Chapter 14 A Little Bit Secret
A LITTLE BIT SECRET
CORBIN
I don’t believe in Lady Luck. But I figure, like Mother Nature, it’s good policy to respect the principle.
So tonight I do what any self-respecting athlete with more than a decade of experience would do: stack the house with people who support the home team.
The Foxes need every advantage, even where chance is concerned.
On my way to the locker room to change, I detour to the arena’s lobby gift shop.
It gleams with polished glass windows and clear shelves stacked with stuffed foxes, and more foxes, and even more foxes.
And, of course, every variety of sweatshirt, hoodie, and jersey that fans could want.
I hate shopping for anything but food or gifts for my kid.
But clothes shopping is a special brand of torture. I loathe it to the depths of my soul.
I stare at the endless sea of options, and my chest tightens.
When I had this idea after leaving the weight room, it seemed…right. Fun. Playful. Something Mabel would enjoy. But I’m lost in this place.
I don’t know what the hell to do in a store. I never went shopping with Eliza. She never asked me to. If I bought her gifts, it was usually wine or a watch she wanted. Nothing as complicated as…clothes.
I break for the open doors leading toward the place I belong—on the player’s side of the arena.
On the way, I linger at a display, so it doesn’t feel like I’m making my escape.
A woman with light brown skin and a bouncy, dark brown ponytail intercepts me.
Her name tag says Jacinta. “Can I help you with anything, Mr. Knight?”
Right. Of course, I’m not incognito here. Not with my thirty-foot image on a banner overhead.
I draw a breath. “I need something for…a friend.”
Her eyes sparkle. “Got it. And what does this friend like?”
I think of Mabel and her penchant for cute athletic clothes. “Um, tennis dresses? Pickleball outfits?” The words feel terribly awkward.
She gives me a so sorry frown. “We don’t have any. But those are good ideas.”
I picture what Mabel’s worn at other times when I’ve seen her, but the way that short dress hugged her curves and boosted her breasts is the only image in my head right now. I blow out a breath and look around at the T-shirts, pullovers, sweatshirts, hoodies, and jerseys.
Everyone likes sweatshirts, right? “It’s for a friend who likes lilac. Can you tell me if any of these sweatshirts are lilac?”
“Of course!” She guides me to a shelf of feminine-looking sweatshirts and hoodies. “We just launched a new line of jerseys geared toward fans who like softer colors.”
Jerseys.
Holy shit.
Like mine?
I had no idea.
But when Jacinta hands me a jersey with my number—15—on it and my name, it feels a lot like luck.
“So this is lilac?” I confirm.
“It is,” she says.
I hold it up, unsure if this will work for Mabel.
If she’ll like it. I hate asking for help.
I prefer giving it, but I can’t finagle my way out of this with swagger or a slapshot.
“Can you give me your honest opinion? Would it look good on a woman with…” I don’t know how to describe Mabel’s hair either. Shopping is hell.
“Do you want to know if it’s an attractive cut and style?” Jacinta asks helpfully.
I guess this isn’t her first retail rodeo. “Yes,” I say, relieved.
“It’s super cute,” she says, “but there’s another one I like better. It’s kind of a V-cut.”
I perk up as she guides me back to another shelf in the same section and shows me my jersey in a V-neck style.
“I don’t know your…friend, of course, but I’d like this.”
“Thank you, Jacinta,” I say, grateful and then some.
I buy it, then ask her to hold it for a woman named Mabel. “I’ll text her and tell her to come here before the game starts?”
“Of course,” she assures me.
“Perfect.”
A smile teases at Jacinta’s lips as I say that. “Mabel,” she says quietly as she writes it on a Post-it note, like she’s been entrusted with a secret. She sets it on top of the jersey and pats it when she looks up. “It’s safe and sound.”
And a little bit secret.
Especially considering I kind of can’t wait for Mabel’s reaction. Even though I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t be buying clothes for my business partner. But I probably shouldn’t be thinking about all the dirty things I want to do to her either.
I thank Jacinta, then leave, texting Mabel as I return to the personnel area.
Corbin: There’s something waiting for you at the gift shop. You should go before the game.
