Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
GABE
“So next time you travel north, these are the underwater monsters to keep an eye out for.” The narrator’s closing line of Giant Fish of the Arctic is accompanied by a swell of music.
The nature shows might do a good job of soothing away the pressures of hockey, but they’re not working so well on my worries about having kissed possibly the most frustratingly kissable woman I’ve ever met.
How can NatGeo fail me in my hour of need? It’s been my savior for years. Ever since my first horrendous night as a professional player when I got a bench penalty because the official said I’d told him to fuck off when in fact I’d told myself to fuck off because of the dumb way I’d just lost possession.
I was so furious at the injustice that I couldn’t sleep, so I ended up flicking through the TV channels at about three-thirty in the morning, and it wasn’t until I’d been watching a show about blue whales for nearly half an hour that I realized I hadn’t thought about that dick of a ref the whole time.
And so, National Geographic became my go-to wind-down routine, my favorite form of mental and physical relaxation, and kind of my therapist.
I don’t exactly go around shouting about that though. I mean, if word got out that the tough professional athlete spends hours watching bushtits build elaborate nests, it wouldn’t exactly be good for the image.
But it’s not working for the Natalie problem.
I turn off the TV and roll onto my back on the sofa. I can just about stretch my arms over my head without my shoulder pinching now. That has to be a good sign for the healing process.
What’s not a good sign is how much I struggled to sleep last night. How long I lay awake replaying the moment when I tried to walk away but Natalie grabbed my jacket and pulled me to her.
Amid the shock, and of course my ridiculous attraction to her, I immediately gave in—gave in to it, gave in to her.
Let’s face it, whatever that thing was that passed between us yesterday has been passing between us since the moment I pulled off that bunny head and looked into those fiery blue eyes.
Even though we instantly thought each other was an asshole, it was still there.
And then when I iced her ankle and held her heel in my hand…
“Jesus.” I flop my arms back down by my sides.
I must be about three times her size, but in that moment yesterday, she totally took charge of me, wasn’t intimidated by me at all.
I’ve wavered between admiring that and finding it a tough pill to swallow, since half my existence is based on intimidating my opponents.
Is she my opponent though? I thought she was. I thought I just needed her to get all this Christmas shit off my house and vanish into the snowy yonder, leaving me in peaceful solitude.
But somehow everything shifted when she pulled me to her like that and took what she wanted. In that moment I wanted to never leave her side.
What she did took some balls. And I have to admire that.
What the hell would have happened if that kid hadn’t come in?
I heave a giant sigh. It’s too dangerous to contemplate.
And even if I were open to having a thing with someone, which I am not, a Christmas-obsessed, people pleasing, sociable and community-involved extrovert is definitely not my type.
Plus, she’s on the verge of moving more than a thousand miles away from where my life is centered. And who knows if I’ll stay with the Apollos? I could end up getting traded even farther away from New Orleans than I am now.
Anyway, even if she checked all the boxes, there’s no space in my life for a relationship—I’m all hockey, all the time. I have nothing else to give to anyone or anything. I can barely fit in my parents, and that’s it.
At twenty-eight, I’ve probably only got about five years left in this game—seven if I’m lucky—and I need to use that time to build as much success and as much of a great reputation as I can to set myself up for a future beyond hockey. I don’t plan to be a washed-up thirty-five-year-old with nothing to get up for in the mornings.
This is where my focus needs to be. I can’t let myself be distracted.
I mean, look what happened last time—I vowed after that disaster not to let a woman into my life again until I can give her enough brain space to spot any sign of betrayal coming.
So, yeah, even if the kid with the missing glove hadn’t interrupted, we’d probably have jumped apart anyway—realized it was a terrible idea and backed off. Yeah, that’s what would have happened. It certainly wouldn’t have gone any further regardless.
“What’s wrong with you?” I say out loud to myself, running my fingers through my hair and holding on tight to my head, which clearly needs some sense shaken into it.
Why am I thinking about this so much? I don’t even give game strategy this much thought.
For Christ’s sake, it was a one-off kiss. That we didn’t even get to complete. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s done and gone. It should be taking up no room in my head.
But there it sits, right alongside the story of how her mom would return from her travels and tell her all about the exciting places she’d seen but never took Natalie to any of them. I mean, telling a kid about the best ice cream in the world that they will never taste—how shitty is that, for fuck’s sake?
I swing my legs off the couch and push myself up to sitting.
Jesus, it’s dark out. It’s amazing how most of a day can sink into oblivion when my brain insists on trying to process an amazing kiss that was on the brink of becoming sensational—even if I didn’t want it or the woman attached to it.
I need something to pour cold water on these ridiculous thoughts, and there’s one thing that will do that for sure.
I pick up my phone from the coffee table and cross the room to the kitchen while video-calling my parents.
“Well, ahoy there, me hearty.” Mom’s wearing an eye patch when she pops on screen.
