Chapter 11 Griffin
Griffin
“Where the hell were you last night, asshole? Balls deep in some bunny, putting another notch in your bedpost?” It’s more of an accusation than a question, as it’s followed by a round of grunts that make me worry about Dom’s bedroom vocalizations, because he sounds like he’s trying to pass a kidney stone more than simulate sex noises.
I ignore him, keeping my eyes on the blades of my skates, where I’m doing my precheck for any irregularities. It’s a habit I established long ago, and I let the routine pull me in, tuning out everyone and everything around me.
Or I try to, until a cold hand gooses me right at my waist.
“Goddamn it!” I grumble, flinching away and slapping at Dom’s ice-cold hand. He must’ve come straight from the cold plunge tub to fuck with me.
“Damn, who pissed in your Wheaties this morning, Honey?” Dom taunts, his easy grin telegraphing that he has no idea why I bailed on him for our pregame dinner last night.
It’s not a given, but it’s regular enough that turning down the invite likely drew suspicion.
But I wasn’t sure I could face him without spilling everything that’s happened with Penny.
Not that anything has happened. Other than the stolen ring, of course.
I can’t avoid him forever, though, and this morning’s skate is the perfect example of that.
Game-day preps are a mixed bag of sorts.
When we’re playing at home, most guys will hit the ice at some point to warm their muscles and get a light sweat on, do a check in with sports med if needed, then head home to nap, chill, and eat before going back to the arena for the game.
On the road, it’s pretty similar, although the morning skates are always a team event since we have to coordinate with the home team’s ice time.
Today had no come-when-you-want skate option. Coach deemed it a mandatory morning skate for the entire team, which only shows how important tonight’s game is.
“Probably your mom,” Brody suggests unhelpfully.
In sync, Dom and I turn evil glares his way.
Nobody talks about Momma Lee like that, especially Brody.
She’s off-limits for “your mom” shit-talking, and everyone knows it because you’ll get not only one but two pissed-off assholes coming after you in her defense.
“You wish my mom would piss in your Wheaties, bro-zo,” Dom throws back at him, irritated but not ripping Brody’s head off just yet.
“Too bad she wouldn’t piss on you even if you were on fire.
She’d rip open some marshmallows and pass out graham crackers because you’d finally be useful for something. ”
A chorus of “oooh”s rings out before turning into good-natured chuckles.
With a grunt of forced laughter, I resume checking my skates, hoping to dismiss both Brody and Dom. No luck there, though. Dom sits down on the bench beside me, lowering his voice to keep the conversation between us. “You good, man? What’s up?”
Tapping my temple, I tell him, “All good. Just getting my head right for tonight.”
That’s not true at all.
What I’m thinking about is whether I should say something to Dom before he discovers that I was out with Penny yesterday. Not out, like a date, but out like going all over town, eating at a food truck, taking her home, and dropping her off at her door.
Like a fucking date, you asshole.
It sounds bad. I know it does, but it so obviously wasn’t a date. It was a search and recovery mission, and an unsuccessful one at that. But if someone else tells Dom before I do, there will be no coming back from that. He’ll see it as a complete betrayal, which it is.
I should tell him.
But I don’t.
Telling him would mean sharing one truth—that Penny and I hung out without him playing buffer—but hiding a much deeper, darker, uglier one—that I was this close to kissing her at her door.
The only thing that stopped me was my preference for life topside of the ground, because Dom would destroy me, or anyone who touches his baby sister, and currently I’m the only one who knows Penny’s in danger.
Which I’m going to figure out, and fix, without anyone being the wiser. I just don’t know how . . . yet. Shit, I haven’t even told Penny, which I really should at this point. Not telling her is more dangerous than anything else. And yet . . . I can’t.
“We’ve got it in the bag. You know that,” Dom scoffs.
Completely lost in thoughts of yesterday, it takes me a moment to remember what he’s even talking about.
The game, idiot! The fucking game!
He’s speaking a win into existence, not allowing any room for doubt to wiggle into his psyche, which is more important than one would think with such a physical game.
Truthfully, more games are lost in the locker room than on the ice, and a single player can sink a whole team’s season if their mind’s not in the right space.
