume. Flopping onto the sofa, I draped my arm over my eyes and listened to the music. Growing up, our parents made us choose one thing, and it had to be a sport. It’s not like the kids today, getting chauffeured from hockey to basketball to tutors to trampoline, or whatever they wanted, six or seven days a week. I didn’t regret choosing hockey; I fucking love it, and always have. But if I could’ve chosen one more thing, it would’ve been music. I wished that I could pick up a guitar and try my best to sound like Angus from ACDC.
Gideon had actually chosen tennis, but Dad didn’t want to drive all the way across town, so he told us we had to pick the same sport, and that he’d rather watch hockey than tennis. So I guess we were always going to be hockey players.
It was pretty shitty parenting, but hockey was huge in Michigan, and from our first day on skates, we were naturals. It sounds cocky, but we were born to play the game.
I pulled my arm from across my face, and sat up, cocking my ear. The bass on my sound system was amazing, but something sounded off. I stood to go fiddle with the dials when I realized that it wasn’t the stereo at all. Someone was banging on my door.
Hard.
I turned down the music and jogged across the polished concrete floor to peer through the peephole. It was Ethan. I opened it before he could pound on it again.
“What the hell, dude? I’ve been out here since ‘Highway to Hell.’” Ethan knocked the snow off his boots and stepped into my place. “Cold.”
Glancing to the thermostat, I furrowed my brow. “It’s seventy-two degrees.”
“No, man. It’s like a sales centre in here. Cold. You know, like where’s your personality?”
“Since when are you an interior designer?”
He wasn’t wrong; it was pretty stark inside the penthouse. “I just moved here. I haven’t had time to get out the color squatches.”
“Swatches.” Ethan raised his eyebrows. “My sister is a designer. I could get her to help you out. She did my place.” Ethan followed me into the kitchen.
“Let’s wait and see if I get fired or not.”
“They’re not going to fire you.” He leaned against the counter. “Traded, maybe.”
I held up a tub of protein powder. “Want some?” He shook his head and I dumped a scoop into my shaker. The word traded echoed in my head. “Have you heard something?”
“Nah, it’s just after yesterday…”
I sighed. “I know.” The wiry ball clattered against the side of the shaker as I did my best Vitamix impression. “Coach benched Gideon.”
“Giddy?” Ethan slid onto one of the barstools. “What the fuck?”
“First of all, I double dare you to call him Giddy. Secondly, I can’t believe you haven’t heard. Coach blew up at us, and Giddy…” I smiled a little inside at how much my brother hated that nickname. “Giddy talked back, called Coach the captain of a sinking ship.”
“Oooof.” Ethan grimaced.
“Yeah.” I chugged back half of the shake and wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my warm-up jacket.
“Maybe that’s why Coach has called us in early.”
“Early?” This was the first I’d heard of another early practice.
“I tried to call you to make sure you knew about it. After last practice, we can’t fuck up anymore. You didn’t answer, which is why I had to come over and interrupt your rock concert. It was like the Engine City stadium in here.”
Engine City was a new state-of-the-art arena, with a next-level sound system. I found my phone in the pocket of my running pants that I’d left in a pile on the bathroom floor. Sure enough, there were three missed calls and multiple texts from Ethan, and one message from Jamie, asking us to be at the rink an hour earlier than usual.
“That’s it?” I held the screen so that Ethan could see the text.
“That’s exactly the same one I got.”
“Hmm.” I finished my protein shake and grimaced at the chalky finish. “I wonder what’s going on.”
Ethan looked at his watch, a Rolex he’d bought the first time he won the Cup. When I lifted the Cup above my head for the first time, I wasn’t going to buy myself a watch; I was going to buy myself an autographed guitar—straight from Angus Young. “Put on your shoes, rock star—and let’s go find out.”