Dad appears behind her. “Shiver me timbers, it’s the landlubber.” There’s a plastic parrot on his shoulder.
Yup, these two are exactly the cheery distraction I needed. “I know I’ll regret this, but what are you doing?”
“It’s Pirate Party night,” Mom declares as if of course I should know that. “Hold on a second, let’s show you our full outfits.”
There’s enough camera wobble to make me feel seasick before she puts me down and stands back next to Dad.
“Wow, never thought I’d see the day when you wore a frilly shirt, Dad.” He lifts a leg. “Oh, and pants. Red and black stripes and frills on them too. Guess it’s not possible to overdo the pirate theme.”
“Doesn’t he look handsome?” Mom says, draping herself down one side of him and swooshing her layered skirt back and forth.
“I guess beauty is in the unpatched eye of the beholder. Where exactly did you acquire these delightful garments?”
“There’s a whole room of costumes,” Mom says. “All included,” she adds, never one to waste a penny, even though I can give them anything they want.
“Lucky you caught us before we head off to the ballroom,” Dad says.
“Very.” I open the fridge and pull out a protein drink. “Wouldn’t have missed this sight for the world.”
“There’s a whole pirate-themed buffet, and games, and a band called the Jolly Roger Jamboree.”
“Pray tell, what exactly makes up a pirate-themed buffet?” I ask, shaking the drink. “Does everything have to completely lack vitamin C for the authentic scurvy experience?”
“I think it’s more the shapes of the food than the contents,” Mom clarifies. “Like pineapples cut out like ships, cheese on cocktail sticks like flags, that sort of thing.”
“Someone showed me their photos from last year and there were pizzas with the toppings laid out like a treasure map.” Dad sounds in awe of such a culinary feat.
“That sounds more like a children’s birthday party than the classy luxury cruise I thought I’d sent you on.” And I bet the kids from Natalie’s play would love it.
“Oh, the food is top-notch,” Mom says. “It’s like going to an exclusive restaurant every day for breakfast, lunch and dinner.”
“And snacks in between.” Dad adjusts his belt.
“This is just a fun, one-off thing,” Mom reassures me. “It’s most definitely the super-classy cruise you promised. Don’t worry about that.”
“Any shoulder news?” Dad asks.
“I can lift it to here without it hurting.” I raise my drink-shaking arm, slowly, above my head.
“Excellent progress,” he says.
“Yes, it looks like that rehab center was a great decision,” Mom adds. “I’m sad not to see you at Christmas, but it’ll be worth you spending the holidays there if it’s working so well.”
My stomach and heart clench at the same time, paining me as punishment for the way I’ve misled my parents.
Mom approaches her phone, picks it up and scrutinizes me. “Obviously doing you the power of good. You look different already.”
“You can only see my face. My face looks different? I’m here to fix my shoulder. This isn’t a cover for a nose job.”
“Less tension,” she says. “A mother can always tell. Whatever they’re doing to you up there has already made you less crinkly.”
“Crinkly?”
“Yes. Most of the tension you hold around your eyes and mouth is gone.”
“You can’t even see around my mouth. It’s covered with beard.”
“I can see your lips, and I can see they’re not as tense.” She taps her phone, presumably right where my usually crinkly mouth is. “And you’re smiling way more than usual. Like, a real smile. One that lights up your eyes.”
“Are you saying I don’t usually smi?—”
“Time to go, Deb,” Dad calls, swishing a plastic sword behind Mom’s back. At least I hope it’s plastic.
“Speak soon.” Mom blows a kiss. “Just keep doing whatever it is you’re doing. Because it’s working.”
And my screen goes dark.
I definitely do not need to keep doing what I’m doing.
I do not need to keep hanging around Natalie Bourne and risk kissing her again.
What I need to do is what I came here to do—get some festivity-free peace and quiet, work on my shoulder rehab, and not get involved with anyone or anything.
But there’s this nagging feeling of responsibility I can’t shake off. Probably from years of conditioning to never let a teammate down. I did say I’d help with the scenery painting. And all the other volunteers have abandoned Natalie with a lot still to do.
I put my phone on the kitchen counter and unscrew the bottle cap.
As I take a glug of the blueberry drink, my gaze drifts to the keys next to my phone. Along with the car fob and house keys there’s a larger, chunky old one that the theater custodian gave me as I was leaving yesterday.
He said he doesn’t work Mondays, but since I scored in overtime two years ago to beat the Sabres, who he loathes, I could let myself in today to continue working if I wanted.
I didn’t think I would want to. I only took it to be polite.
But if he doesn’t work Mondays that probably means the theater is empty. So if I headed there now, I could finish my tree-painting obligations and clear my conscience without the awkwardness of being around an incredibly attractive woman who I kissed yesterday and can never kiss again.
Yup. Great idea.
I screw the cap back onto the bottle, scoop up the keys, and grab the hoodie hanging off a kitchen stool.