3. Grant
THREE
GRANT
“Why are you staring at your phone like you’re mad at it?” Ethan Richardson, our team’s first line center, taps my shoulder. “Everything okay?”
“Huh? What? Yeah.” I flash him a grin. “Just debating if I want to send someone a private message. I don’t usually do this kind of thing, and I’m struggling.”
“Dude.” He takes a seat in front of his stall in the visitors’ locker room at the Denver Goldminers’ arena. “You’re not supposed to send a dick pic from a public account. Way too risky, and it leaves a paper trail. That’s why you get a second phone.”
“It’s a message to say hello, not pictures of my junk.” I glare at my best friend on the team. “Please don’t tell me you send unsuspecting women photos of your dick.”
“Unsuspecting? No. They know what’s going to happen ahead of time. We’re like gods to them, bro.” Ethan grabs his jersey and yanks it on over his pads. “Who are you messaging? A fan?”
“Are we talking about dick pics?” Maverick Miller, our captain and the league’s playboy, stands in front of me. “There are very specific steps to crafting the perfect image, and the locker room is not sexy at all.”
“Remember the time you sent me a dick pic meant for someone else?” Hudson Hayes, star defenseman and our alternate captain, chimes in. “I’ve never been so disgusted.”
“Millions of women—and men, mind you—would kill for that picture, Huddy Boy. You should be thankful.” Maverick smirks and looks at me. “You’re young, Everett. Don’t lock yourself down your first year in the league. There’s too much fun to be had.”
“All of you are taking this the wrong way. I’m not locking myself down with anyone.” I toss my phone in the stall under my beanie and scrub a hand over my face. “I wanted to send a nice message to say hello. That’s it.”
“Oh.” Maverick frowns. “That’s boring.”
“I’ll help you after the game, Grant,” Hudson offers, and I smile at him.
“Thanks, Hud.”
“Let’s circle back to the dick pics, because I have a way to make a locker room photo sexy.
” Ethan stands and puts one of his skates on the chair.
He rests a hand on his hip and uses the other to pull on the waistband of his hockey pants.
“An above shot, see? Gives you the best angle and makes everything appear longer. Bonus point: It shows off any genital decorations you might have.”
“I am in hell.” Liam Sullivan, our goalie, scowls. “No one gives a shit about what you have decorating your dick, Richardson. They wouldn’t be able to see anything anyway, even with a photo that’s zoomed all the way in.”
“I love when Sully gets fired up.” Maverick giggles. “He’s so grumpy and irritable. Finding the limit before he snaps is the highlight of my day.”
“How exactly do you plan to take a photo when both of your hands are occupied, Ethan?” Riley Mitchell, Hudson’s defensive partner, asks. “One is on your hip, and the other is busy with your pants. Oh. Unless you use the one on your hip to hold your phone.”
“Great question, Mitchy. Thanks for your participation. The hand on the hip is important. It shows confidence, so that leaves you with two options. You can have a friend take it for you. Or you can start a timer, hold your phone in your mouth, and let the camera work its magic. That method also lets you record yourself getting a—”
“Sit your ass down, Richardson,” Coach Saunders barks out, and Ethan practically falls off the chair.
He scrambles to bring his skate to the floor and dives into the seat, resting his hands in his lap.
I don’t blame him for being petrified. At six feet, six inches with a perpetual grimace on his face, Brody Saunders is menacing as hell.
“If I find any trace of your DNA in a place where it’s not supposed to be, you will be very sorry you pissed me off. ”
“Right. Yup. Yes sir. Just, ya know. Goofing off. Boys being boys.” Ethan laughs, but it’s laced with nerves. “Go Stars.”
“Get that boys will be boys motto out of your head. That toxic locker room shit doesn’t exist with me.
Do I make myself clear?” Coach warns, and when Ethan squeaks in agreement, he turns back to address the locker room.
“We’re up against a solid team tonight. The Goldminers won last year’s Stanley Cup, and this will be a test to see where we stand offensively.
They win the majority of their face-offs.
Their rebounding and pressure at the crease are the best in the league. We have our work cut out for us.”
I should be paying attention, but my mind drifts to the woman I met last night.
Amelia Green.
Pretty sure I grinned the whole walk back to the hotel.
She’s even prettier in person with her long blonde hair and bright blue eyes. She’s taller than me, with legs that stretch for miles, and her smile is out of this world.
There’s also this presence about her. I was listening to her talk, but I wasn’t able to focus on what she was saying because I couldn’t believe I was lucky enough to exist in the same space as her.
And I get to see her again tonight.
She said she sticks to a no-fraternization policy. Am I allowed to look at her when I skate past Denver’s bench? Could that get her in trouble? Would she even acknowledge me?
“Everett,” Coach snaps, and I blink back to reality. “Care to join us?”
“Sorry.” I give him a sheepish smile. “I’m here.”
“You better be,” he says. “First line tonight is Sullivan, Miller, Hayes, Mitchell, Parker, and Bailey. We had a good rhythm the other night in Milwaukee, so let’s try to keep that momentum going. Any questions?”
Everyone shakes their heads and settles into game mode. Focused, amped up. We have fun in the locker room when we’re joking around and warming up with sewer ball. But when it’s showtime, we all remember why we’re here and what we’re getting paid to do.
The Stars have been one of the worst teams in the league the last five years. After coaching and roster changes, management is sure this is the group of guys that will turn a corner and get some wins for the franchise hanging on by a thread.
I go through my pregame ritual of a sports drink and a handful of Skittles, not sure why I’m so anxious. Two months of being a professional hockey player, and I haven’t so much as had a stomachache.
