Chapter 3
NICO
I’ve been playing hockey almost as long as I can remember.
Los Angeles isn’t exactly known for the sport, but it was popular in the private schools I attended, and since neither one of my parents was very involved in my life, I think they liked that they could drop me off at the rink for a few hours and not have to deal with me.
Joke’s on them because it worked.
By the time my father keeled over in his office, I was spending more time with my coaches than him, and my mother was busy with her new husband. At sixteen, I was living in Canada, playing in the junior league.
Hockey is quite literally my family. The friends I’ve made, the coaches who’ve taken me under their wings, they made me into who I am.
Which right now is not much—a third line winger with an axe over his neck—but that’s more than I would’ve had with my parents.
A soulless existence of money and partying, probably taking after my father in real estate or some investment job, financing a bullshit tech start-up.
Instead, I’m doing something I truly love. The only thing I’ve ever loved.
And I’m happy.
As happy as I can be.
When my alarm sounds, I roll over to turn it off, only to inhale a mouthful of fur.
Gus takes up more of the pillow than me.
I never had a pet growing up, but last year when I moved in to this place, Gus found me.
The fat gray cat was hanging out in the corner of the lobby on the day, and after I petted him for a minute, he followed me upstairs.
Just kinda moved in. I’m not sure how the cat distribution system works, but he decided to stay, and who am I to argue? He chose me.
When I need to travel, my neighbor Alma checks in on him, but other than that, my boy pretty much takes care of himself.
Lounging wherever he wants. Eating me out of house and home.
Half of my monthly budget goes toward food he likes, including hard-boiled eggs.
I eat them as a snack, but as soon as he hears them crack, he comes running. The only time he runs anywhere.
Now, I nudge him away and stand up to stretch before tossing on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt.
I have to be at the training facility in Jersey in a little over an hour.
A lot of the veterans live across the bridge with their wives and families, but I don’t have a need for a big house or anything permanent, so I found this small apartment building on a quiet street in West Philadelphia.
It’s close to some of the universities and right next to a café that makes banging breakfast sandwiches.
On off days, I’ll usually snag one or two, but since I’ve got to be on the ice this morning at 8:45, I don’t have the time.
After splashing some water on my face and brushing my teeth, I slip into sneakers, stuff my keys and wallet in my pocket, and I’m out the door.
Alma lives next door, and I knock my good morning on her door on my way downstairs.
The building has no elevator, so I jog down the three floors and hold the door open for the single mom and her son on their way out.
Even though I’m a pro hockey player, I mostly fly under the radar.
If I were to be recognized, it might be more from social media than from my playing.
Which, to Fitzgerald’s point, is a goddamn shame. So, okay, maybe I could cool it on the girls for a while. It’s not like I’m incapable.
I merely like the company. A few hours with a sweet little body—what could be better?
According to my agent, a long-term contract. And I suppose he’s right.
When I arrive at the training facility, I stop by the kitchen for a breakfast smoothie before suiting up and taking some well-deserved shit from the team for knocking out Josephine yesterday.
I’ve never felt worse. Seeing her on the floor, blood pooling below her, I wanted to throw up.
I’d noticed her before, knew she worked with the team, but yesterday was the first time I’d sat down and spent any real time with her. Terrible that it took a puck to her head for me to do it.
She looked awful, beat-up and exhausted, hair hanging down around her face, making her brown eyes appear even bigger than they were.
Not to mention how she abused her mouth.
She kept biting into her lower lip, the skin chapped and peeling.
I’m not sure if I specifically made her nervous or if she’s always like that, but it took her a while to relax.
Cloud of apprehension aside, she eventually smiled and laughed at my jokes, and the poor girl seemed like she could use a giggle or two. Even without the stitches.
Malcolm had barely pulled out of the parking lot yesterday when I called him to turn around and help me.
After tilting his head back to the ceiling to ask—I assume God—why he was tasked with a man-child like myself, he agreed to make sure Jo was comfortable in the hospital.
Plus, we needed to keep this little incident under wraps, lest I earn another strike, so I figured he’d be cool with helping me out.
“When I told you to stay out of DMs, I didn’t mean for you to start using pucks to get their attention,” Malcolm said to me before stalking away.
But my man’s come in handy the last twenty-four hours.
Because while I’m supposed to be a perfect, modest gentleman off the ice, I still wasn’t allowed to leave training early to check in on her.
We’ve got to draw the line somewhere, right?
Can’t fuck ’em, but can knock ’em out with a puck.
“Whoa, take it easy, sniper!” Bombay shouts, pretending to duck when I gently hit the puck toward the pile in the corner after our drills. When I aim my stick at him like it’s a machine gun, he drops to the ice, earning a round of chuckles.
Damien Estevez, better known as Bombay because of the Mighty Ducks reference to Gordon Bombay played by Emilio Estevez, is a fellow left winger, first line.
He’s one of the top scorers in the league and also the team prankster, as demonstrated when Davey reaches for one of the water bottles lined up by the staff, only to have the cap fall off, dumping a deluge of water all over his face.
