71. Grant
SEVENTY-ONE
GRANT
“Have some Body Armor.” Jaxson Delaney, the defender from Philadelphia, sits next to me in the locker room before our game on Saturday. He tosses a bottle my way, and I nod my appreciation. “You look dead on your feet. Is this your first rodeo?”
“I did the Skills event a couple years ago, but this is a different beast.” I twist the bottle cap and chug the contents. “Add in the interviews, and I’m surprised we even have time for hockey.”
The exhaustion is my fault.
I stayed in Amelia’s bed until almost two o’clock this morning. When I finally dragged my ass back to my room, I only had the chance to shut my eyes for three hours before my alarm went off. The headache I’m fighting is cruel but worth it, and I’m anxious to see her out in the stands tonight.
“It’s a lot of ass kissing,” Tommy chimes in. “Guys are trying to figure out what team they might want to play for down the road, and we rarely get the chance to hang out with each other in an environment that’s not competitive.”
“You need to work on your word choice,” Jaxson says. “Don’t forget Emmy Hartwell is in the league.”
“Fuck. Good point. What word should I use?” Tommy asks.
“Players is inclusive,” I suggest, and he hums. “I doubt Emmy will be the only woman to ever play in the big leagues.”
“There’s a goalie in the AHL I really like.” Jaxson grabs his skates and drops them on the floor. “Her name is Parker Harrington, and when she makes it to the NHL, I want you to remember I mentioned her first.”
“We’ll make sure you get all the credit.” I yawn and finish off the sports drink. “Thanks for the boost, Delaney.”
“The more All-Star weekends you do, the easier they get.”
“I bet. I’m grateful for the opportunity to be here, but I’m also getting texts from some of my boys who are in the Bahamas right now while I’m about to bust my ass going 3-on-3 for two ten-minute halves,” I say. “Can’t I have both things?”
“No, but you do get a cool jersey.” Tommy holds up the dark blue sweater they gave the eleven of us from the Metropolitan division to wear. “That’s a fun souvenir you can’t find in the Bahamas.”
“A great argument.” I grab my pads and start to put on my gear. “Who are we playing first?”
“The guys from the Central division, which means we have to deal with Brady fucking Williams.” Jaxson rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe the league lets that prick keep playing.”
“Hang on. My boy back in DC hates him too, but he’s never said why. What’s wrong with him?” I ask.
“More like what’s right with him. He’s entitled and thinks the world revolves around him.
Because of that, he’s under the impression certain liberties—like women and endorsement deals—should be granted to him.
He talks a lot of trash, and he makes it a game to get under your skin.
” Tommy scowls. “If it were up to me, he’d be banned for life. ”
“What I’m hearing is I shouldn’t feel bad about intentionally boarding his ass during the game? Got it.” I smirk. “I love putting assholes in their place.”
We’re the second game in the round robin tournament, and when it’s our turn to take the ice, I get loose by shooting on an empty net. I scan the crowd while I stretch out my groin, happy when I find a familiar face in the front row. I finish my warm up then skate over to Amelia with a smile.
“Hey,” I yell.
“Everett,” she answers.
She looks damn good in her black leather jacket, black tank top and tight-fitting jeans. Her diamond earrings and leather boots bring the whole outfit together, and I use my jersey to wipe the sweat from my forehead.
“I didn’t know your guy Thorne was on my team tonight. I like him,” I say.
“He’s a good dude.” Amelia lifts her chin in the direction of my teammates. “Time to get to work. Good luck out there.”
“Right.” I give her a salute. “Thanks, Coach Green.”
I find my spot on the line between Jaxson and Tommy as a starter. I take off my helmet for the national anthem and lean against my stick, humming under my breath.
“Hey,” Jaxson whispers. “You know Amelia Green?”
“Emmy Hartwell played for DC when she first came into the league. She and I are friends, and Coach Green is her coach. Things overlap, you know?” I murmur.
“Lucky. My buddy plays for the Sea Crabs, and he talks about how good she is at her job,” he says. “Makes me wish she could replace our shitty coach in Philly.”
