Chapter 8
Eight
Brody
When I told Olivia to meet me at the Demo Rage Room for our date, I didn’t realize it was in the middle of the biggest mall
in America. I think I’ve passed the same hat store six times already. Or have they all been different stores? I’m nervous
enough as it is; I don’t need to be late and ruin the date too.
I learned at the team party that Olivia has an impressive, potentially borderline neurotic competitive edge. If I want her
to take me seriously, I need to show her that I’m strong and capable too. Because her work schedule syncs up with mine, I
can’t invite her to one of my hockey games. This is the next best thing to watching me tear up the ice.
Finally, I get to the top level of the mall. Olivia is standing outside the entrance waiting for me. Before I have the chance
to wave to her, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I discreetly check the notification on my way over. To no surprise, it’s my
dad.
Dad:
Saw your postgame presser. Next time, speak more clearly and don’t look so happy—your team is on a five-game losing streak.
Brody:
My bad. Was just trying to keep morale high.
Dad:
Winning keeps morale high.
Brody:
Okay
Dad:
SNN says I can take off work and get out there whenever I want. Let me know when you’re free.
Brody:
Busy this month. Things with Olivia are getting serious, and I’ll be spending a lot of time with her.
I regret the lie as soon as I press Send, but ever since he found out I signed the lease on a condo, he’s been hounding me
to fly him out to visit.
Dad:
Parker greatness requires balance. You need to work on that.
Never mind balance. I need to put this phone away and deliver an unforgettable date if I want to keep my dad away.
The teenage girl behind the counter gasps when I step up to check in for our reservation. “Y-you’re Brody Parker,” she says, stuttering over her words. She isn’t moving; even her pupils are locked in on me.
“I get that a lot, but it’s Cole Slaw.” I press my hand to my chest and lean forward, trying to get a look at her screen.
“Should have a reservation for two p.m.”
Olivia kisses her teeth. I know the fake name is corny. It’s not because I think I’m so famous that I can’t go anywhere without
being hounded by hockey fans. I use it because my dad used to call places looking for me so he could keep tabs on my location.
“My family and I are Freeze season ticket holders,” the employee says, ignoring my fake-name ploy. “Is Erik Parker going to
come watch a game?”
Olivia takes a step closer to me and links her arm around my biceps. I take a breath. “Not anytime soon, but how about an
autograph?” I offer. Her sullen face rebounds into a smile. After signing some receipt paper, I lead Olivia inside.
After adorning white painting jumpsuits, we fasten clear safety goggles around our heads for extra protection. I reach for
a bat, ready to show off, but Olivia swoops in before I can grab it. She chocks up on her grip and releases a feral yell.
What happens next is cinematic. Like one of those viral catastrophic zoo videos where something spooks the animals into sheer
primal terror. It’s happening faster than I can comprehend, and yet it looks like she’s moving in slow motion.
I don’t know what that old fridge did to Olivia, but she’s showing it who’s boss.
She smashes and thrashes her way around the room like a tornado.
I stand back out of fear that I might become collateral if I get too close—I’m dressed as white as a lot of these old appliances, after all.
She doesn’t tire; she must have played softball growing up, or chopped a lot of wood.
I start clapping and cheering her on as she demolishes a case of old beer bottles.
Finally succumbing to fatigue—or boredom—she drops the bat and wipes the sweat off her forehead with the sleeve of her jumpsuit.
“Impressive stuff, Wreck-It Ralph,” I say, picking up the bat and swinging at some bottles. Glass smashes with a loud crack.
“I prefer Link, thank you very much.” Olivia selects a crowbar next, slicing it through the air a couple times before jabbing
the end through an old stove window.
“Really?” I push my glasses up on the top of my head.
Olivia’s arms drop, but she keeps a tight grip on the crowbar. “What? Because I’m a girl I can’t like video games?” She juts
her hip out.
“Not at all what I meant. But since you mentioned it, I know who you remind me of,” I say.
Olivia’s mouth hangs open. “Really?”
“Yeah. I knew you looked familiar and I just figured it out.”
“Um. I get that a lot,” she says, taking a half step back. “Usually, people are wrong. They think I look like someone, but
I don’t.” Her chest heaves as her breathing becomes labored.
“No, I’ve seen you before . . . Lara Croft,” I say with a cocky grin. I slide my glasses back into place before smashing another
bottle.
She rolls her eyes at me. “Down boy.” She smashes the table in front of us.
“Would Master Chief have been better?” I say between slugs.
She laughs—a real one—and it’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard.
“Maybe we could play Mortal Kombat or Mario Kart sometime. Or EA SPORTS NHL 26 if you’re brave enough.” I’m laying it on heavy, but mentioning I’m featured in a video game usually works for me—even if they have me rated ninety-three when I’m clearly at least a ninety-seven.
“Are you masochistic or something? Isn’t it bad enough your team is oh-and-five to start the season? You want to carry that
losing energy over to our dates too?” Olivia roundhouse kicks a computer monitor into the cement wall across the room. Who
knew a rage room could be so hot?
“Have you been watching our away games?”
She shrugs and heads over to the screen to finish it off with some overhead high-striker chops.
