Chapter 4 #2
They’re quiet, probably half asleep still, but they’re here and that has me feeling great about the season.
I watch them for a few minutes. As more upperclassmen join in, the rink gets noisier, and soon, they’re organizing themselves.
Our goalies take turns in the net, defending shots, and others work on stickhandling and skating drills.
Coach Grady is on vacation with his wife this week.
The boys are different when he isn’t here.
Not a good or bad different just . . . different.
More in the moment and less worrying about their every move being judged.
My phone pings in my jeans pocket and I remember my brother’s missed calls as I pull it out. Unsurprising, he’s resorted to texting.
Brother
Call me.
Short. To the point. Bossy. That’s my brother.
Victor answers on the first ring, like he was holding the phone waiting for me.
“Hey, finally,” he says. “Do you know where the title is for the X5?”
“It’s in the file cabinet in your office.”
I can hear him moving through his house, up the stairs and down the hallway to the second-floor office he rarely uses. The office chair creaks.
“Bottom drawer. There’s a folder labeled ‘Vehicles.’ It should be in there.”
“Found it,” he says. “Thanks.”
“Yeah, you’re welcome. How’s everything?”
“Fine.”
There’s an awkwardness between us now that hasn’t always existed. A year ago, we were close. We spent time together, and I knew what was going on in his life. Now it’s strained phone calls when he needs help locating something.
“Sorry I missed your call earlier. I lost my phone in my classroom and then had to hurry over to open the rink for open ice.”
“Your classroom, huh?”
I can hear the familiar click of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It’s a habit he’s had since we were kids, clicking his tongue when he’s nervous or annoyed. In this case I think it’s the latter.
“Yeah, it looks pretty good. Or, you know, as good as a high school classroom can look on a shoestring budget.”
“I guess that answers my question on whether or not you’ve changed your mind about coming back to Houston,” he says.
“We’ve been over this,” I say, doing my best not to let my own irritation bleed into my tone. “I signed a contract in the spring. You knew this.”
And because I really need him to hear me this time, I add, “I’m not coming back. Even if this job doesn’t work out.”
He’s quiet for a beat. Long enough that I worry he’s hung up on me. It wouldn’t be the first time.
“So that’s it? You’re quitting on me for good? What am I supposed to do?”
“Hire a real assistant,” I say, exasperation finally winning out. I step farther away from the ice.
“I don’t like people up in my business. Besides, you and I already have a system.” His words are tight and clipped as if gritting his teeth. “I’ll double your salary.”
“This isn’t about money, Victor.”
“Then what is it? Tell me what you want.”
I search for an explanation that might get through to him. I’m not sure why I bother since I’ve already tried a dozen different ways.
“This is something I need to do for myself. I can’t be your assistant forever. I want more than that. And I like teaching and coaching. The kids are great, and it feels good to be doing something that feels valuable.”
He clicks his tongue again.
“What happened to the last woman you hired, Anna?”
“She was hopeless.”
“You’re going to have to give someone else a chance. That or do your own laundry and shopping.”
He lets out a snort that somehow breaks the tension between us. Victor and I have our differences, but we grew up relying on each other when we had no one else. I don’t want that to change, but I need to do some things for myself too.
“My agent sent over some new applications. I have to find someone before the season starts.”
“Do you want me to take a look at their résumés?”
“Would you?” There’s a vulnerability to his voice that reminds me how much I did for him.
And how hard it’s been since I left. It was best for me, I maintain that, but it’s been an adjustment for him too.
I’ve been managing most aspects of his life since he joined the NHL.
It started as a part-time gig while I was in college, and somehow, I just never left.
“Yes, of course.”
“Thanks, Whit.”
I nod, even though he can’t see me. “How’s everything else?”
“Fine.”
“Dad?”
“You know . . . the usual. He’s been busy lately with the business though, so I haven’t heard from him much.”
“Yeah, well I still haven’t heard from him at all.”
“Can you blame him? You left with almost no warning, didn’t tell me or Dad what you were doing, and then announced that you’re moving into Mom’s house—who neither of us had heard from for years before she died, and then want to pretend like it isn’t weird as fuck for all of us.”
“And whose fault is it that we hadn’t talked to her?” I ask. Regret slices through me, the same way it did when I found out she’d passed and left me and Victor her entire estate, which admittedly wasn’t much, but it was all she had.
“I don’t want to fight with you; just . . . do what you need to do there and come back.” His voice softens. “I miss you.”
