BENNETT
CHAPTER FIVE
I’m starting to worry that I’ve lost it.
Either that or someone has a voodoo doll with my handsome face on it, and they’re poking the fuck out of it every chance they get.
Or maybe it’s even one of those witches you can book online to curse someone.
I saw an ad for one of those once. Don’t ask me why the algorithm thought I was the target audience.
All I know is that we’re now 0-4, and I’m on the biggest losing streak of my fucking life, and I have no clue how to fix it.
None of my normal things are working.
My pregame rituals. Post-game ones either. I tried meditating like Coach recommended. I’ve tried to watch more tape, put in more time running drills.
I’ve tried everything that I can think of to no avail.
I’ve always been a superstitious guy, even before I started playing hockey.
I can blame my grandmother for that.
Mawmaw Judy always called them “old wives’ tales,” which I now know to be a sexist term, but I like to think of it as women know best and clearly always have.
Growing up, she’d tell us if we entered through one door, we had to leave through the same door.
I remember once she grabbed me by the back of the collar before I could run out her front door to play with my cousins because I’d come in through her carport door, just about choking the life out of me before I even made it to puberty.
She’d say that it would be bad luck and to knock on wood when we said something out loud that we hoped would happen so we didn’t jinx it, and if we spilled salt, we had to throw it over our right shoulder.
And I’mma be honest… I used to think Mawmaw Judy was real fucking crazy.
Especially when I learned that my other friends’ grandmothers weren’t making them spit out the car window if a black cat crossed in front of the car while they were driving.
Imagine explaining that to a bunch of fuckass ten-year-old boys.
The point is the older I got, the more I realized that maybe Mawmaw Judy wasn’t so crazy after all.
Maybe she was onto something.
Which is why I have a tried-and-true list of superstitions that I will be carrying with me to the grave, even if they seem to be doing fuck all right now.
Like sleeping with my stick tape beneath my pillow the night before a game, carving my initials in the ice beneath the goalpost pregame, or drinking a full bottle of water and exactly two sips of a red Gatorade before I step out onto the ice.
Fuck, I’m worried even my lucky hoodie is losing its magic. I’ve been wearing it before every practice for as long as I can remember, and lately, it feels like everything is just off.
I just… I have to figure out what the real problem is and how the hell I fix it before next week’s game.
No big deal. Easy work.
What’s not easy work?
Reading an almost six-hundred-fucking-page book that’s deemed one of the greatest classic feminist romances of all time.
Yeah, Google told me that cause I had no clue who Charlotte Bronte even was.
I’m not a total dumbass. I have a solid GPA, and I’m passing all my classes, but classic romance is the last thing I’d ever pick up.
Can you blame me?
I wasn’t lying when I told Merritt I’m only taking this class because there was literally nothing else available. I heard her loud and clear when she said I didn’t seem like the kind of guy to take Creative Writing.
And she’s not wrong about that.
But that’s not what she really meant.
What she meant is she thinks I’m a dumb fuck who doesn’t know how to do anything but play hockey. And I didn’t correct her.
Partly because I was too busy trying not to get a chub when she was being mean to me, but also because that’s what most people think about me, and I’ve always let them.
They have no idea that my grades are solid and my GPA has always been well above what I need to play.
That underneath this chiseled jaw and perfect hairline, I’ve actually got a brain in here.
I’m not the smartest, sure, but I’m not an idiot.
Although I currently feel like a dumbass trying to read this book.
Upon my Google search, I discovered there are actually several movies and TV shows about this book…
And as tempted as I am to cheat and watch the movie, I refuse to let Merritt be right about me.
I shove the book beneath my arm as I walk downstairs and head to the kitchen in search of food. I’m fucking starving, and my stomach hasn’t stopped growling since I woke up from my nap thirty minutes ago.
I usually spend every Sunday meal prepping for the week first thing in the morning and then the rest of the day making sure I’m caught up on homework or whatever took the back burner during the week.
Today, that was a fire-ass nap because I’m fucking exhausted.
I’ve been putting in extra hours lifting and training, watching tape, working with our conditioning coach on adjusting my program. I’ve been feeling like I’m dragging lately, and I don’t know, maybe my issue’s in recovery and it’s not my luck.
The problem is I can’t tell if it’s in my head or if it’s in my hands.
I’ve been doing my best to block Gauthreaux out and to focus on doing whatever it takes to make sure the net is mine.
After last night’s game, I’ll be sitting out the next, and I’m pissed.
Mostly at myself.
That’s all to say I haven’t had time to even pick up the book since I got it at the library until today.
Problematic since tomorrow’s the next time Merritt and I are supposed to meet.
What are the odds I can read five hundred pages in like… six hours?
