Chapter 9
MY FAVORITE SPORT
Hayes
A month ago, I was strapping on skates for Los Angeles during training camp. Now, I’m grabbing a stick for San Francisco and jumping into the action in our first game of the season.
In the rink, I don’t dwell on existential shit like where I’ve been or where I’m going.
I focus only on where I want to be on the ice—in sync with my teammates.
We’re five minutes into the first period.
My heart pounds as I dodge Arizona players in the line change, and then I’m moving toward the puck, picking up speed as Stefan races down the ice into their zone, shoulder to shoulder with the enemy.
When the defender gets too close to him, the captain deftly passes the puck to me.
The prize is mine, and for a flash of a second, there’s a clear shot to the net.
But their goalie’s a fast motherfucker. Just as quickly, there’s no wiggle room there.
I dart around the defenseman, then spot another chance.
Yes, fucking yes. This is it. With a swift flick of my wrist, I shoot forward, a powerful shot.
Right into the Arizona goalie’s outstretched leg pad.
There go my hopes of being a hero in my first play.
* * *
But games are long, and chances come around more than once.
Near the end of the second period, adrenaline pumps through me as I fly down the ice, hunting for an opening, the crowd shouting for us to get going.
They’re damn eager for something other than a cipher on the scoreboard from the home team.
They’re restless here in the Avengers arena, and I want us to give them something to shout about. But the Arizona goalie’s a ten-foot wall tonight, and no one’s been past him yet.
Stefan’s weaving through their D-line, passing to me, then all at once, everything comes into sharp focus. The noise quiets, my vision narrows, and there’s nothing but a straight shot to the goal.
I gear up to slap the puck in when an Arizona defender whips in front of me, but I eke out a pass to Stefan before the enemy can steal the puck. My teammate attacks in a flash, sending the little black disc on a one-way flight right through the five-hole.
The lamp lights, and so does my competitive heart. The score is tied now, and I get my first assist with my new team.
It feels like a massive victory even though it’s only one point. But it’s mine, and I’ll take it.
When I’m on the players’ bench during the face-off, I catch sight of a purple furball up in the stands. She’s shaking her gigantic furry ass, waving her fluffy arms above her head, hyping up the crowd.
Then, she cups a furry hand—or is that a paw?—to her ear, urging the fans to make some noise.
Sounds like they’re saying Armstrong.
A smile tugs at my lips.
But I don’t let the sound go to my head. I don’t let the smile finish forming. And I definitely don’t let my focus go to Ivy or to my father in the stands. I don’t look for the mascot or my dad for the rest of the game. I can’t afford a distraction.
We win, two to one. It’s a relief more than a thrill.
* * *
After a quick sesh with the press, where I sing the just happy to be here tune, I head down the corridor, headphones in, AC/DC cranked sky-high.
I hope the head-banging music drowns out the emotions I don’t want to feel around my dad.
By the time I round the corner, I’m ready to see the guy.
He waits for me, a smile on his face, a full head of hair on his head, a Vacheron Constantin on his wrist, and a woman twenty years younger on his arm.
He’s a smart guy, and his bank account would testify to his acumen when it comes to money management.
But his ticker’s softer than a down pillow.
Mine must be made of lead because I can’t be happy for him and his new squeeze. But…track records matter.
I take out my earbuds. “Hey, Dad,” I say, giving him a quick clap on the back.
“Nice assist. How did it feel, your first game with the new team?”
“It was good.” I don’t want to answer truthfully in front of Cora, for no reason other than I don’t trust her. But I do need to be polite. “Hi, Cora,” I say to the woman who at thirty, is three whopping years older than me.
She flicks her ash blonde hair off her shoulder, looking as polished as my father. “You played so great tonight. Your dad and I are so proud of you,” she echoes.
Because they’re a unit. Because he’s attached to her now. Just like he’s been attached to every girlfriend and wife he’s had since my mom left us many, many moons ago.
Me? No thanks to attachments. I tried it in Seattle with Tia, an art gallery manager.
We dated for most of the season. But toward the end she kept telling me I was too focused on my career, that I needed to show up for more of her events even though most of them were right before my games.
That made it a little hard. When I was traded to Los Angeles, she didn’t even want to try long distance.
“You’re cold and aloof anyway,” she’d said.
Well, thanks.
Tia’s behind me, though, and San Francisco’s in front of me. Romance is not on the table for me like it is always for my dad.
“Can we take you out for dinner?” he asks as Stefan walks toward us.
“You’re always hungry after games,” Cora puts in, like she knows me. She doesn’t. She just made a good guess.