It’s not over till it’s over, but we’re up by three when we return to the ice before the third period. None of those points are courtesy of me, but who cares? They belong to the Foxes, and that’s all that matters.
Actually, that’s a lie. I’d really like at least one to be mine.
I’m centering the line for the face-off.
The ref drops the puck, and I tie up their center’s stick, kicking the puck back to Ivan.
He snags it, then passes it back to me two seconds later.
The ice opens up ahead, and I hit the blue line with the same—no, more speed—than I used when I raced myself on the bike earlier.
It’s just the goalie and me now. He’s sliding out ahead of the posts, playing the angles.
So am I. I fake the shot high, and he bites, going for it, then I hit it low and precise. The puck screams right past him.
The lamp lights.
I thrust my stick in the air, and the tension I’ve been carrying for weeks starts to unknot. Riggs and Lake crash into me along the boards as the crowd goes wild. It’s louder than a concert in here. The cheers reverberate in my bones.
This is what I love—when it comes together. For the team, the fans, and me.
Through the noise, I scan for Mabel, and there she is with a friend in the seats at center ice, jumping up and down and wearing my jersey.
She’s not working on her tablet. She’s just looking good in lilac and being my good luck charm.
The Foxes close it out with a 5-2 W that feels really fucking good.
So do the texts she sends—or accidentally sends, since they arrive in multiples. In the locker room, I look away from my teammates as I read the exchange while stripping off my jersey. Don’t want anyone to see my face.
Mabel: You didn’t have to.
Mabel: You seriously didn’t have to.
Mabel: Even though this jersey does make me look kind of sexy, doesn’t it?
Mabel: Maybe I should ask Alexa? Alexa, does this lilac low-cut jersey make me look sexy?
Alexa: I can’t see it, but sexy is in the eye of the beholder.
Mabel: Alexa, even you can’t get me down.
Alexa: Get down often refers to—
Mabel: Alexa, stop. You didn’t have to, Corbin. But also, you should know I look really good in lilac :)
Corbin: I know, Mabel. I absolutely know.
I don’t turn around and look back at my teammates for a good, long time. Once I’m showered and changed, I slide into dad mode. Time to shut the door on this inappropriate flirtation and focus on Charlotte.
I head to the kids’ lounge to pick her up.
It’s after nine, but I should be able to get her home by ten.
A bunch of the guys got together and arranged for a sitter during home games, following the example of Rowan Bishop, who set up a family suite over at the Sea Dogs, our cross-town rivals.
It’s a huge help to the dads on the team.
When I push open the door, Charlotte pops up, grabbing her backpack and trotting over to me. “Good job tonight, Dad. That broke your three-game point-less streak.”
“Thanks,” I say, though I frown at the reminder.
“It’s a good thing,” she assures me, then pats her backpack. “I finished my homework super early, so I did some analysis on your stats. Want to go over them?”
I stretch my neck from side to side. Tonight, I need to spend a little time with an ice pack rather than a spreadsheet. “How about tomorrow?”
“Fair enough.” She shifts gears as we head into the hall. “Theo stopped by during the second period. He offered to help me with math, so I gave him an extra problem to do, even though it wasn’t on my homework.”
“That was…tricky of you,” I say, impressed with her brain.
“Thanks. It amused me.”
“Glad something does.”
“A dog would amuse me more,” she says, lifting her eyes hopefully.
I wish I could say yes, but there’s no way. “Charlotte, we hardly have time.”
“I could come up with a schedule for the dog and for us. We could make it work. I know I could figure it out.”
“If anyone could, it’s you. But you’re only at my house half the time. Plus, my schedule is complicated. I’m gone a lot.”
She sighs. “I know. I wish there were an algebra equation for adopting a dog.”
“Me too, kid. Me too.” I squeeze her shoulder, then grab her backpack from her and sling it over my shoulder. Least I can do is carry it. “Did you let Theo think he was helpful? With the math?”
She shakes her head. “No. It’s not my job to make a man feel useful.”
I toss my head back and laugh, then I pick her up and give her a big hug. “That’s my girl.”
