11 - Haven
HAVEN
They didn’t say anything about the game. Not the next day. Not the day after that.
But there were hints.
Practice ran like it always did, with Mercer at the helm.
The guys were fast and physical; their bodies and actions drowning out whatever words might’ve needed to be said.
They were pushed hard, too. Much harder than normal.
Coach became ‘Mercer the merciless’ in the implementation of his drills and workouts — a nickname he earned in no time at all.
The players ignored me for the most part, as I gathered my data.
But every now and then, I caught it. The extra edge.
The sharper hits whenever I near the boards, solely for my benefit.
They avoided looking at me whenever possible, and that was fine.
But when they finally did, the lingering stares I received were cold enough to give me the shivers.
Not half as cold as my room, though.
Back at the house, things went from bad to worse.
What I thought would be an initial hazing period until the guys grew accustomed to me was drawn out and twisted into something else.
First, my laundry began disappearing. A sock here.
A shirt there. These items would eventually reappear, but not before finding their way into various corners of the dank, add-on mud room that served as our laundromat.
And no matter how fast I was to switch my clothes over, unless I was there when the cycle ended, someone would unceremoniously dump my wet, clean laundry into a pile on the dirty floor.
I didn’t complain. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I began bringing my tablet into the mud room, to crunch data while keeping an eye on things. And while the place was frigid and creepy and cast in a ghoulish yellow light, at least the floor creaked so badly no one could sneak up on me.
The kitchen however, was a much different story.
I opened the fridge toward mid-week, looking for the chicken I’d prepped. Not only was it missing, but so were most of the groceries I’d purchased. Nearly everything I’d brought in was half-eaten, or gone completely.
I turned, confused, to find Asher and Caleb hanging out in the doorway. Both of them were leaning in, like they’d been there longer than I realized.
“Looking for something?” Caleb asked innocently.
“Food,” I told him.
Asher shrugged.
“I had… stuff in here,” I fumbled. “Blue container. I don’t see it.”
“Yeah,” Caleb chuckled. “That’ll happen.”
I held his gaze.
“That’ll happen?” I repeated.
“Team house,” Asher added. “Not your fridge.”
He said it casually, almost singsongy, like he was choking back laughter.
My jaw went tight. I almost showed teeth.
“Maybe start buying your own?” Caleb shrugged.
“I did buy my own!”
He looked artificially perplexed.
“Did you put your name on it?”
I shook my head slowly, in disbelief.
“You can try putting your name on it,” suggested Asher. “Might not work, though.”
“Better to put Grayson’s name on it,” said Caleb. “His stuff gets left alone.”
“Not by Ares,” Asher pointed out. “He’ll eat anything.”
“Zack too,” laughed Caleb. “He’s like a garbage disposal. Especially after practice, but also when…”
I slammed the fridge door so hard one of the interior shelves broke free. Condiments cascaded loudly, as an avalanche of noise rumbled, from within.
“No need to break up the place, Stats-girl,” Caleb frowned. “The house is falling apart as it is.”
“Yeah?” I sneered back at him, ignoring the nickname. “Then stop eating my shit.”
I stormed off, stomping back through the living room on my way to the staircase. Unfortunately, this made it impossible to avoid Ares. I found him lounged horizontally across the couch, a pair of bright blue Gel-Paks taped securely to his knees.
“Problem?” he grunted, looking me up and down.
A thousand razor-sharp replies leapt to mind, each one more cutting than the last. None of them would phase him, however.
Staring back at him defiantly, I said nothing.
“You know,” he leaned back, folding his arms casually behind his head. The resulting flex — intentional or not — turned his bare biceps and triceps into beautiful, rock-hard boulders. “You could just keep your food in your room.”
“My room?”
He winked at me, and for a split second I noticed he was dashingly handsome.
“Shit, why not? It’s probably colder than the fridge.”
I wanted to laugh, because he was right. At the same time, I wanted to kill him. More than anything though, I wanted to run to my room, taking the stairs two at a time. I could pack up my things. Drag them down. Tell this place — and the job that went along with it — to shove itself up its own ass.
But that would be far too easy.
Too easy for them.
Instead I took the stairs calmly; not running, but not dragging my ass either.
Upon reaching my room I slipped on another two layers of clothing, kicked the radiator for good measure, then plopped down with my tablet.
Running the day’s numbers always made me feel better.
It destressed me; mathematics in general.
Because yes, I was that kind of weirdo.
For the first hour and a half I huddled beneath my blankets, superimposing today’s practice statistics against previous compiled data.
I took a short break, during which I devoured two innocent granola bars from the box on my dresser, then dove right back into a compilation of clips of the Steel City Blades — our next opponent.
My stomach still grumbled, though. And every time it turned over inside me, frustration mounted.
Fuck this.
I shut it all down, and returned to the living room. By now, half the team was there. The boys were spread out over couches and chairs, gear everywhere, watching a basketball game. My tired eyes followed the on-screen action immediately, grateful to be focusing on something other than hockey.
Steeling myself, I made a move toward the couch. No one offered me a seat. No one moved.
I stood there for a second, just looking at the space. Then I grabbed a pile of gear off the arm of one chair, and dropped onto the floor beside it.
The noise cut through the room just enough to get attention. Every pair of eyes settled on me.
I sat still, leaning back against the couch. No apologies. No hesitation.
“I’m not standing,” I said.
For once, no one laughed. No one really said anything. They all looked to Grayson, as if he had the answers. From the corner of my eye, I could see him and Ares… watching me.
Then, one by one, everyone’s attention turned back to the television.
The game unfolded. Someone shot a beautiful three-pointer. Zack cheered, and Asher slapped him, and in the excitement, Dorian knocked over a small bowl of pretzels.
My pretzels.
I didn’t say a word about it, though. It felt good just being among them, finally. Even if I wasn’t fully accepted.
Eventually, even Grayson and Ares stopped staring. I relaxed even more.
They could take my food. Mess with my laundry. Act like I didn’t belong here.
But it didn’t matter.
Because I did.
I leaned my head back against the couch and let the noise of the room wash over me. The laughter. The jokes. The low hum of voices that didn’t include me, but didn’t completely exclude me, either.
Across the room Grayson shifted slightly, his eyes now locked on the screen. Ares reached for another handful of pretzels, and didn’t even look in my direction this time.
Good, I thought to myself. Let them get comfortable.
I folded my arms across my chest, as my eyes drifted back to the game. They could take what they wanted. They could push, or test, or even provoke me if they needed to. It didn’t matter, because I wasn’t going anywhere.
Sooner or later, they were going to realize that I wasn’t the problem.
I was the solution.