Chapter 5
Five
Brody
I try dipping out of practice before the team’s social media admin finds me, but I’m not quick enough and she intercepts me
before I reach the locker room. Doing cheesy social content is practically in the job description nowadays. As long as I keep
getting roped into the team’s content, my dad will have something to say about it; back in his day, players weren’t doing
free advertisement. Every time he sees me in a video, he reminds me that he had a major equipment deal—billboards and everything.
My linemate Ethan Cook—or Chef as he’s known in an ice rink—stops me in the hall. “I know you don’t like doing this social
media stuff, but just because you’re a Parker superstar doesn’t mean you’re getting out of it.”
“It’s alright. I get it. Sex sells.”
Chef barks out a laugh. “Yeah, that’s why I’m here.” He gives me a playful shove to the chest. “You’re here because they’re
getting their money’s worth out of you.”
He and I have easily picked up our friendship where we last left off.
Our paths have continuously crossed throughout our hockey careers since playing opposite each other in the Ontario Hockey League as teens.
We’ve also played with each other in a few international tournaments—World Juniors and the Olympics—representing team USA.
Chef slips off his helmet and shakes his long hair free. He’s a surfer boy too, just grew up riding waves on the opposite
coast. His blue eyes pop against his impressive off-season tan. If it wasn’t for Jordy’s sick dreads, Chef would have the
best flow on the team, a sun-kissed shoulder-length mop that all the local kids try to re-create with bleach and a prayer.
“How do I look? Am I camera-ready?” he asks. “I’ve been stealing your Korean face cream and I’ve already noticed a difference
in my skin. Must be the peppermint in it.”
I stare at him blankly for a few beats. “That’s my organic toothpaste, but I do think it’s working.”
Chef’s got a penthouse downtown with a couple extra rooms and an impressive home entertainment setup. He invited me over after
practice one day to watch Love Is Blind and I haven’t left since. I enjoy his company, but selfishly I’m also prolonging getting a place of my own while my dad still
hounds me for a visit.
Andy comes barreling down the hall. “Let’s get this over with,” he says as he blows past us. We know better than to make our
captain wait.
When Chef gets a glimpse of the team’s mascot, he nearly jumps out of his skates—here he goes again with his irrational fear
of mascots. I swear every team has one player like this. While Chef darts out of the way, Andy and I awkwardly pass by. Usually,
the team’s mascot tries to mess with you or at least give you a high five, but this guy’s as unamused with the media request
as we are.
The team’s social media admin directs us to our designated spots on the bench.
Once we’re seated, Chilly slips on the bench beside me.
The video concept, we’re told, is the team’s major sponsor welcoming a new player to the starting lineup.
After the nameless player is announced, the camera pans to Chilly, who attempts to take a shift.
Instead, I step up and join my new linemates out on the ice.
While the admin finds the best angle to film, Andy sticks his head out. “You stoked for tomorrow, Bro-meo?” he asks.
The boys stopped calling me Parker and have settled on a new nickname—Bro-meo. A book accidentally fell out of my jacket pocket
at practice and they haven’t let me forget. You would have thought I dropped a giant bag of illegal drugs in the middle of
the locker room with the way they gawked at me in total shock. Romeo must be the closest thing to a book reference these guys
have in their repertoire. Safe to say, I won’t be starting a Minnesota Freeze book club this season.
“Hell yeah,” I say with forced bravado. “I’m sick of playing against AHL plugs in preseason tryout games. I’m ready for the
real thing.” It’s a cocky response—something my dad would say—but I can’t let him know I haven’t given our first game of the
season much thought.
Even today, I tried to distract myself with practice, but with every stride I remembered that I told the boys I’m bringing
a date, and with every shot I thought about my dad showing up as my plus-one.
“Easy champ,” Andy says. “Save that intensity for the game. I meant the after-party.”
“You guys really take this party seriously,” I say.
Chef and Andy side-eye each other before giggling like children.
Chef composes himself enough to say, “It sets the tone for the whole season.” He lowers his voice and adds, “Did you secure your date yet? Some of the guys are still holding out hope that your dad’s coming.
Hammer keeps his hockey card in his wallet just in case he can get it signed. ”
I force a laugh. “Sorry to disappoint Hammer, but I’m bringing a date.” Chilly inches closer to me, so I scoot down the bench
a bit.
“Bro-meo, living up to the nickname. Nice,” Chef says, giving me a fist bump.
