Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
GRAMMERCY
Thursday Night…
This is it.
Opening night, what we’ve been working our asses off for since the day a bunch of strangers met at training camp a few weeks ago and formed a brand new team.
The Voodoo locker room thrums with the kind of nervous energy that accompanies a group of pro-athletes about to make history—or prove everyone who thought an NHL team in the Deep South was a dumbass idea right.
Season ticket sales aren’t looking great, but the arena will be full tonight. It’s like my brother said on the phone during our season-opener pep talk—we just have to go out there and prove to New Orleans that an NHL game is way more fun than the NFL shit they go crazy in the streets for.
The good times roll hard and fast on the ice. We show the crowd that good time tonight, and we’ll have them jonesing for more .
“Have you seen my lucky socks?” Parker asks on his way past my stall, nerves and excitement mixing on his face.
“I swear to God, some fucker moved them again.” He raises his voice as he adds, “Which isn’t fucking funny.
Touch my fucking lucky socks again and I will find you and make you very, very sorry. ”
“We’re already sorry,” someone calls out from across the room. “The smell makes us sorry every damned day.”
Laughter ripples through the team, making Parker’s eyes narrow.
Before he can double down on this fight, I say, “Last shower stall. Check the ledge of the small window. If you hurry, you can get them in the dryer in time.”
He slaps my hand, muttering, “Thanks, brother.” As he jogs away to retrieve his good luck totem, he shouts again, “You can all suck my balls. Those socks are the reason we’re going to win tonight! You’re welcome!”
“ Ne nous porte pas la poise, ” Jean-Louis, our French-Canadian transplant calls back from the stall next to mine. Turning to me, he adds, “Americans. Always inviting bad luck. What’s wrong with you?”
I lift a hand in the air “ Pas moi, non, mon ami. Moi, je connais bien quand fermer ma gueule, ca c’est s?r .”
“Yeah, you do know when to keep your mouth shut. That’s one of the things I like about you, Grammercy.” He adds with a mocking grin, “That, and your cowboy swamp French. Awww… c’est trop mims .”
“That’s right, I am fucking cute.” I match his grin and friendly, ball-busting energy. “Glad you finally noticed.”
He laughs as he motions to the ceiling. “But not as cute as this shit. Oh la vache , what were they thinking? This is a locker room, not a children’s birthday party. ”
He has a point. It looks like a purple and green paint factory exploded in here. Vivid purple and green Voodoo mascot banners hang from the ceiling, posters celebrating the team launch paper the walls, even the Gatorade bottles are coordinated to match.
But gaudy is part of New Orleans. We like things bright, shiny, and loud.
I tell Jean-Louis as much, he reminds me that he was raised in Paris with his mother, where people are classy, snotty, and have made criticizing everything and everyone a national pastime.
We share another laugh before I return to wrapping my stick, layering on black tape, white tape, then black again.
It’s the same pattern I’ve used since I was playing in the juniors, when Beanie bought tape in bulk because I was so particular about getting it just right.
Around me, the pre-game energy continues to build. Nix bounces on his toes, earbuds blasting death metal. Parker returns from the showers with his miraculously dry—and still stinky as hell—socks in hand, talking shit about Omaha’s defensive pairings with Dyer.
Even Blue looks almost animated. I swear I hear him laugh, very softly, when Parker tells him that his socks are teaching him about Zen.
He’s learning to ignore the discomfort of his nose in favor of focusing on his higher self and the fact that he’s single-handedly saving the team from bad juju while everyone else goes around washing their luck away without a care in the world.
“First fucking game, brothers!” Torrance vibrates with nervous energy as he jogs in place, keeping his muscles warm. “Let’s go!”
“Down, rookie. Heel,” Capo calls from across the room. “Save some juice for the ice. ”
But I get it. The kid’s excitement is infectious. I’m feeling it too, that electric jolt to the nervous system that comes with firsts.
First game in this jersey. First time representing my city at the highest level. First time for my mama to watch me play pro hockey in our hometown in a fancy ass box seat, just like my little queen deserves.
First time with Elly and Mimi in section 102, ready to cheer their lungs out for their new roommate…
I already know they’ll be hollering louder than anyone else.
They’re hardcore for hockey, those two.
And I’m getting increasingly hardcore for the Thibodeaux girls. Living with them these past four days has been one hell of a surprise.