Tonight is different.
My hands are shaking. I can’t stop bouncing my knee, and there’s a heavy weight sitting on my chest.
“Hey.” Hudson puts a hand on my shoulder. “What’s going on?”
“I’m fine.” I try to pick up my helmet, but I drop it on the floor. “Nerves.”
“You’re a good player, Grant. Go out there and do what you do every night: work hard, have fun. Give all your effort, and you can be proud of yourself.”
“That’s true.” I nod, not very reassured. “I appreciate you.”
“I know it can be stressful. There is constant attention on us. Money is involved, and fans want to see us perform a certain way. When I get overwhelmed, I stop and remember I get to do this; I’m not forced to pick up a hockey stick.
What a gift to play the greatest sport on earth with some of your best friends, huh? ”
“You’re right.” My smile comes more naturally. “That’s a great point. Thanks for always making me feel better, Huddy Boy.”
“It’s go time, boys,” Maverick calls out, and we form a circle around him. “Teamwork on three. One, two, three!”
“Teamwork,” we yell.
We trudge out to the tunnel, and the lights from the arena come into focus. The noise of twenty thousand screaming fans loosens my shoulders. I relax with every step, and by the time I get on the ice, I’m grinning.
The Goldminers are at their end of the rink, and I sneak a glance at their bench. When I do, I spot Amelia standing with two men, nodding along while they’re deep in conversation.
I try my best not to stare, but she’s too damn beautiful.
Subtlety has never been my strong suit, and Amelia must notice my gawking because she lifts her head. She scans the ice before her gaze settles on me. When it does, her lips twitch with a smile.
I want to wave, but I keep both hands on my stick, offering her a nod in return.
Composed, mature, and not breaking any of her rules.
Go me.
“See someone cute in the stands?” Ethan asks.
“Hm?” I accept a pass from Riley and tap the puck twice with my blade. “Yup. Cute.”
“Which one is she?” He cranes his neck, searching the crowd. “That brunette three rows up? She’s hot.”
“Sure. That’s her.” I look back over my shoulder. Amelia isn’t paying attention to me anymore, but she noticed me for a second, and that feels important. “Let’s have fun out there, E.”
Two and a half hours later, after a grueling back and forth matchup that saw no goals until halfway through the third period when Maverick took over, we sneak out a win.
My teammates head for the locker room and dole out high fives. They talk about where they’re going to eat when we land in Dallas tomorrow, but I linger behind.
I watch Coach Saunders talk to Amelia near the home team’s bench. She uses her hands when she speaks, all animated and bold. He gives her his full attention, even laughing at something she says.
They end their conversation with a handshake. Coach moves toward the locker room, and I take the opportunity to skate back onto the ice. I pretend like I’m heading for Piper Mitchell, our media coordinator, but I make a hard left before I reach her so I’m in front of the Goldminers’ bench.
“Hey,” I say, and Amelia looks up from the gear she’s gathering.
“Grant Everett, right?” she asks, and I unbuckle my helmet with a grin.
She remembered my name.
“That’s me. Nice game tonight.”
“Did you come over here to gloat?”
“Nah. Just wanted to say hi and let you know I follow you on social media.”
“Sorry, but I’m not going to return the favor. Conflict of interest and all.” She tilts her head and stares at me. “You’re not afraid of someone finding out I’m on the short list of people you follow?”
“No.” Knowing she chose to look at my social media pages has me standing straighter and puffing out my chest. “I follow plenty of women athletes on social media. You’re not the first.”
“You’re confusing.” Amelia grabs a stick that was left behind, adding it to the pile she’s holding. “You’re nicer than I thought you’d be.”
“We really kicked your asses out there tonight. Your Stanley Cup reign won’t last more than a season.” It’s hard to fight off a smile. “Was that mean enough for you?”
“Better.” Her wrinkled nose and the twist of her lips tell me she’s trying not to smile too. She slips out of the gate and steps on the ice. “This isn’t an act, is it?”
“What? Being a decent human? No. I mean, some things really piss me off and I’ll turn into an asshole if the situation calls for it.
Like when I see someone leave their shopping cart in the middle of the parking lot at the grocery store.
I said something to a polo-wearing douchebag the other day when he just left the cart there.
He flipped me off.” I laugh. “But generally? Yeah. I’m an okay guy. ”
“Agreed on the cart thing.” Amelia hums and starts for the locker room. She waves to the Zamboni driver and I skate beside her, wondering if I should offer to carry something. “I’m still not following you back on social media.”
“I respect that decision. I’d never want to make you uncomfortable, and if you want me to stop following you, I will. I understand the need for boundaries.”
“You can keep following me. I like the idea of you watching my team’s success this season.” Her smirk is lethal. I swear it’s a shot straight to my heart. “We’ll see how you all fare when we play in February.”
“That’s three months away. Basically tomorrow.” The public address announcer reminds everyone to drive home safe, and I shrug. “Can’t wait until we meet again, Amelia.”
“Coach Green,” she says, and, yeah. I’m not too proud to admit my entire body flushes hot at the shift in her tone. “When we’re on the ice, it’s Coach Green.”
“Guess I’ll save Amelia for the next Italian restaurant I find you in,” I toss back, and I want to pump my fist when she almost trips. Point, me. “See you soon, Coach.”
She opens her mouth, but I don’t give her a chance to say anything else. I take off for the tunnel and whistle my way to the locker room.
Three months.
Six days.
Seventeen hours.
I’m counting down the seconds until our next meeting.
Amelia Green is under my skin now, and I’m in no hurry for her to leave.