Chapter 22 #2
As a temp mascot, I’m not trying to get involved in any weird hazing initiation. Having to compete in the challenge today
was enough. As much as I enjoy hanging out with Quinn, I’ve got to get back to Brody before he gets suspicious.
“I’ve got plans, but you guys have fun. You deserve it.”
As I maneuver through the packed hotel lobby—deking through press, fans, staff, and the occasional player—I hear my name.
I search through the crowd to find a very handsomely dressed Brody waving me down. He rushes over to me and gives me a big
public hug, the pressure of which against my sore muscles causes me to whimper like a maimed animal. An Epsom salt bath in
the hotel room Jacuzzi tub is just what I need.
“You got a lot of sun today. Your face is so red.” Brody cups my cheek with his cold hand. “It’s cute,” he adds lovingly.
I step back, not wanting him to smell the victory (mascot suit stink) on me. I didn’t get sun today; I got heatstroke. My
face is still flushed from almost dying in the name of Minnesota Freeze fan engagement. There’s a water bottle slick with
condensation in his free hand. Before he says another word, I snatch it from him, guzzling it like a cup of room-temperature
tap water resting on the nightstand the morning after a night out drinking.
“Sure, it’s all yours,” he says, watching me chug.
I drag the back of my hand across my mouth, panting as I toss the empty into a nearby recycling can.
“Great suit.” I motion up and down to the Minnesota-Freeze-team-green, impeccably cut, double-breasted two-piece he’s wearing. “Are you headed to the skills competition red carpet?”
I check the time on my phone. The mascot event ran late and we’ll have to settle for this rushed goodbye in the lobby. Someone
says a quick hello to Brody in passing, reminding him that everyone is meeting outside the front entrance for a team photo
before bussing to the rink. He politely lets them know he’ll be right out.
Turning back to me, he says, “Your ticket and VIP pass are on the desk in the room. I should go take this group shot with
the team before they come looking for me.”
He goes to leave, but I reach for him. “What move are you going with tonight for the shoot-out?”
He shrugs. “I haven’t really thought about it,” he says, waving to someone across the room.
“Bullshit.”
Brody does a sweeping glance of the room before shortening the distance between us with a step. “It’s called the Goal Horn,”
he says in a low voice.
Marty Horn’s a former legendary Freeze shoot-out specialist. His signature fake-out move was rightfully coined the Goal Horn
because it almost always resulted in one. It’s a nifty little move that’s as cheeky as it is agonizing for the goalie on the
receiving end. Brody is just the menace to dust it off and take it down from the shelf.
“Wow. Has that been attempted this century?” I ask. I’m as turned on as I am confident he’ll pull it off.
“Not successfully.”
“If you’re brave enough to try, be sure you pause long enough on the backhand to make it believable, but not so long that you lose the momentum of the fake-out.” Pretending there’s a stick in my hands, I show him what I mean.
He looks puzzled. “I was being a smart-ass. Anyone who even attempts the Goal Horn is guaranteed to embarrass themselves.
You don’t actually think I can do it, do you?”
I nod. “If you do, the fans will love you even more—if that’s possible.”
He steps back. “How do I look?” He straightens out his tie and adjusts the sleeves of his suit.
“Like an All-Star.” I take in the sight of him, knowing full well this weekend is going to send him into the stratosphere
of beloved Freeze players. A stratosphere full of hockey stars still celebrated today. A dream my dad played for but never
had a fair chance at reaching.
I look Brody over, at the last moment noticing the protruding phone in his front pocket. “Wait, give me your phone. I’ll hold
on to it while you take the photo. It’s messing up the look. It looks like you’ve got a square boner in your pocket.” I hold
out my hand, hastily wiggling my fingers, salivating at its deliverance.
“My dick is bigger than an iPhone,” he playfully scoffs as he digs deeper into his pocket.
When the phone hits my open palm, I want to let out a victory cry, but instead I tighten my grip.
“Thanks. I’ll be right back,” he says, giving my shoulder a squeeze.
As he disappears out the sliding doors with the rest of the Western Conference team, I slip into a quiet corner of the room.
Hidden behind a decorative faux plant, I drop into a squat and click his phone on. The home screen is a photo of him celebrating
a goal with his linemates, his smile lively and contagious even through a screen. Cocky bastard.
My thumbs hover over the numbers, knowing I have six attempts before being locked out.
I try the easy stuff first (0000, 1234, 6969, 0420) before moving on to something more personal.
It’s not his birth year and it’s not his draft year.
I’m locked out for a minute as I stare down the glass sliding doors, expecting him back at any moment.
I’ve got one more shot before I’m locked out for five minutes and will have a lot of explaining to do when Brody comes back looking for his phone.
When the time expires, I enter 9191 and hold my breath. The phone unlocks and I exhale deeply. His hockey number, really? His endearing naivety makes me laugh, until it doesn’t.
There are two types of people in this world: those who assume the best of everyone and those who take advantage of the ones
naive enough to believe the world is full of the first type. Staring at Brody’s home screen, I desperately wish to be the
same type of person as him. I like to think I would have been if she hadn’t died alongside my dad.
Text messages from his dad are at my fingertips, but I can’t force my thumb to click the icon. Of all the boundaries I’ve
crossed with Brody, this feels the most invasive. Before I get the chance to decide my next move, there’s an incoming text
from his dad flashing across the screen.
Dad:
You finally got your opportunity, don’t fuck up the Parker legacy. I’ve got a lot riding on this.
There it is.
Erik pretends to be Supportive Father of the Year for the cameras, but behind the scenes, he’s a bully. I wish I could say I’m surprised seeing his true nature for myself, but I always knew this was the real Erik Parker.
And I’m sure there’s more where that came from if I go looking through their conversation. All the proof I need to make sure
Erik’s legacy is tarnished is only a click away. I’m running out of time to take a screenshot, to capture the proof and share
it with the world. Do I take a photo of the evidence? Do I post it on social media? I never thought I’d get this far, and
now that I have, the final step feels like a dive so low I won’t be able to resurface.
Before every game, my dad would remind me to have fun. Hockey is the best medicine, he would say. Everyone thinks Erik is the type of overinvolved father who wants the best for Brody, but it sounds like he’s
the type who only wants the best for himself.
This dirty, messy father-son rivalry is exactly what I wanted to find. This text is the official confirmation that Erik Parker
is what I’ve always expected him to be—a dick—but I don’t feel much like celebrating.
The culmination of my scheme hits me all at once and the lies have blurred the line of who I am and who I’m pretending to
be. I’m far too exhausted to feel any relief. I’m punching strangers at the bar. I’m neglecting my business. Have I gone too
far this time? Or have I gone too far to stop?
I close the phone screen without capturing any of the evidence, but I can’t turn off the hurt I feel for Brody so easily.
My face is flushed, and my palms begin to prickle. Dizzy and disoriented, I rush into the lobby bathroom. Hunched over a toilet,
I empty my stomach. Unfortunately, there’s no gag reflex powerful enough to rid me of this guilt.