She smiles impishly, clearly pleased with herself. “I told him when he solved it that he did a good job, but that I’d already finished my math.”
“Keeping him on his toes,” I say. I set her down as we pass the media room, where the last of the press are filtering out.
“And then he was so excited when he saw his sister on TV. He kept saying, ‘Brilliant marketing,’ and ‘Next time, put her in an Afternoon Delight jersey.’”
A kernel of guilt crawls up me. “He said that?”
“I heard my name.” Theo catches up to us and claps me on the back. He must have been in the media room. “Brilliant marketing tonight, man. Like I was telling my goddaughter,” he says, ruffling Charlotte’s hair.
“So I heard.”
“Mabel in your jersey was perfect. The cameras loved it. The bakery is going to blow up when you open. You two are marketing geniuses.”
“My dad is very smart,” Charlotte says, patting my elbow with pride.
I hardly feel smart right now, with the post-game high curdling in my stomach. My brain repeats marketing genius and business partnership. If only I had been that calculating when I bought Mabel the jersey.
But that’s what our partnership needs to be.
I pivot, asking Theo, “How are things looking with the search for a GM?”
I expect a smirk from my friend. Something full of his normal cocksure attitude—an attitude that benefits him as he wheels and deals for players.
Instead, there’s something like vulnerability in his eyes as I mention the very real possibility that he could move from acting GM to official GM with the job hunt. “I think I have a real good shot at the opening,” he says, holding up crossed fingers. “Let’s catch up over dinner soon?”
“Sounds like a plan,” I say.
He points to Charlotte. “You in, math genius and future best vet in America?”
“I’ll be there,” she says.
Theo’s already my closest friend.
He looks out for my daughter.
He’s also the man who’s playing a key role in running the team. If he nabs the opening for good, he’ll officially be…my boss.
I don’t want to lie to my boss any more than I want to lie to my friend.
Later that night, after Charlotte’s tucked into bed, I wander into the kitchen, yank open the fridge, and stare at the options for a late-night sandwich. But I barely notice the ingredients. I’m wishing I could ask my mom for her advice.
How do I balance this…what even is it that I feel for Mabel? Lust, sure. But sometimes it feels like longing.
I grab some slices of fresh chicken, an avocado, and a block of Gouda delivered from the gourmet cheese shop in the heart of downtown Cozy Valley. But before I snag the loaf of bread on the counter, I reach for my phone.
I click on my email, then search for Penny.
My mom’s name pops up right away. She lived with me the last few years of her life.
Well, here on my property, in a cottage across the yard that she shared with my stepdad, who took care of her most of the time.
I helped as much as I could when I was home—cooking for her, even though she’d lost her appetite, doing balance exercises with her, even though that was hard.
And, maybe most importantly, just hanging out and watching sports and TV shows together.
But while she was often close to me, she still sent me emails every day when I was on the road.
I click on a random one.
Today I walked to the cheese shop with Ray.
Well, okay, I didn’t walk there. We drove there, but then I walked several blocks downtown to pick up the cheese.
I’ll make a grilled cheese sandwich for Charlotte when Sarah drops her off.
She loves it with the fake bacon. I think I even like fake bacon now!
My hands were shaking as I carried the cheddar, but I think I did okay otherwise.
I walked back to the car at the edge of downtown with Ray by my side.
Doesn’t sound like much, but I did it. No falls, yay!
Didn’t have to call the fire department, so it was a good day.
The doctors say the more you exercise, the more you can perform daily activities.
So I’ll keep walking as long as I can. I watched your game last night. Nice goal, kiddo!
Love,
Mom
My throat tightens horribly, thinking of all the daily activities that felt like mountains to her at the end. Walking to the kitchen. Mixing flour and butter. Opening the oven.
Eating, even.
Mountains that meant there were no more good days.
I close the email and remind myself to focus on my goals for good days—the game I play, my kid, the team.
I look at my hands—steady, sure, confident. I’m not worried about Parkinson’s for me. That’s not my concern. But I have to remember this is a gift—the things I can do. The way I can play. The fact that I can score goals in the NHL.
I can’t take that for granted just because I long for my best friend’s sister.