Chapter 7 Clark
CLARK
My phone buzzes in my bag as I’m pulling on my jersey, and I know without looking that it’s Whitaker.
The guy has impeccable—or maybe terrible—timing, depending on your perspective.
Sure enough, his name flashes across the screen along with a text that’s somehow both a question and an accusation.
Whitaker: Avoiding me?
Me: Game day laser focus activated.
Three dots appear immediately, indicating he’s typing. He’s not letting this go and I imagine all caps incoming.
Whitaker: That’s exactly the problem. You only care about the game. But your PUBLIC IMAGE matters too. More endorsements = more money = better career security. You avoided the conversation I came all the way to Cobbiton to have. Instead, you yapped all about April and your dogs. We need to talk.
I exhale a sharp breath. Whitaker is an old friend and he’s good at his job. He’s gotten me deals I never would’ve landed on my own, boosted my social media presence, and made me “marketable” in a way that matters in professional sports.
But he also thinks my personal life is part of his portfolio.
Me: Watch me win.
Whitaker: Fine. But dinner when you get back. Already made reservations. 7 p.m. Thursday. DON’T FORGET.
I shove my phone back in my bag without responding. Thursday is two days away. I’ll deal with Whitaker then.
Right now, I need to focus on the Denver Blizzard and the fact that they beat us the last two times we’ve played them.
“You vibin’ or spiralin’?” Mikey asks, noticing my expression.
I grunt. “Can’t we just play hockey and not deal with all the other stuff?”
“Say no more.” He makes a face that suggests he understands completely.
But I do say more. “Whitaker says my public image matters.”
“Does it, though?” Pierre pipes up from across the locker room. “I mean, you’re a goalie. You wear a mask. Half the time, people can’t even see your face.”
“Exactly!”
“What does he want from you?” Hayden asks, lacing up his skates. “To start doing those silly dances on social media?”
“I already do them.”
Grady chuckles. “Do product placements?”
“Those, too.”
“Prance around shirtless with your dogs?”
“Don’t give him ideas,” I mutter.
Hayden snorts.
“He wants me to date high-profile women,” I mutter, hating the idea.
“That’s always the play with these publicist types,” Hayden says, knowing all too well. Though it worked out for him and Delaney.
My stomach twists, knots. I’m in full pads. Locked in. This is not the time. “I’m not dating someone just for publicity.”
“Good,” Grady says. “Because that would be stupid.”
“Plus,” Fletch adds with a grin, “you’re already in love with April.”
“We’re not doing this again.” My scoff is pathetic, really.
Pierre grins like a jackal. “We’re absolutely doing this again.”
I ignore them and finish getting ready, but my mind keeps circling back to Whitaker’s text. My public image. Endorsements. Career security.
And April.
Always April.
My phone buzzes again. This time, it’s a photo from her with Purdy curled up on my bed with Moose, Buster, and Scout arranged protectively around her like furry bodyguards.
Apparently, they’re tuckered out after welcoming the newest addition to the fur-family with a special edition mini pupcake recipe—coconut and carrot flavored.
Pupcakes are April’s specialty and her flagship Barkery item, along with biscuits, cookies, bones, and more.
The caption reads: Progress! She let the boys near her without shaking. I think she knows she’s safe now.
My heart does that stupid splooting thing again.
Me: You’re the best. Thank you for staying with them.
April: Where else would I be? Someone has to make sure you remember to eat vegetables when you get home.
Me: I had a salad yesterday.
April: Lettuce on a burger doesn’t count, Clark.
In the background, I hear one of the guys say, “There’s that real deal smile. He must be texting with April. Whitaker could make his life much easier if—”
Coach Badaszek’s whistle pierces the air.
“Culpepper! Unless that phone is telling you how to stop pucks, put it away!”
“Yes, sir!”
I shove it back in my bag, but April’s text makes me feel lighter. Like maybe I can actually pull off a shutout tonight and shut Whitaker up about my image and—focus. Game. Denver.
I take a deep breath and head out to the ice.
The game is a disaster.
Not a small disaster. Not a “we’ll bounce back” disaster. A full-scale, no-holds-barred, absolute shellacking.
By the end of the first period, Denver is up three. We’ve laid an egg. By the second, it’s four one. The third period is just cruel—they score twice more while we manage a single goal that feels more like pity than pride.
The final score is seven to two.
While I was on the ice, I got shelled. Absolutely lit up. My team left me out to dry a few times, but that doesn’t change the fact that I let in four of those goals. Four.
The locker room after the game is quieter than a library at midnight. Nobody makes eye contact. We all just pack our gear in silence, the weight of the loss pressing down like a ton of granite.
The chartered flight home is even worse. Coach Badaszek sits in the front, arms crossed, looking like he’s planning our funeral. Or maybe just our next practice, which might be worse.
I slump in my seat, earbuds in but no music playing, and stare out the window at the darkness.
My phone buzzes. Ordinarily, a tiny smile would form inside and I’d briefly daydream about April’s dimpled smile shining on me.
April: I watched. I’m sorry.
Me: No, I’m sorry you had to see us get destroyed.
April: Want to talk about it?
Me: Not really. Just want to come home.
April: The dogs and I will be waiting. I have snickerdoodle cookies from the bakery.
And just like that, the loss doesn’t feel quite so crushing.
An internal smile plays peekaboo. She’s so thoughtful. So sweet. A self-described “sister.” A long sigh escapes as I reply.
Me: You’re the best.
April: I know. Now stop beating yourself up. One bad game doesn’t define you.
April: Just don’t let it happen again.
She adds a few emojis and my slight smile matches the one on the last yellow head.
How does she always know exactly what I need to hear?