“We don’t suck that bad,” I say, flipping the bat around in my hand. Whatever rage and bravado I thought I had disappeared
as soon as I saw her. Now I’m just here to watch her kick ass.
“You don’t. For your size, you’re agile as hell on the offense. And somehow your backhand is as lethal as your forehand. How is
that even physically possible? And you can find the back of the net no matter the amount of traffic the other team’s D is
dishing out. I think you’ve got X-ray vision or something. If you didn’t care so much about always getting the nicest goal,
you’d have like five more of them this season. Just get the puck on net,” she rambles while tossing up bottles and smashing
them midair with the crowbar. I stand back, taking it all in.
Olivia throws her last bottle and turns back to me. “What?” she asks, hands anchored to her hips.
“That’s like the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.” My glasses fog.
Olivia uses her safety glasses as a headband. Her high cheekbones are sharper than the shards of broken glass littering the
floor. She takes a step toward me, crushing broken glass into the cement. “What if I told you your game isn’t the only thing
about you that’s hot.”
“I might kiss you.” I reach for her hip and pull her in the rest of the distance.
“I know a lot of people like to see you score because they’re big Minnesota Freeze fans, but I like it because I get to see
that smile on the big screen.” Her lips tease me with every word.
With our mouths inches away from each other, I can’t help but smile.
“Yeah. That one right there. When it gets real wide, I can see your perfect teeth,” she says.
I cut her off before she can say anything else, locking her bottom lip between mine. She hums a moan that reverberates into
my mouth. Her lips part and our tongues meet in a gentle embrace, one far more timid than the raw physicality that just wreaked
havoc on this room. Her lip gloss is a treat almost as delicious as her chest pressed against me and I can’t help but nibble
on her bottom lip. She drops her crowbar to the ground and runs her fingers through my hair. As our bodies press closer together,
our kissing becomes fervent. It’s like I’m gasping for air; I devour her. She meets my passion, letting me in deeper, and
the room is hotter than ever. I’m not normally this reckless in public, but I can’t pull away from her. My hands tickle down
the small of her back and grip her ass—even through the painter’s suit, her body is incredible. She’s an even better kisser
than she is demolisher. Without warning, she immediately jumps back from my embrace. While she catches her breath, I try to
figure out what I did wrong.
“Are you okay?” I reach for her hand, but she pulls her arm back. Was it too much? I shouldn’t have rushed it.
“I’m good. That was good. Should we get out of here?” With swollen lips, she rushes for the exit before I reply.
Olivia leads me through the maze of a shopping center. Past the amusement park, past the movie theater, past the aquarium, past the six hat stores again until we’re stopped outside a hair salon.
“I think your hair looks great today,” I say. Her long brown hair hangs to her waist and looks like a shiny layer of protection
from the harsh Midwestern winter.
“I know. I washed it this morning, but we’re not here for me.”
She brushes her hand down the back of my head, tangling her fingers in the curls at the nape of my neck.
“Then why are we here?” The growing pit in my stomach is getting hard to ignore. I should have stopped at one of those Cinnabons
along the way.
“There’s a long history between hair and hockey in Minnesota.” Olivia points across the mall to a group of teenage boys. Dressed
in their hockey team warm-ups, they all have matching poorly bleached blond mullets. “Beliefs wrapped up in superstition and
tradition. Even my peoples, the Anishinaabe, believe hair holds memory.”
“Your hair must have an excellent memory because it’s so beautiful.”
She must not have heard me because she doesn’t acknowledge my compliment. Most girls love when I say things like that to them.
“If you want to put an end to the team’s losing streak,” she explains, “you need to shed the negative energy and start fresh.”
“Cut my hair?” The whole mall seemingly stops and turns at my outburst.
“Shed the negative energy,” she says, invading my personal space. Her eyes are mesmerizing. My lips still sting from our kiss,
and I can taste her on my tongue. “I think you’d look amazing with a buzz cut.” She slicks my hair back, using both hands
to flatten down the top. Her eyes squint as she looks me over before nodding approvingly.
I glance across the mall where another group of teens walks by in matching hockey team hoodies.
This time they all have buzz cuts with stars shaved into the sides of their heads.
I’m trying to fit into the culture of Minnesota hockey and appease her, but there’s no way I’m shaving a giant snowflake above my ear.
I think about my signature flow. If I close my eyes, I can feel the breeze of the rink’s cold air flying through my wings
as I speed up the ice with the puck. My beautiful salad, long enough to spill out the bottom of my helmet yet short enough
to never tangle. Curls for the girls.
At the same time, I want to fit in with my team. I knew coming to Minnesota to carry on the Parker legacy would be a bigger
challenge than going to Tampa. Being oh-and-five isn’t the start to the season I was hoping for, and it sure as hell isn’t
what’s expected of me. I’d do anything for the legacy—that’s the Parker way. Hockey over everything always makes Dad proud.
I wince at the thought of steel scissors chopping at my beloved locks. I hesitate at the entrance, but Olivia slips her hand
in mine and gives me a reassuring smile. I know I can trust her. I let her lead me into the salon. Cutting my hair won’t sting
nearly as much as tarnishing the good Parker reputation with more losses.