Chapter 11 Griffin #2
Are we grown-ass men, some of whom will end the night with bruises, bloodstains, and possibly a few rattled brain cells? Yes. Are we also idiots who will sing an annoying kids’ song just to piss off Coach and pull smiles from the grumpiest of us? Also yes. Even me, maybe especially me.
“Ha! Everyone likes me. I’m Dominic Lee, how could they not?” He seems genuinely confused at the idea that someone might not entirely, deeply love him.
As fucked up as my childhood was, and with the resulting damage that comes with it, Dom is the opposite. Loved, supported, and cheered on as a child, his self-esteem is near unshatterable, his confidence unmatched. And he generously shares that with me in so many ways.
I will never be able to repay him for what he’s done for me—with hockey, with his family, with his friendship. He took me under his wing, accepted me into his world, and rehabbed me like a feral honey badger into the slightly less rabid honey badger I am now.
Bumping Dom’s shoulder as I pass him on the ice, I say, “Thanks, man.”
Thirty minutes later, Coach has given us the breakdown for tonight’s game, which basically consists of “you’d better fucking win, dipshits” but said in a much less poetic way.
The end-of-the-season stress is getting to us all.
We have a real shot at going all the way this year, and that brings tension to everything.
We can’t afford any distractions. We need to stay singularly focused on winning. Normally, that’d be no problem for me. But right now, I’m more worried about Miles Conniver’s goons tracking down Penny for a pretty ring than I am about a shiny trophy.
And that’s the most shocking thought I’ve ever had.
That shiny trophy has been my goal for my entire life, the thing that will give validation to my whole existence, showing I am worth something, even if my parents couldn’t be bothered to pretend they believed that for eighteen measly years.
To them, I was an inconvenience, an expense, a worthless sack of shit they didn’t want, as they never hesitated to tell me.
I don’t expect them to come crawling back if I’m suddenly on the front page of the paper, but I might harbor a secret dream of Dad seeing my face and realizing that he was wrong about me all those years ago.
After our morning skate, I go home automatically.
Hell, I do everything on autopilot. First, I slug a high-calorie smoothie that’s easy on my stomach and will get my carb and electrolyte count up for tonight.
Before I know it, the glass is empty, and I rinse it, putting it in the dishwasher.
Next, I sit in the shower for thirty minutes, letting the hot water pound my back and rain down over my head.
The whole time, I play out the game in my head, watching moves I’ve seen from the Vortex in the past and beating them to the punch every time.
After, I dry off and chug a water bottle in one go, knowing I need to stay hydrated.
Lying down on my bed, I set an alarm for three thirty, which will give me time to get back to the arena, do the press walk in, and hit the locker room.
All this is normal, just like any other game day, something I’ve done hundreds of times before. Except this time, lying here, all I can think about is Penny. I feel like I need to check on her.
Surely, she didn’t go back out today without me? She wouldn’t do that. Would she?
She absolutely would, with zero qualms or hesitation. But she has a game tonight, too, and a pregame schedule to adhere to.
I wonder what that looks like for her.
I’m ashamed to say I have no idea. I’ve never given a shit about the cheerleaders’ schedule on game days, and while I’ve always cared about Penny, I’ve done too good of a job at keeping her at arm’s length. Now that I’m worried, I don’t know if I should be.
Is she practicing for tonight’s performance or taking a nap? Is she doing her hair and makeup with the girls or chilling at home? Is she . . . fuck, is she being tracked down by those goons right now?
I toss and turn, staring at the ceiling and wall before repeating the pattern again.
I could call her. Apologize again, or ask if the Thin Mints helped soothe her broken heart, or just ask if she’s okay. That wouldn’t be weird, would it?
It definitely would be. And a move like that will only make it harder to act like the asshole she expects next time she, Dom, and I hang out.
Because that can’t change. Two days of uncharacteristic niceness on my part won’t be enough for her to reconsider her opinion of me, but it might make it harder for me to continue being the asshole I always am.
She’s too real, too raw, too special to keep treating like the bratty annoyance she thinks I see her as.
But I’ll have to do it. There’s no other option, and ultimately, I just need there to be a next time we hang out, and for Penny to not get further caught up in whatever Mob drama has come to bear at her doorstep.
That’s got to be my focus.
And, oh yeah, the fucking game.