“You fuckin’ son of a bitch,” he grumbles. “Can’t go one goddamn day without wasting all this water.” Davey’s a big environmentalist and spends his free time watching documentaries on the ocean. He’s also the oldest and grumpiest player on the team.
“It’s a joke,” Bombay laughs, smacking him on the back, which only earns him an eye roll. “Trying to lighten the mood after all the bloodshed lately.”
“So instead of notches on your bedpost, you putting them on your hockey stick now?” Cubby asks me after taking a swig from a newly refilled water bottle.
“Oh, you didn’t hear?” Sheffy interjects like an asshole. “Tremmie’s got a babysitter to make sure he stays away from pussy.”
They all guffaw, and Sheffy pounds my back as I shake my head at him. “You’re no longer my best friend.”
He pouts exaggeratedly. “Whatever will I do?”
“I fucking hate you,” I laugh, as Coach Elliot shouts that we have one more minute of rest before we start power plays.
Bombay taps his stick on the ice three times—one of his tics—and asks, “What’s the story there?”
“The front office wants me on my best behavior.”
My teammates all raise their brows. Sure, Philly’s known for trying to change hockey, but even this is going a little far.
Cubby snorts. “One too many stalkers?”
I wave my gloved hand. “Apparently.”
“Maybe we should get you one of those chastity cages for your cock,” Bombay suggests, and I wrench my head back because what the fuck kind of idea is that?
“You know a lot about cock cages?”
He elbows me. “Unlike you, I know how to keep my hookups on the down-low.”
Cubby frowns at me. “No more going out?”
He’s been my partner in crime this whole time, always up for a drink or two. But I guess that’s all done, and I shake my head. “Sorry, bud. You gotta pick up chicks on your own now.”
He grins widely, displaying his missing incisor next to a half-missing front tooth. “More for me.”
He often invents wild stories about how he lost those teeth as a way of entertaining women, and it works. About fifty percent of the time. The ones who want to hear about him rescuing a puppy from a fire seem to really dig it. The others usually end up in my bed.
Ended up in my bed.
“Let’s go!” Coach calls us back onto the ice as one of the assistant coaches blows a whistle, and Sheffy takes off to return to his place, one of the alternate captains for a reason.
It’s Davey who sticks next to me as we skate, and I barely hear him through his helmet when he says, “It’s always the girls you least expect who change everything.”
I can’t answer him because he takes his place in goal, but I don’t know what I’d say anyway.
It is a special kind of person to want to have small projectiles shot at them at ninety miles an hour, and goalies often tend to be a little…
odd. They either talk a lot or not at all, have strange rituals, and are often isolated by the nature of their position. Davey is no different.
He married an Aussie, a woman he met while diving with sharks off the coast down there.
She’s a marine biologist, and I can only guess he’s making some point about how he and his wife don’t appear to have anything in common on the surface, but underneath they do.
At least, I think that’s the point he was trying to make.
Yet I’m not sure why—what that piece of advice would do for me.
I’ve been put in a time-out, not forced into a lifetime of celibacy.
Not that it matters, because Coach explains the next setup, and I’ve got to get my head back on the game instead of the sad-looking girl in the hospital bed.
After practice, we have lunch then a short workout session and, later, head to meetings and film.
Our preseason games start in a few days, and even though they’re only exhibition, it’s a time for the coaching staff to finalize the roster, and since I’ve already been put on notice, I need to show up and be present.
Prove to them my skills on the ice are more important than my reputation off it.
Before, my goal was to solidify my spot on the second line, though now I’ll be lucky if I’m even still on the team in a few weeks.
Unless I can show them I’m an integral part of a winning team. Because, at the end of the day, everyone wants to win.
Instead of hanging around to eat with whoever’s staying for the dinner provided by the team chef, I grab a couple of to-go boxes and bump a few fists on the way out, so I can go to the hospital.
There, I toss a few waves to the medical staff who are so kindly taking care of my pal, then make a left down a short corridor toward Josephine’s room, but the sounds of multiple people already there stop me in my tracks.
Josephine and I didn’t talk about family or friends yesterday, but clearly, she has some visitors.
I briefly reconsider what I’m doing here before I recall the way she timidly bit into her lip and lifted her hand to me after I promised to come back.
The barest hint of a smile when she said, “Thanks, Nico.”
Her voice has a breathy quality, like she doesn’t use it much, and with the way she said my name, it was as if it’d be a miracle for me to come back and see her. As if she’s not used to people seeing her. It twisted something in my gut. Activated some innate protectiveness.
I don’t know much about her, but what I do know, I like, and she deserves to be noticed, acknowledged. I may not have before, much to my shame, but I’ll make it up to her.
I push open the door and step inside. There are so many visitors crammed in here, I can’t even spot Josephine.
So many voices, I can’t quite make anything out.
I scan the room and clear my throat, garnering the attention of a young woman next to me, as well as a gray-haired woman. “Hi. I’m here to see Jo—”
Someone grabs my arm. “Oh! This must be the fiancé!”
I freeze.
Because what?