Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
DONOVAN
I feel like I’m slogging my way through maple syrup today. My feet can’t quite move fast enough, my body aches, and there’s a pounding starting behind my eyes that’s threatening to turn my stomach over and spill its contents onto the floor of the locker room.
Not enough sleep, that much is certain. By the time I got in touch with the super of my building to have a key dropped off so I could get inside, it was well past midnight. I managed to scarf down a late night snack of frozen waffles and cut up strawberries, but I’m running on empty today.
It’s always worse after a loss, but last night I didn’t just lose the damn game.
I lost my wallet. My keys. My entire life, contained in two items, just gone in a split second.
At least I still had my phone in my pocket after Shiloh did his little disappearing act.
I’m still not certain that he just happened to stumble across both items last night after they somehow fell out of my pocket in the dark, but for some reason he’s brought them back.
I only hope that what’s tucked into one of the pockets on the inside of the wallet is still there.
I mean, and my driver’s license, banking cards, and all the other shit I’ve crammed into the leather since I moved here too.
I think there’s a punch card for this sandwich shop I love tucked into one of the spots, and I’m like two punches away from a free sandwich.
I don’t make any of the big NHL money down here in the minors, and I’d be choked if I lost out on free food.
I’ll have to survey what damage, if any, has been done to the contents of my wallet when I get it back.
And my keys. I missed that little penguin keychain this morning on my drive to the rink.
I hadn’t noticed how often I fiddle with it until this morning when I slid my spare key into the ignition of my shitty Jeep.
That little penguin keeps me calm in the hectic Boston traffic, apparently, and without him I’m probably one road rage incident away from some serious traffic fines.
Not exactly something I want in the story of my hockey career, honestly.
The timer on the bike goes off, and with a yawn, I slide my heavy body off the seat, taking care to wipe up the sweat left behind with a towel.
Gilly, the other goalie on the active roster, is standing beside the bike holding a disinfectant spray and waiting for his turn.
He nods as I toss the sweat-drenched towel into the hamper and yawn again.
“Rough night?” he asks, spraying down the seat of the bike so he can climb on and do his mandatory ride.
“Not too bad,” I lie, wiping sweat off my forehead with my palm. I really shouldn’t have thrown that towel away so quick, I’m literally leaking from everywhere.
Gilly raises an eyebrow as I offer a smile I hope doesn’t look like it was spackled onto my face.
He has to know the score by now, he’s been on the other end of some catastrophic failures in net even though he’s only been here a year longer than me.
He stares at me for a moment like he isn’t sure what to say to call out my obvious lie, but instead offers a curt nod my way. “Not the end of the world, you know.”
“Nobody died, right?” I offer back, with a slight chuckle. That’s always been a bit of a touchpoint for me. Like, if nobody died, how bad could it really be? If nobody was maimed or massacred, there’s always a way to come back.
Gilly chuckles, nodding at me. “Nobody died, Donny. You’re good. Get ’em next time.”
He starts his timer and closes his eyes, popping earbuds into his ears as he starts slowly pedaling the bike.
Before I came to the Snakes, I didn’t have such an intense after-practice cooldown, but here, some things are required.
Maintaining endurance, building muscle and fine-tuning reflexes off ice are all just as important as what we do with our skates on.
But today, I have no time for much more of my usual routine.
I stink to high heaven and I’ve gotta get to Shiloh before he gives up on me and leaves with my stuff.
If he hasn’t already. It’s been a while since we left the ice, and despite stripping out of my gear as fast as I could to grab one of the bikes before someone else could snag it, he may have left by now.
With my stuff in his hoodie pocket.
My hoodie pocket.
The pocket of the hoodie he’s wearing that is mine.
Whatever it’s called, it could already be long gone, along with the man wearing it—or rather, drowning in it.
It came down to nearly his knees, and I noted that he kept having to shove the sleeves up to expose his hands while we were chatting at the glass earlier.
My mom, bless her soul, would take one look at his pale cheeks and slender angles, mumble something like, “tiny little bird of a thing,” and immediately cut him the biggest slice of her homemade apple pie.
That was her love language.
