9. The Boy Who Pulls on Pigtails
THE BOY WHO PULLS ON PIGTAILS
Max
It’s a dilemma all right—do I go for a pineapple and coconut smoothie with honey or the banana one with peanut butter? I’ve always been a peanut butter lover, but then again, honey is really fucking good. But maybe I should skip a smoothie today. Wouldn’t that be the wiser choice for the wallet?
Behind the counter, a college student with sleek black hair and a smiley face apron covering her university sweatshirt patiently waits for me to give her the final order from our group.
We’ve just finished morning skate, and I stare at the chalkboard menu for The Oasis a little longer, like the decision’s going to materialize before my eyes.
Wesley’s busy on his phone, but Asher’s in no mood for my antics since he cuts in, scanning her name tag, then saying, “Yuki, he’ll have the banana and peanut butter one, with added honey.”
I turn to Asher, annoyed and grateful all at once. “Am I keeping you from an important appointment with…your hairstylist? Massage therapist? Nail tech?”
Asher scoffs. “Please. I’m naturally beautiful. Also, you’re keeping me from something—namely, my bed and a nap.”
“There’s plenty of time before the clock strikes one, sleeping beauty,” I say, but facts are facts.
Wesley and Asher ordered right away, and I took my time, hemming and hawing, like I usually do.
Some days I still can’t believe I’m spending thirteen dollars on a fucking drink.
My middle-school self who never went out for a meal and scrounged together every spare dollar for new skates would have freaked.
I turn to the server once more. “What he said. And, um, thanks for your patience.”
“No problem.” Yuki inputs my order, then she’s hesitant, maybe even nervous, for a beat as I take out my phone and open the wallet on it.
She chews on her lower lip, then says, “And…I really hope you win tonight. I love the Sea Dogs so much. And I’ve been meaning to tell you that every time you come here, but I didn’t have the guts because everyone said you were unapp—” She stops, shakes her head, before she corrects to, “Because everyone said it’s not cool to fangirl, but I had to say it. Hockey is the best.”
“Yes, it is,” I say, and because I heard what she didn’t say—everyone says I’m unapproachable. And I hear, too, what Rosario and my agent said yesterday. That I don’t interact with fans, so I add, “And we’ll do our best to win tonight.”
“How long have you been a fan?” Asher asks, setting his elbow on the counter in the we’ve-been-pals-forever kind of way that he has about him. “And more importantly, how long have you thought I was better than Bryant?”
Looking up from his phone, Wesley thumps Asher on the head. Yuki laughs, then says to Asher, “I don’t know…Wesley had a pretty big goal the other night.”
Asher’s mouth falls open, as if he’s aghast. “Blasphemy.”
“Yep, and don’t you forget my blasphemy, Callahan,” Wesley says, then as he tucks his phone into his jeans pocket, he turns to Yuki as she begins making the drinks. “Really appreciate you rooting for our team instead of the Golden State Foxes.”
That’s the other hockey team in the city and one of our fiercest rivals. Though I hate the Los Angeles Supernovas more. Especially their starting forward, Fletcher Bane, who’d serve Earth better if he were shot in a spaceship to Mars and left to rot there forever.
But I do my best to never think about my biggest enemy except when we’re playing those cheating fuckheads.
“Never the Foxes,” Yuki says. “Sea Dogs always.”
“That’s what I like to hear,” Wesley says.
“You chose well, Yuki,” Asher adds as she works on the drinks.
They chat with her more as I busy myself with finishing the transaction.
I double the amount of the smoothies I bought for myself and my friends and set that as the tip.
That’s not new. I always do that—tip well.
Because I can, and because I was that kid behind the counter once upon a time, working at a quick-serve restaurant, taking orders and hoping for decent tips.
Normally, if someone recognizes me, and that happens from time to time, I say something nice and move on, stat. I figure shit can get awkward real fast, so a simple thanks is all that’s needed. But Wesley and Asher? These guys brought her into the convo for a while. Had a real chat with her.
Do I need to do more of that to help my likeability quotient? I hate fake conversations. They didn’t seem fake though…But I don’t know that me being more outgoing with the college student who makes our post-morning-skate smoothies is enough to change my…likeability quotient.
That stupid term makes me want to kick a garbage can.
Instead, I grab my drink roughly when it’s done, grunting out a thanks as Asher picks up the pineapple drink while Wes grabs his kale shake.
