Chapter Three
Matt
I had no idea where we were.
St. Paul was only an hour from Cedar U, but we’d never been to these bars before. After our loss last year, not a single one of us went out. Instead, we practically took over the hotel bar and got wasted there before wandering back to our rooms and passing out.
Except for TJ. He passed out in the hallway.
But this year, we had so much to celebrate. It would’ve been a shame if we didn’t make every moment in this city count.
All twenty of us were already wearing our championship t-shirts. El walked in front of me, chatting alongside Kota and Bridget.
She had swapped her low ponytail for a slicked-back bun. It was as smooth as all the ballet buns I’d seen her do growing up, but the bun itself wasn’t a flawless donut this time. Instead, it was a perfectly imperfect messy knot.
Her white long-sleeved shirt was cropped, exposing a slim line of skin just above her jeans, that earlier, she had enlightened me were called “Mom Jeans” after I asked why they were so baggy.
Even from the back, I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.
I’d made it clear to the guys over the years that El was absolutely off-fucking-limits. My constant threats must’ve gotten through their thick skulls, because I had yet to see any of them make a real move, other than Crew.
He had tried flirting his way into El’s good graces when they first met, but after my repeated promises to put him in the hospital, he backed off. Now, they were nothing more than friends. Plus, he was so obsessed with Kota that he didn’t have eyes for anyone else anymore.
Every year, I got nervous when new guys would join the team, afraid that someday, one of them would whisk her away from me before I really got the chance to make her mine.
But if I couldn’t have her, none of these fucks could either.
For early spring in Minnesota, the weather was an ideal sixty degrees, the lightest breeze lingered through the air as we roamed around the twin cities, heading to some popular bar that the U of M players were always posting about.
As the red neon sign for BuzzBar came into view, Lane jogged lightly ahead, beating us to the front door. He held it open for everyone, lips moving to himself as we hurried past him.
No way is this motherfucker doing a head count right now, I thought to myself.
Then again, it was Lane, so of course, he was.
We all had our own nicknames that the team referred to us by, and our golden hockey captain was known as Team Dad for obvious reasons.
Who else would be worried about counting attendance like we were on an elementary school field trip?
Out of everyone, the only person with a negative nickname was me. Team Hothead.
I knew I had anger issues; everyone knew. The entire goddamn planet was aware that I had a tendency to flip like a light switch.
Over the years, I’d gotten a better grip on controlling my outbursts, but my anger still got the best of me pretty often.
Compared to high school though, it was night and day.
With multiple suspensions and even an expulsion at one point from getting into too many fights at school, I didn’t exactly have the high school experience that made my parents proud.
Minus the erratic behavior, I was a pretty good student. My high school GPA had remained relatively good; I graduated with a 3.3 and got a solid 1220 on the SAT.
It was nothing compared to El’s 4.0 and 1450 though.
Cedar was one of the only schools on my list senior year that had been willing to look beyond my screwed-up record.
In fact, when I first met with Coach, he told me that my aggression would “translate well on the ice.” He made it seem like my shitty record was what made me stand out as an incoming freshman.
Hockey had always been my greatest outlet when it came to letting my emotions out. When I first showed signs of antagonism at age six, my parents were advised to put me into a sport, something that I could exert my negative energy into.
They put me in football, soccer, and hockey, but hockey was the only one that stuck. Probably because aggression was part of the game.
Like the rest of the starting line, I’d been playing the past few years of Cedar U hockey on a full scholarship, and even though not all my teammates needed it, I sure as hell did.
We weren’t rich growing up, not even close. My parents worked their asses off to provide for us, and if it weren’t for the scholarship, I wasn’t sure I’d be playing college hockey at all.
But playing in the NHL had always been my ultimate goal.
Getting drafted out of high school to the Minnesota Wild was a dream come true, and after senior year, I’d make my way back to Minneapolis to play for this incredible city.
I’d worked my whole life for that NHL contract.
To play hockey alongside some of the greatest players in the world.
To have the financial luxury of spoiling my future children and wife.
To never have to worry about making sure they were taken care of and had everything they needed.
I couldn’t fucking wait for that.
But tonight, for a Saturday night in a college town, I expected it to be busier at BuzzBar, the type of busy that got everyone annoyed because there were constantly strangers in the way.