And he’s right, for the most part. The past few seasons, we’ve beat the Vortex 95 percent of the times we’ve played them.
They’re perennial cellar dwellers who have one of those batshit owners who thinks he knows more than actual hockey professionals because he’s got a billion or so dollars.
We definitely need to take advantage of it this season again, focusing on the nearly guaranteed wins we’ve got tonight and tomorrow.
But there’s more to it than simple statistics.
The Vortex is our geographically closest team, which means the games are always well attended.
The energy of a full arena is infectious and addicting, and can make it all too easy to get distracted, and distractions can mean scores . . . for the other guys.
We need this win tonight. It’ll set up our momentum for tomorrow night, and three wins this week can snowball us into next week’s games against the tough-to-beat Torches, which will in turn send us right into the playoffs.
That we are going to win. No questions, no hesitation, “no regrets,” as Brody would say.
I’ve never hoisted a Stanley Cup yet . .
. and I’m going to fix that, come hell or high water.
“Yeah, I know. I’m solid.”
Unfortunately, I am not solid. I’m liquid, gas, hell, I might be a wisp of water vapor for as hard and unyielding as I feel right now.
I can feel Dom’s eyes searching my face, and fearing he might see the lie plainly written there, I get up to shuffle around in my locker.
“Honey.”
“Yeah?” I bury my face in my bag, moving clothes here and there like I’m looking for something when I’m just hiding from Dom’s too-perceptive gaze.
“You and me, two against the world.” I don’t have to turn around to know that he’s holding his fist up.
All guys have some internal hype track they tell themselves, and when Dominic and I started as rookies, feeling each other out and learning how we could use each other to improve our zone on the ice, those words became our vow to each other.
We hit the ice as a team, but more importantly, Dom and I skate out there as brothers, the two of us at each other’s backs, no matter what.
That’s why I’m loyal to Dom. In those early days, I was an angry loner with something to prove, fighting against everything and tackling anything I could.
I’d shoved my damage down to the point where my rage was mostly confined to the ice, but even there, I was a wild monster.
The chatter about me during the draft centered around people placing bets on how quickly I’d end up benched or banned from the league.
Honestly, I loved it. It felt good to let loose and to be celebrated for the violence that seemingly came naturally to me.
Guess it was the one valuable thing my dad taught me—fight everyone and everything like your next breath depended on you winning the throwdown, because, often, it did.
But pretty quickly, Dominic started helping me channel my whiplash-fast temper until I became the player I am today, still as monstrous but less wild and more intentional about my attacks.
Without him, I wouldn’t have made it this far, and it was a no-brainer to sign with the Hawks when free agency came around.
I stuck with Dom so I wouldn’t end up an often missed trivia question about that hockey player has-been who crashed out and bombed his chance at the big show.
I owe him everything, especially something as small as not touching his baby sister, which is the only thing he’s ever asked of me.
It’s the only rule our motley team stands on—jokes about moms and sisters might be par for the course, but hands off or you’ll end up with your hands (cut) off.
I grit my teeth as I turn around, praying I’ve schooled my face enough to hide the multitude of sins I’ve committed, and move to tap his fist with mine.
He jerks away, and my stomach drops out my ass for a split second until he grabs my fist in both of his hands, opening and closing his clawed fingers around it to “bite” my wrist. “Baby shark, doo doo doo doo do doo, baby shark.” His grin is a complete gotcha.
“Shut the fuck up, Dominic!” Coach calls out, coming out of his office with impeccable timing.
But it’s too late. Brody, with a set of brass balls or maybe a death wish, starts singing off-key at the top of his lungs.
“Mommy Shark, doo doo doo . . .” He grabs imaginary breasts in his hands, and guys start laughing as his show ramps up.
By the time he gets to Daddy Shark with a jerk-off motion, even Howe is guffawing.
“Hit the ice and get your morning skate in,” Coach orders, probably fearing the accompanying moves for Grandma and Grandpa Shark. Honestly, I’m scared of what Brody would come up with too. Probably something to do with a blow job and no teeth. “Game meeting in thirty.”
“You’re lucky Coach likes you,” I whisper to Dom as I finish lacing my skates. I feel a bit more even-keeled after the stupid sing-along.