Midnight should be early enough for me to catch a few hours before I head to the weight room.
The real question is, does she actually expect me to read the entire damn book before tomorrow?
I tuck the book into the waistband of my shorts and pull one of the southwest bowls I prepped this morning out of the fridge, then pop it into the microwave.
Once it’s ready, I carry it into the living room before flopping down onto the couch cushions.
A second later, Tyler pounds down the stairs and starts sniffing the air like he’s a bloodhound. “That smells fucking good. What is it?”
“Southwest bowl. Made you one earlier; it’s in the fridge. Sans corn because you’re a weirdo.”
He grunts. “Thanks.”
I wink at him and nod, reaching for my own and taking a bite.
Thank fuck my mom taught me how to cook the basics, or none of us would eat, and I’d be skin and bones, withering away.
I also got my dramatics from her too, if you couldn’t tell.
I inhale the entire bowl in two minutes flat, just in time for Zach to make his way downstairs.
All of us—Tyler, Zach, and I—have been living together in a house near campus since my sophomore year, and most of the time, it’s sweet.
Other times, it’s not.
But as far as roommates go, it could be a lot worse than sharing a house with my teammates who are my best friends.
They’re just messy fuckers who never, and I do mean never, clean up after themselves.
Sometimes I feel like a glorified housewife, cooking and cleaning up after everyone, but then again, someone has to do it.
I get this weird eye twitch when everything’s a wreck.
“Yo,” Zach drawls, walking over to where I’m sitting on the couch. He’s freshly showered and shaved, which is a rare occurrence for a Sunday night. “What are you doing? Get up, let’s go out.”
“Can’t. Busy.”
He scoffs. “What do you mean busy? It’s Sunday night, and there’s a party at Kappa. I have it on very good authority that there will be copious amounts of beautiful women to choose from, the majority puck bunnies.”
Perfect, I’ve always loved just looking at beautiful things I can’t touch. Like a kid in a candy store with the world’s worst sweet tooth and not a cent in my pocket.
“Busy doing smart boy shit,” I retort, lifting the book in my hand and waving it back and forth between us.
His eyes widen, his expression turning deadly serious for a minute.
Until he tosses his head back and laughs, and fucking laughs and laughs.
“Yeah, okay. I’m leaving in five. Be ready. You’re driving this time. I was DD last week.”
I sigh. “I’m serious, you fuck. I’ve got to read this for my Creative Writing class.”
“Dude. You’re telling me right now that you’re reading a book by…” He trails off and squints to read the front cover. “Charlotte Bronte? Are you fucking with me?”
“Nope. I’m for real.” I open it, picking a page at random.
“I resumed my notice of you. There was something glad in your glance, and genial in your manner, when you conversed: I saw you had a social heart; it was the silent schoolroom. It was the tedium of your life that made you mournful. I permitted myself the delight o—” I groan and drop the book on my face.
“Jesus, what the fuck does this even mean? I see words, but what the hell am I actually reading?”
“Yeah, I got nothing. There’s probably like a movie or something, dude. Just watch that and save yourself this shit,” he says with a laugh.
I’m in actual fucking hell right now.
But I refuse to admit defeat.
Nah, fuck that.
Actually, the fact that Merritt assumes that I’m a dumb hockey player with shit for brains only makes me want to prove her wrong that much more.
To show her that she might think she knows who I am, but she’s got no fucking idea.
Plus, seeing her cute little face when she realizes how wrong she is will be the icing on the cake.
The last thing I am is the kind of guy who buckles under pressure. It’s the main reason why I’m so good at tending the net. Because I’m patient, and I’m willing to wait for the perfect moment, every time. No matter what it takes.
Merritt St. Pierre has no idea just how patient I can be.
“Okay, well, have fun with your scholar shit,” Zach says with a smirk when Tyler joins us in the living room again, only this time he’s dressed to go out. “We’re going to the party, but don’t worry, we’ll drink one in memory of you.”
Ty looks between the two of us, his brow furrowing. “Wait, you’re not coming with us? Why the fuck not?”
“Oh, he’s got some light reading to do,” Zach answers for me.
I grab the pillow beside me and nail him in the side of the head with it. “Fucker.” Ignoring him laughing his ass off, I tell Ty, “I have to read for Creative Writing. Gonna have to skip out tonight.”
“Damn, that sucks,” Tyler says as he grabs his keys out of the bowl by the front door, and Zach pulls the door open. “You’ll be there in spirit.”
“I mean, we could always stay home and keep you company,” Zach says, waggling his thick, dark eyebrows.
I shake my head, waving them away. “Get the fuck out of here before I change my mind. Please.”
Or beg them to drag me along with them and save me from this nightmare.