But a good surprise, the kind that makes you think maybe someone up there is looking out for you, after all. It just feels so good to have them in my home, in my life.
Like last night on the terrace…
I was grilling chicken to go with a salad Elly was making in the kitchen, and sharing a fancy water with Mimi while she helped me cook.
She calls seltzer water garnished with a lime wedge “fancy” water and likes to have a glass with me before dinner, while we catch up on all the school and locker room gossip.
She told me about the boy in her class who keeps getting in trouble for making fart jokes.
I told her about Torrance, who also makes fart jokes—some boys never grow up—before we moved on to more important news like her entry into the school art competition and my preparations for the opening game.
“I bet that’s a thing that feels pretty nervous in your belly,” she’d said, her big brown eyes full of compassion beyond her years.
“Yeah, it is,” I’d said. “But it’s okay to be nervous. And sometimes, if you try hard enough, you can convince your brain that the nerves are excitement, instead. That’s when things get fun.”
She’d thought about that for a second before nodding. “That’s smart, Gee. I like that you’re smart.”
“I like that you’re smart, too, Meems,” I’d said, a wave of affection filling my chest for the wise little soul sipping fancy water beside me in her overalls and tiny pink tennis shoes.
And then there’s her mama…
Her equally clever, funny, kind, sexy as hell mama, who gives my blood pressure a workout on the regular.
This morning in the kitchen, when she was stretching for Mimi’s water bottle on the top shelf, up on her toes in those criminally short pajama shorts, her camisole riding up to reveal golden skin that made my mouth go dry.
I moved in behind her to help, reaching past her just as she shifted backward, and suddenly we were pressed together—her back against my chest, her heat seeping through my T-shirt, her hair brushing my jaw.
I had to lock every muscle to keep from pulling her against me, from wrapping my arm around her waist and dropping my lips to the skin on her beautiful neck.
Then, her breath rushed out, and her ass pressed the slightest bit closer to where I was fighting like hell not to get hard, and hope spiked in my blood fast enough to make me dizzy.
If Mimi hadn’t barged in at that exact moment, begging Elly to help her find her rainbow sweatpants, who knows what could have happened ?
Elly had pressed closer, right?
I didn’t imagine it?
Fuck, I hope I didn’t. The only thing worse than catching forbidden feelings for my fake wife would be fooling myself into thinking she’s feeling them, too. I don’t want to be alone in this.
Then what do you want? You’d better figure it out and talk to Elly about it before you do something stupid like go in for a kiss and scare her into moving out. She and Mimi have been through enough.
“Hey, you cool, dude?” Parker whispers as he settles onto the bench beside me. “You look nauseous. Is it my socks? Are they really that bad?”
Before I can answer, the door bangs open and Coach Merwood stalks in, looking like a linebacker wrestled into a suit, with his beard freshly trimmed in honor of the occasion.
“Quiet,” he calls out. “Butts on benches, ears open.”
The room goes quiet instantly.
Even Nix pulls out his earbuds, knowing better than to engage with his “device” in front of our old-school leader. Merwood is relatively chill for a head coach, but he’s been known to toss a phone in the urinal if a player makes the mistake of glancing at his screen in a meeting.
Now, he stands in the center of the room, letting his gaze sweep over us, drawing us in with the twitching of his thick brows above his steady gaze.
“Twenty years ago, this city didn’t even have an ice rink worth a damn.
Kids who wanted to play hockey had to fight like hell to learn the game.
Now look where we are.” He spreads his arms, encompassing the state-of-the-art facility around us.
“Opening night. NHL hockey in New Orleans , best city in the world. ”
We cheer, Parker and I louder than the rest, because we feel the truth of that in our bones.
New Orleans is our wild, fierce, joyful, haunted, hopeful, not-going-down-without-a-fight home, and we’re ready to show her she raised us right.
“You boys are about to make history. You’re ready, you’re focused, you’re primed to give these people a game they won’t forget,” Merwood says, what looks like a smile hidden in that glorious beard. “Now get out there and make me proud.”
The locker room erupts with fresh cheers, fists pounding helmets and shoulders, sticks slapping the floor.
We head for the tunnel, buzzing, hearts drumming in sync.
Halfway down, another wall of noise slams into us, this time from the fans.
Twenty thousand people packed in tight, drunk on hope, primed for the Voodoo to make them fall in love with this game.