But surprisingly, the place wasn’t crowded at all. There was a tasteful amount of people scattered throughout, all of whom looked to be around our age.
For a college bar, it was abnormally nice, making me wonder if it was new. That would explain why so many U of M players had been splattering it all over their social media for the past few months.
Don’t get me wrong— Stallions, our favorite bar at Cedar, was a great bar. Always clean, great service, sublimely decorated with Cedar gear and sports memorabilia. But BuzzBar was modern to its core, looking more like a five-star restaurant than a college bar.
A cube hung in the center, a smaller version of a jumbotron in a hockey arena. The LA Dodgers versus the NY Yankees were playing on all four screens, with the Yankees currently batting to a Sabrina Carpenter song that the bar had turned on low.
I had no idea what the song was, but I was sure TJ knew, considering Sabrina Carpenter and Taylor Swift were seemingly besties now.
And we all knew how much TJ loved Taylor Swift.
Luckily, there was a whole section of the bar that was unoccupied, getting filled in seconds by our group. The entire wall was lined with one long, dark green booth and a table every few feet with normal chairs on the other side.
I watched Lane motion to Bridget to sit, pushing her chair in. Such a gentleman.
Spinning around myself, I spotted El and Kota at the bar. By the time I trotted over, they’d already gotten drinks, and Kota found her way right into Crew’s arms.
“I would’ve gotten you that,” I said to El, pointing at her drink.
Under the golden lighting, the specks of green in her eyes popped as she scoffed, brows scrunching. “On your big night? Absolutely not, Mattie. You’re not paying for anything tonight.”
“El...”
Her smile nearly knocked me on my ass.
“What do you want to drink?” she asked.
“You’re not buying all my drinks. I’m probably going to drink a lot.”
Giving a playful tap on my nose with the tip of her finger, she said, “And I’ll hold your hair back later.” With that, she turned towards the bartender.
“El,” I jeered.
But she didn’t hear me at all. The two bartenders moved frantically, expressions growing panicked as more and more hockey players gathered around the bar, hankering for something to get their night started.
Shoving a Miller Lite in my hand, El and I ducked out of the chaos, heading back to the tables.
“How’d you know I’d want a Miller?” I asked.
“You act like I haven’t known you forever,” she chuckled, taking the seat that I was pretty sure Jett had occupied just moments ago.
Cody appeared beside me out of thin air like he’d teleported there. The only thing missing was a puff of smoke.
Cody Holtz was one of my best friends and one of the most smug, cheeky motherfuckers in the world. Not to mention he was a damn good goalie. I wasn’t born with a brother, but he was the closest thing I had to one.
With his blazing green eyes and dirty blonde hair in the notorious and typical “flow” haircut that fifty percent of all hockey players had, Cody was a chick magnet. There was a reason why we called him Team Prettyboy. Including Coach.
I was lucky that Cody never tried stealing El away from me throughout the years. Who knows— maybe he would’ve succeeded.
“Isn’t there supposed to be a dance floor at this place?” he thought aloud.
“There’s supposed to be,” I answered, noting our matching Miller Lites.
“Well, where is it?”
Brows kneading together, I shrugged at him. “Do I look like a fucking map?”
Cody leaned forward. “Sass check.”
“Personal space check,” I said, lightly pushing his shoulder.
I stood behind El like the obsessive freak I was, resting a hand on the back of her chair.
With a quick scowl, Cody turned, and I watched as he did what I’d seen him do hundreds of times before— scoured the bar for girls.
“Really, bro?” I judged.
“What better way to celebrate than by getting laid at the end of the night?” he argued plainly.
“Um,” I tapped him, “are you forgetting something?”
Coming out of his trance, he glanced me over, a clueless, stupid look on his face before it broke into a chuckle. “My bad. Don’t worry. We’ll find you one too.”
“Not that, asshole. You’re sharing a room with me, remember?”
In other words, You’re not fucking somebody while I’m sleeping in the same room.
Cody gave a blank stare. Most of the time, I was pretty good at reading his mind, but right now, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to.
The kid was known for having threesomes. I’d only ever heard of him doing it with two girls, but I wasn’t trying to be the first guy he ever dragged into one.