“I miss you too, jerk.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “How’s the team looking?”
I scan the ice. The boys are livelier now, talking more and starting to work on drills together. I spot Landon helping Pepper with his transitions.
“Good. We had camp last week, so they’re inspired.” At the mention of it, my mind immediately goes to Conrad. “We actually had some Moonshot players here for part of it.”
“Seriously?” Victor asks, and I can almost see his face. Dark brows lifted and pulled together, mouth forming a thin line.
“Yeah. August Penn and Conrad Shepard.” My stomach swoops and flips.
“Why didn’t you ask me?”
My eyes roll back at his surly tone. “I didn’t ask anyone. Grady said Moonshot reached out to him. I guess they try to hit different local schools and this summer they picked us.”
He grunts. “Were they pricks to you?”
“No, not at all.”
“Did they hit on you?”
My cheeks heat.
“What? No,” I deny quickly. “Of course not.”
A lie? Maybe. Although to be fair, even when he was asking me out it never really felt like Conrad was hitting on me.
“I hate those guys.”
“Yes, I know,” I say dryly. There’s a well-established rivalry between Houston and Moonshot for reasons I don’t totally understand, but it stems back to a coaching dispute in the nineties. “But Penn and Shep seemed okay.”
“Penn and Shep?” He scoffs.
Oops. I thought using their nicknames would feel less familiar, but I guess not.
“That’s what the boys called them. I’m down with the teenage lingo.” I play it off with a small laugh.
“That whole team sucks, but Conrad Shepard can fuck right off and die.”
I pause, certain I heard him wrong. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Conrad Shepard? I ask. “Quiet defenseman? He has to be the fastest skater I’ve ever met.”
And is extremely hot. I leave that out. Victor’s head might explode. The same way it might if he knew I was going out with Conrad tonight.
I always thought my brother’s issue with the Moonshot Hockey team was fueled by team loyalty and strengthened by the fact Moonshot is where our mom lived, but now I think it might be more than that.
“Shepard is the worst of them. He’s always running his mouth.” Victor’s words are so strong with conviction, but I truly cannot imagine Conrad “running his mouth.”
“Stay away from those guys.” Victor’s voice maintains its hard edge. “If you need a hockey player to come play nice with your team, then call me.”
“Oh, now you want to come visit me?” He’s come to see me once since I left Houston and that was only to beg me to go back with him.
“For you, yes,” he says, then adds, “But I’m not stepping foot in that house.”
I get to MVP five minutes early, but Conrad is already waiting for me. He stands off to the side just inside the doors. He looks up and a smile pulls at the corners of his mouth when he sees me.
He looks good. Gray dress pants and a white dress shirt.
His blond hair is a little shorter than the last time I saw him, but he is just as knock-the-wind-out-of-me hot.
I should have picked somewhere less casual and more first date appropriate.
It suddenly feels all wrong. Nerves jump around in my stomach as he steps forward.
“Hi.” The word is barely more than a whisper. He clears his throat and then tries again. “Hey, Whitney.”
“Hi,” I chirp too loudly. This guy throws me off balance. Everything about him. His looks, his quiet demeanor.
His gaze sweeps over me slowly, and his cheeks redden. “You look . . .” He clears his throat again and looks away. I wait for a few seconds, but he doesn’t continue.
Okay, I guess he’s not going to finish that statement. I choose to take it as a compliment but honestly, with this guy I just can’t tell.
He must have already talked with the host because a young man waits with menus in hand, watching our awkward encounter.
“Ready?” he asks like he’s eager to do anything Conrad asks of him.
I nod and follow the host. Goose bumps dot my arms as I pass by Conrad.
I can’t remember the last time I was this nervous on a first date.
I feel him step in behind me and we walk across the restaurant to a table in the back corner.
It’s a Tuesday evening, on one of the warmest days of the year, so I’m not surprised to see a lot of people are out enjoying the weather.
Across from us another couple is out to dinner.
They look much cozier than us. I’d guess fifth date, maybe more, but they’re still in the sweet phase where neither one of them is tempted to scroll their phone to kill time.
In fact, I don’t even see their phones on the table.
Impressive. Maybe it’s more like the third date, and it’s just going super well.
Conrad and I sit across from each other, and the host places the menus in front of us.
“Thank you,” Conrad says to him.
“Welcome.” The kid grins. “I’m a huge fan.”