1. Dash #2
“Oh, hell no,” I bark when I see Alex Kilovak— The Killer —and Lenzin Faulker— The Mother F’er —digging into the breakfast bowls I prepped for the week.
“You two heathens know how to read?” I jab a finger at the bowls. “My name was clearly on those.”
They glance at me, then each other, then back again, chewing slow, like maybe if they stall long enough, I’ll let it go.
That’s when I catch him.
Paul Bronski. The Paul Bronski. The man who’s held the cup more times than anyone in the league’s history, and somehow, he’s living under our roof. Koa’s girl rents one of his places, but with the building under construction, we offered him a spot. I still can’t believe he said yes.
“Sorry, kid, my fault,” Paul says, stepping into the kitchen with the kind of gravitas that makes even the Killer and the Mother F’er straighten. “Wanted to do my part, so I warmed up some food for your boys. Two others are in the microwave—for you and the Italian.”
The Italian, of course, being Deacon Moretti. One of our goalies.
“No problem, Mr. Bron?—”
“It’s Paul,” he corrects, like he always does. Then his gaze sweeps the room. “Where is he, anyway?”
“Didn’t come home last night,” Killer says, stuffing another oversized forkful of my perfectly proportioned eggs, turkey sausage, sweet potato, spinach, and avocado into his mouth. He grins around it, the bastard, knowing I can’t tear him a new one in front of a legend.
Jaw tight, I grab the steaming bowls from the microwave and set them on the island with a little more force than necessary. “Eat up, Mr.—I mean, Paul .”
“Are we waiting on the others today?” Joel asks as I hop in and shut the door to the SUV behind me.
“Nope.” I glance over as the door to the townhouse starts to open. “Let’s roll.”
He sees them coming out, but does as I ask and doesn’t question me.
Dick move? Sure is. Okay, yeah, I got nothing else except, right now, I’m pissed that they made me look like a douche in front of Paul Bronski. So, they can get their own ride.
I pay for a car service and the peace of mind it gives me.
I use it during the season when I have days like today that are scheduled so damn tight that driving myself, public transportation, or waiting for an Uber, only to have them cancel for another person needing a ride, doesn’t make sense.
Found them after I was stuck in traffic once when I was supposed to be at a shoot that would have paid for a whole year of Briar’s college at the beginning of my career.
Got there when they were tearing down, and they no longer needed me.
Wasn’t in high demand after that. Who am I kidding?
I wasn’t in demand at all. I was labeled unreliable by ad agencies all over the city.
With the team doing well, and me having this face, body, and my best season on the ice yet, my agent, Drew, got me in with Apex Wear for a commercial shoot.
The scene? A locker room, me in compression shorts that didn’t hide the fact that I’m packing or that I’ve gone hard on squats and leg day. The angle was perfect for the commercial, and the still pictures they blew up on for a billboard hanging in Times Square. Three words: “Dominate every layer.”
A few hours, two days in a row, they worked around my schedule, and I made two hundred Gs. And because it was successful, I have a contract next year for a cool mill for four shoots. My agent Drew is working out the details.
“Another underwear shoot today?” Joel asks with a chuckle.
“Ironwood Reserve,” I answer. “It’s a one-off that could lead to a contract if all goes well.”
“You a bourbon guy?” he asks as he speeds through the light.
“When the occasion calls for it. But I’d drink Yak milk with a smile for a contract with them.”
“That good?” he asks.
I nod.
“Guess I should get my kid into skates now.” He chuckles.
“We’ll schedule a time if you want me to show him some basics.”
“You serious?” he asks.
I nod. “Hockey’s the only thing I’ve really ever been serious about.”
The SUV rolls to a stop at the players’ entrance, engine humming low as he rolls to a stop.
“Thanks, man, see you at?—”
“I’ll be here at two fifty.”
I could let him open the door for me, but that’s not me. Never has been. I shoulder my duffle, push the handle down, and step out into late-November air that’s sharp enough to sting the lungs for most people, but I love this shit.
The arena stands in front of me—steel and glass.
The players’ entrance isn’t like making a grand entrance on game day through the front.
No reporters or fans stacked three rows deep behind barricades.
Not that I don’t love to get dressed up, show respect to the game and the fans, but I love walking in back here, knowing today, it’s just me, the team, and the ice.
I’m typically one of the first guys in, but today, I hear sticks and a puck. Before I head into the locker room to lace up, I head toward the ice to see who beat me here.
I can’t help but smile when I see Deacon Moretti—or the Italian, as Paul calls him—who was pushed back to the second line, even though he’s a legend in his own right.
Fifteen years in this league, and they put Johnosn in first line.
Johnson, who has since been traded, and they brought Hank Marshall up from the farm team to replace him.
Hank is also a Lincoln alum. He’s real fucking good, but he’s no Moretti. Hell, I don’t know many who are.
He’s here early, working with Marshall, even though Coach D has him starting over him. Morretti loves the game.
He’s had one hell of a career; he’s been The Times’ sexiest man of the year, but he’s never held the cup. We all want the cup in our hands, but there are a few of us who want it even more for him, and we want to do that before he retires.
“Thanks for the ride, asshat,” Killer says, walking past me.
“Anytime, man, anytime.” I laugh.