“Damn. Do all the coaches in the league suck?”
“Pretty much. You all are lucky in Baltimore and DC. Not everyone cares about their players the way Saunders and Green do.” Jaxson sighs. “That toxic locker room culture is out there, and it’s fucking exhausting.”
Across the ice, I notice Brady Williams from the St. Louis Tigers watching me. His gaze slides from over to Amelia, and I frown when he whispers to the player next to him. My eyes narrow when they both laugh, and I don’t like it when Williams steals another glance at my girl.
I might not be able to tell the world that she’s mine, but if anyone tried to hurt her, I’d kick their ass and not give a damn about the consequences.
These round robin games are supposed to be less intense than our regular season matchups, but the Central division team is playing dirty as hell. They’re not afraid to go for an extra shove when the refs aren’t paying attention, and I swear one of those dickbags tripped Tommy on purpose.
“Shit like this pisses me off.” I chug my sports drink and dry my neck with a towel during a timeout. “It’s not that serious, and if they want the prize money that badly, I’ll write them a fucking check myself.”
“It’s all Brady Williams. I don’t understand how he gets away with this behavior all the damn time.” Tommy winces when our athletic trainer dabs at his cheek to patch up a scrape after taking a stick to the face. “Makes me think there’s something happening behind the scenes.”
“Guys in the NBA have been caught throwing games for money. Maybe he’s doing shit like that too,” I say.
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Jaxson mumbles. “He’s fucking shady.”
The timeout ends, and I head back to the ice. I take my spot near the face-off circle, rolling my eyes when Brady Williams skates up to me.
“Everett,” he says. “Great to see you.”
“Wish I could say the feeling was mutual.”
“Saw you talking to Amelia Green.” He crouches low and waits for the puck to drop. “She’s hot as hell, isn’t she?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” I tighten my grip on my stick and grind my teeth. “I’m paying attention to the game, not how attractive someone might be.”
“Really?” Brady smirks. “You’re probably the only guy in the league not wondering what she looks like naked.”
“Not sure why you’re looking at coaches like that, Williams. She’d run circles around you on the ice.”
“Come on, Everett. You’ve seriously never had the fantasy I’ve had?”
“I haven’t had any fantasies,” I growl, waiting for the ref to get the game going. He’s talking to a linesperson, and my eye twitches. “Will you shut the fuck up?”
“Why do you think she’s working in the men’s league when she should be coaching girls? Because she’s a whore. She doesn’t care about hockey, only about getting our attention. I bet she’s fucked—”
My gloves are off before he can take another breath.
I lunge at him, wrapping my arms around Brady’s middle and toppling us both to the ice. His helmet comes off and I squeeze my thighs against his sides, locking him in place.
Pulling my fist back, I deck him square in the face. Blood spurts from his nose, and I aim for his mouth next, hoping to knock a couple of teeth loose.
“You’re a piece of shit,” I seethe, landing another punch. “You belong lower than the depths of hell.” Another hit. “A fucking disgrace to our sport.” One right in his eye socket that has him howling in pain. “What was that, Williams? Are you asking me to stop? I don’t fucking think so.”
I rarely get in fights, and it shows.
My aim is off. My knees keep slipping, but I don’t care. I deal him blow after blow until someone finally yanks me off him, separating us to the roar of the crowd.
“What the fuck, Everett?” Tommy asks, and I spit a mouthful of blood on the ice. “This is supposed to be a no-stakes, no chirping game.”
“All bets are off when a guy starts spewing venom about people I care about.” I wipe my face with the back of my hand. “I wouldn’t have stopped until I killed him, and even then, it wouldn’t have been enough.”
I’m not surprised when the ref assesses me a match penalty. I’m kicked out for the remainder of the game, but I don’t care. I take pride in the fact that Brady Williams is still keeled over, his chest heaving and his jersey stained with blood.
Fucking lowlife.
My teammates shake my hand on the way to the locker room. I give the fans a wave, but I can’t bring myself to look at Amelia.
I’ll break if I do.
I hang my head in the tunnel, knowing whatever punishment comes my way will be worth it.