“What’s her name? Is she local?” Andy asks. “You need to make sure she isn’t friends with the goalies.”
Something bumps into my skates. Chilly’s feet are practically touching my blades, so I angle away. “I’ll tell you when I meet
her,” I say.
“Time’s running out.” Andy gives me a stern captain’s look of warning.
“Good thing I don’t need much time on the clock to score.” They laugh, but I can’t even get myself to fake one after that
gross comment.
I hear my dad’s voice in my head. Don’t be soft. Don’t be weak. Parkers don’t chase. Even though we’re miles apart, I can never shake the feeling that he’s always watching me, hovering over my shoulder, making
sure I don’t trip up, making sure I’m Parker-perfect.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see green-and-gold fur, inches from my face. “Should he be this close to me?” I shout to the
admin.
“A little to the right, Chilly.” She motions with her thumb and Chilly backs off. “Perfect. Now, everyone, look at me!” We
all hold our positions. “Three, two, one,” she counts us down with her phone in hand.
Chef and I drove separately to the rink today because I’ve got a few errands to run after practice—including touring a couple places to rent.
Some of the boys are trying to convince me to get a place out in the suburbs where most of the team resides.
I’m not so sure I’m ready to settle down in a quiet neighborhood like all the married guys.
I like living in downtown St. Paul. It’s a quick commute to the rink with lots of good food nearby, including my favorite Korean café, a city staple that serves the best carbo-loading pasta, and a burger spot open late.
I’m rolling out of the underground parking and typing the first apartment’s address into my phone’s GPS when out of nowhere
there’s a loud bang. A blur of dark clothes and hair collides with my car. It comes tumbling up the hood, crashing into the
windshield and bouncing off like a slap shot rebounding off the boards.
“What was that?” The car jerks as I slam on the brakes. I shift the car to Park and jump out. “I’m so sorry, I thought it
was clear. Are you okay?” Panic grips my breath as I rush to the front bumper.
My victim groans loudly, rolling on the pavement in the fetal position. I’m so getting sued for this. She flops onto her back like a fish on land. A forceful exhale blows the disheveled hair off her face, and suddenly I’m looking
down at the girl from the stick rack.
“It’s you again,” I think out loud. I couldn’t forget that face if I tried—and I did try. All week I’ve been beating myself
up over my uncharacteristically bad first impression. I should have introduced myself last time, because this is an even worse
impression than the first one.
“It wasn’t supposed to hurt that bad. Am I dead? Is this hell?” She continues to roll around in agony with both hands gripped
to her hip.
“This is the Midwest, so I mean, depending on who you ask . . .” I chuckle at my own joke.
Remembering the loud thud her body made rolling up the hood of my car, I briefly glance over to assess the damage.
No dents, no cracks, but her makeup is smudged across the hood, an extreme contrast against the pearly-white paint. Nothing a car wash can’t fix.
She stops flopping and sits up. “Are you going to help me up, or what?” She reaches for me.
I scramble to get to her. With our hands interlocked, I pull her up to my level. Nearly face-to-face, I get a closer look
at her. She must be in a lot of pain because she’s practically shaking as she stands before me, biting her lip in a way that
looks agonizing. I wipe the bit of smudged lipstick from her chin, and she gulps. There’s a light sheen of sweat coating her
face—she’s practically glowing. She must be feeling the same physical attraction I am. I have great instincts—I’m never wrong
about this stuff.
“Can I give you a ride somewhere? Maybe to the nearest hospital?” I ask.
“Home is fine.” She takes a step, shifting her full weight to the side of her body I hit with my car, and winces in pain.
The collision must have really thrown off her equilibrium because her legs wobble for a few steps before she collapses onto
my shoulder for balance. I swing her arm around my neck, and she leans into me like a book to an end. She smells like the
beaches back home and I discreetly turn my head into her hair for a closer salty tropical whiff.
I help her hobble over to the passenger-side door where I attempt to lift her up into my arms. Her rigid body protests and
for a few beats we both struggle against each other. “You’re hurt. Let me help you.” I grunt, bearing her weight in my arms.
With a painful groan, she willingly folds into my embrace, and I lift her into the seat.
“Nice car. Is this a Toyota?” she says, fastening her belt.
“This is a Maserati.” I cringe. There’s really no way to say that without sounding like a dick. I adjust my rearview mirror,