My childhood was full of apple pie and cherry kuchen, the crumbs of which I’d lick out of every container she’d pack for my lunches.
I swallow hard as I move into the locker room, making a beeline for my cubicle.
I need a shower, and I have no time for apple pie wishes and cherry kuchen memories so I shove all that to the back of my mind.
It’s been five years since she died, you’d think I’d be over it by now, but cancer is a bitch that echoes in my memories despite the happy moments I’ve had.
She never got to see me get drafted, and that stings, but standing on that stage, alone, and having no mom to hug afterward would have hurt way more if my best friend Oakley Keddimore and his entire family hadn’t shown up to celebrate me.
I mean, Oakley was also drafted that night, and much higher than I was, but still.
It matters.
I grab my shower kit and head for the bank of showerheads at the back of the arena.
It’s not the biggest shower room, we have to take turns as we do with everything, but I’m alone in here now.
That would usually mean I don’t have to rush, but I know I have to today.
Every minute ticking by as I shampoo the sweat out of my hair and scrape it off my body feels like I’m one step closer to losing my chance to get my things back from Shiloh.
Finally, when I feel vaguely clean enough, I wrap a towel around my waist and make my way into the locker room to get dressed.
Laughter rises from the gym beyond the bank of lockers, and I grin as incredibly loud country music meets my ears, followed by a collective groan.
Tucker Parent has clearly won the battle for the Bluetooth speaker in the gym, which wouldn’t be a bad thing if he didn’t insist on playing the same five damn country songs on repeat.
He says they pump him up, but I just can’t see how songs about drinking beer and being a cowboy correspond with playing hockey.
Not for me, that’s for sure.
I make quick work of toweling off and slipping my clothing on, my jeans clinging a bit to my still-wet legs.
For a split second I consider leaving my socks off, because slightly damp skin in socks is gross, but I decide that bare feet in shoes is even grosser and take the extra time to put them on.
Finally, I’m dressed and make my way to the door, taking a second to glance over my shoulder to be sure I haven’t made one hell of a mess of my locker stall.
I know some of my teammates don’t give a shit and will leave their stalls looking like a bomb went off for the equipment staff to handle, but I was raised better than that.
Confirming that my space is okay to leave, I grab the handle on the door and pull it open, stepping out into the chilly air of the lower concourse.
“Took you long enough,” a voice murmurs from my right, and I jump a bit, whirling around to find Shiloh sitting on one of the benches that line the hallway.
His eyes meet mine, gray pools set into a face that looks like carved porcelain, his jawline sharp but cheeks soft as he smiles slightly.
I’d taken notice of his hair beneath the bright lights of the arena, a sea of stark black with little curls of a darker green that nearly melts into the color of the hoodie he’s drowning in.
“How did you get here?” I blurt, as he stands up from the bench and takes a step toward me. “The public isn’t allowed down here. You’re lucky security didn’t catch you and throw you out. Fans have been banned for trying to sneak down here.”
He laughs, pulling my wallet out of his… my hoodie. “Bold to assume I’m a fan, Donovan Willam Myers. Security and I had a chat. I explained that I was a guest of yours, and luckily, I had the proper ID to prove it.”
“Can I have my things back?” I ask, eyeing my wallet carefully.
“Do I still get my dinner if I say yes?”
He can have the entire moon for all I care. “Sure.”
Shiloh hesitates for a moment, then slowly hands my wallet over, his chipped nail polish digging into the leather.
It takes everything I have inside me to not snatch it out of his outstretched fingers, but I mind my manners.
Once I have it back in my hand, though, I can’t stop myself from rifling through it.
All my cards are there, including my free sandwich punch card, but I’m not looking for that.
With a sharp pang somewhere deep inside I can’t afford to acknowledge anymore, I slide open the tiny billfold compartment that’s nearly hidden inside the leather. A flash of purple meets my eyes, and I exhale a breath I had not noticed I was holding onto.
It’s there.
My lucky purple skate lace.
The one from the last set of skates I wore before my mom died.
She bought me those laces and I wore them for every game while she was undergoing chemotherapy and radiation.
By the day she died, I’d broken one of them, but I held on tight to the one that remained.
It was one of the few things I had left that we’d both touched in our time together.