But Stefan swoops in. “Good to see you, Mr. Armstrong, but I need to steal this guy away. Got to celebrate that win.”
“Of course,” my father says, understanding the benefits of teamwork.
I’m just grateful for the save. I’m even more grateful for the text from Ivy that lands as I’m walking to Stefan’s car to head to dinner.
Ivy: How was the first night at your new job?
A small smile tugs at my lips. I feel like I can answer her honestly. Maybe it’s because there’s no history with her, no expectations. Or maybe because this whole thing started with her unloading all her job weirdness onto me. I do the same.
Hayes: Nerve-wracking. But weirdly fun too. How was your first night mascotting?
Ivy: Is mascotting even a verb?
Hayes: Now it is.
Ivy: Then I mascotted my furry butt off tonight. And it was…weirdly fun.
We trade friendly messages until we reach the car and I force myself to put the phone away.
* * *
“What’s it going to be, Hey You?”
The question comes from my buddy Gage a little later as I scan the chalkboard offerings at Sticks and Stones, a bar he opened recently.
With a chuckle, Stefan offers Gage a fist for knocking, clearly delighted Gage is using the nickname he told him about when we arrived a few minutes ago.
I stare sternly at my longtime friend on the other side of the counter. Now my enemy. “Dude, you don’t get to call me that name.”
The smartass wiggles his brows. “Bartender rules. Someone serves up a story, I get to use it.”
Stefan leans back in the stool, parking his hands behind his head as he casts a glance my way. “Just be glad I helped hand-select a good nickname for you. It could have been Little Buddy.”
I groan at the reminder of my awful nickname from freshman year. “Fuck you. Fuck you. And fuck you some more.” I offer him the bird for each one.
“Why, thank you. That’s my favorite sport,” Stefan says.
“Yeah, mine too,” I say.
With a smirk, Stefan adds, “I’m aware.”
I shoot him a look. We don’t usually talk up the things we’ve done with women in public. But he’s not quite serving anything up. Still, privacy’s privacy.
He returns my look with a reassuring one of his own that says don’t worry. I know the deal.
I relax. I’m also seriously glad he didn’t pick Little Buddy.
A bunch of the seniors on our college team gave me that nickname because I was the freshman hotshot.
It sucked, obviously, and it’s not like I’m little.
I’m taller than The Viking. When those jokesters graduated, I became The Iceman, which suited my style of play. Emotion-less.
From behind the bar, Gage grins. “I can start using Little Buddy though.”
“I certainly hope you’ll use it frequently,” Stefan puts in.
I drag a hand down my neck, then throw in the towel with these two clowns. “You’ve got your pick of ammo,” I say to Gage. “Now, how about a burger and a pale ale?”
“Coming right up, Little Buddy,” he says, then sighs faux thoughtfully as he pulls the tap on the brew. “See? I just can’t decide which one to use.”
“I’m never going to live this down, am I?” I ask.
“I’m not sure why we’d let you,” Stefan answers, then gives Gage his drink and food order too.
A minute later, Gage sets a mouth-watering glass of golden brew down in front of me, along with a stout for Stefan, then turns to the kitchen presumably to put our order in.
Gage is a couple years older than I am, and I grew up living next door to him.
He’s the older brother I never had. Hell, he’s the sibling I never had, and I love seeing his success.
He worked his ass off managing a bar in Sacramento for several years while raising his kid solo after his wife died.
He’s wanted to run his own place for some time, and he recently opened this new spot that’s teeming with people. I’m glad to see business is good.
When he returns, he glances around the joint, filled with sports memorabilia and dark wood, leather booths, and brass hardware. There’s a youthful vibe too. If you don’t want to watch sports, you can play Ping-Pong or pool. Fun and games for everyone. “Not too shabby?”
“Not at all,” Stefan says, clearly proud of his fellow proprietor.
Then, Gage’s green eyes meet mine straight on. “And you didn’t play too badly tonight either.”
“Thanks,” I say, but I feel like I’m holding my breath. “I’ll just need to do it for eighty-one more games.”
Stefan sets down his glass and fixes me with a serious gaze. No bullshit this time. “And you will, Armstrong. You fucking will,” he says, and that makes me smile for real.
“Thanks, man.”
As Gage wipes down the bar, he gives me a chin nod. “So, other than winning your game tonight, how’s your first week?”
Busy. Good. And frustrating. I home in on the latter. “Let’s see. I met a cute girl in the elevator. Flirted with her. Turns out I work with her.”
Stefan jerks his gaze to me with avid interest in his eyes.