The dude loves his greens. As we head to our regular table in the back of the shop, Asher says, “Did you guys catch up on the end of Twisted Nights?”
That’s the domestic thriller on Webflix we’re all addicted to. “That was wild,” Wesley says, sliding into the booth. “I can’t believe they crossed the border.”
“Don’t cross the border,” Asher booms in a deep warning tone, reciting the tagline for the show.
I could jump in, but I’m a little lost in thoughts of what’s next, like what exactly it means to turn my reputation around and how painful that’ll be, especially with Everly breathing down my neck.
But if even the server here knows my rep, it’ll be harder than unsticking a container ship from the Suez Canal.
As I take a thirsty sip, Asher tips his drink my way, catching my attention. “What’s up with you, Lambert? You usually mock Wesley for his theories on the next season.”
“And yet, all my theories came true,” Wesley points out.
Didn’t even realize they were debating what might happen in the future. Looking up, I blink off the haze of my own thoughts. “Have you ever heard of a likeability quotient?” It’s asked with some derision.
Asher’s brow furrows. “No, but I can figure it out.”
Wesley shakes his head. “Sounds like marketing mumbo jumbo.”
I’m not always the most forthcoming guy, but I trust my friends, and hell, they already know my rep—Asher’s the guy you bring home to mom, Wesley’s the guy who helps anyone out of a jam, and I’m the guy you’d send to the door to scare off strangers on your porch.
“Evidently”—I stop to sketch air quotes—“my likeability quotient is in the toilet.”
I roll my eyes because I can’t not.
“Explain,” Asher says as he swirls his compostable straw—he picked this spot as our regular stomping grounds since everything’s compostable here.
I take a satisfying suck of peanut butter and banana, then lean back in the booth and ’fess the fuck up.
“I lost my last sponsor yesterday,” I say, and hell, that’s more embarrassing to admit than I’d thought it’d be.
They know that’s been happening to me ever since the fight against Los Angeles, but it still makes me feel like a fool to talk about the ramifications out loud.
“And my agency’s marketing department told me to shape up.
Basically, they put me on notice to make some changes, or else. ”
“Ouch,” Asher says with obvious sympathy.
“Shit, man. That sucks,” Wesley says.
Trash talk is our first language, but they must sense my situation has reached code-red levels. I seriously appreciate them not giving me a hard time.
“And yes, I know it’s my fault because I don’t talk to the press, but man, that convo still kind of made me feel like shit,” I admit honestly.
“You gotta do your own thing. Make your own choices, Lambert. That’s what I learned last season,” Wesley says.
I mull on that for a few seconds. I suppose Wesley’s proof, though, that talking openly can be a good thing.
Last season, he spoke up in a big way about his life.
That kind of honesty and vulnerability made a huge difference to the team and the community and to his personal life—it’s the reason his girlfriend is happily back in town, shacked up with him.
“You did, man,” I say, offering a fist for knocking.
He knocks back. “You showed the fuck up in all the ways.” I heave a sigh, and it’s not so much one of resignation but maybe…
acceptance that I’ve got to make some changes.
“I guess I have to do a better job of that. When my agent called me into his conference room and showed me a fucking whiteboard with the likeability quotient, it was a rude awakening. But then again, it was a pretty rude awakening a year and a half ago when I walked into the home I shared with Lyra and saw Fletcher Bane from the Supernovas balls deep in her, so…”
Asher shoots me a sympathetic frown. “That’s enough to make anyone shut down.”
But that was only the start of it. That wasn’t why I stopped talking to the press. It wasn’t why I killed my social media either. What happened a week or so later at my sister’s house was—after the fight on the ice with Bane. After the media wouldn’t leave me alone. After they hassled my sister.
“But apparently my attitude isn’t sitting well with team management, and I need to figure out how to be nicer…or else.”
“Just let ’em know you treat us to smoothies—that’s nice,” Asher says.
“You could treat the whole city,” Wes puts in, and I smile, appreciating their effort to fix this.
I roll on, building up a head of steam. “But it’s not like I’m going to grab a mic or fire up social media I don’t have and say, well, folks here’s why I think the world is a shit show, and here’s why that song isn’t about me.
I’m not going to air my dirty laundry. It won’t change anything and the media will demolish her,” I say, getting fired up.
I can’t stand my cheating ex, and I despise Bane, but I detest the press even more.
They twist everything and they’d contort the truth in ways I couldn’t even imagine.