“Texting April?” Mikey asks, tugging on the seat from behind me hard enough to cause whiplash.
I don’t bother denying it. “Yeah.”
“Dude has it bad,” Pierre announces to the nearby rows.
“Are we really going to kick a man while he’s down?” I ask, but there’s no animosity in it. Honestly, I’m grateful for any distraction from replaying every goal I let in.
“Actually,” Fletch says, leaning over from across the aisle, “this is the perfect time. We’re all miserable. We need entertainment.”
“My love life isn’t entertainment.”
“Your denial of your love life is entertainment,” Hayden corrects.
“There’s nothing to deny. April and I are—”
“Friends,” the entire section choruses in a falsetto.
“You know what?” I say, sitting up straighter. “Fine. You want to hear dumb? Buckle up for the highlight reel of the lengths I’ve gone to remain focused on the fact that we’re just friends.”
They lean in like I’m about to reveal the secret to winning the Stanley Cup.
“Last month, I made a point of high-fiving her goodbye instead of our usual hug because hugs were starting to feel too ... something. She looked confused, left me hanging, and said, ‘What are we, twelve?’ I went back to hugs the next time, but now I’m hyper-aware of how long they last because it’s getting increasingly dangerous to have her in my arms. Three seconds: friendly.
Four seconds: fine. Five seconds: absolutely not, abort mission. ”
Mikey is trying not to laugh. “Dude.”
“There was the Great Compliment Avoidance of last summer. She got her hair cut—so it just reached her shoulders, like eight inches gone—and looked so pretty.”
Mikey chimes in, “Juniper is an amazing stylist.”
Fletch chucks him in the arm for interrupting to gloat about his wife.
“I spent the entire afternoon saying things like ‘Wow, that’s definitely shorter’ and ‘Very practical for summer heat’ instead of just telling her she looked beautiful.”
Pierre alternates between clapping and clutching his stomach with laughter.
“Please tell us there’s more,” Grady says, fully invested now.
“Oh, there’s more. I have an entire catalog.
There’s the time I rearranged my schedule to ‘accidentally’ run into her at the Busy Bee.
There’s the fact that I bought a French press because she mentioned once that she likes coffee made that way.
There’s the collection of dog training books I’ve accumulated since she’s a professional dog trainer.
You know, in case she wants to hang around my place for some light reading. ”
“Is there anything you haven’t done to avoid admitting you have feelings for this girl?” Hayden asks.
“Well, I haven’t gotten a tattoo of her face on my biceps with the words ‘Just Friends’ underneath it.”
“Yet,” Pierre adds.
“Yet,” I agree.
The mood on the plane has shifted from memorial service to comedy show, and I realize that’s exactly why I did it.
Sometimes the best thing I can do for the guys is take a blow to my ego to boost morale, especially if it’s basically my fault that everyone feels like they’re in the gutter.
Though, to be fair, defense could’ve represented. Just sayin.’
But yeah, I’ll take one for the team even if it means admitting I’m hopelessly in love with my best friend who definitely doesn’t feel the same way.
Coach Badaszek walks down the aisle, and everyone suddenly finds their phones very interesting. As he passes my row, he pauses. “Culpepper.”
I glance up, at attention. “Yes, Coach?”
“I heard you adopted a dog from that charity event.”
“Yes, sir. Purdy. She’s a Shih Tzu.”
His expression doesn’t change, but his gaze softens from solid ice. “Dogs are good for perspective. They can remind us of what matters—loyalty, companionship, snacks.”
“Yes, sir,” I repeat. The worst thing anyone could do is disagree with the man because that’ll result in a long lecture, during which you’ll realize that he’s wiser, smarter, and never wrong—not because we give in and agree out of fear of practice retribution, but because he’s right.
It’s uncanny.
Or, our three-pound brains aren’t yet developed enough to understand the big picture, the minute details, and everything in between.
That’s also possible.
He continues down the aisle to the back of the plane.
Mikey leans over. “Did Badaszek just give you relationship advice?”
“I think he gave me dog advice.”
“Same thing in your case,” Fletch points out.
He’s not wrong.
By the time we land, it’s past midnight. I’m exhausted, mentally drained, and want nothing more than to go home, hug my dogs, and maybe let April tell me everything is going to be okay.
I grab my gear and head to the parking lot where I left my Jeep.
The drive home should take twenty minutes. I make it exactly seven before I see the flashing lights in my rearview mirror—lit up like Christmas even though that was months ago.
Oh no.
Honest to goodness, I was driving the speed limit. Maybe one mile per hour over, but no more than that. I already let my team down once today. I’m not about to break the law and risk getting in an accident and really ruin things.
I pull over, my stomach tumbling as the officer approaches. I stopped at the red light. I used my signal. One mile over the limit doesn’t count as speeding. Okay, technically it does, but … there aren’t any other cars on the road.
The officer says, “License and registration, please.”
I hand over my license and reach for my registration, which should be in the glove compartment where April stashed it because I’m organizationally challenged. But then I hear her voice in my head with a friendly reminder.
The officer examines both, then looks at me. “Mr. Culpepper, your registration expired two weeks ago.”
My stomach drops.
“Your vehicle registration has expired,” he repeats.
I feel like hitting my head against the steering wheel. April told me about the notice. The one I said I’d take care of and then promptly forgot about because I was thinking about how cute she looked in my hoodie.
“I’m going to have to cite you and have your vehicle towed.”
“Towed? Can’t I just—?”
“An expired registration means the vehicle isn’t legally allowed on the road. I’m sorry, sir.”
I hang my head, wishing I could remember to follow up on my responsibilities in addition to my feelings for April.