Chapter Twelve #2
But her touch isn’t the welcome one I want.
So, I move my arm away and reach over to brush Oreo’s fur despite the bastard’s protests. “I will be right back. Take care of my cat for me.”
Kayleigh perks up. “That cutie is yours? She is—” She jerks back when Oreo swats at her with her murder mittens. Guess I’m not the only one she doesn’t like. “—adorable.”
Her voice is strained and forced when she finishes off the very fake compliment. We both know that’s not what she’s thinking.
But I say, “I know,” anyway.
All while staring at Winter.
*
Dodging women’s advances isn’t necessarily something I’m used to, so I deserve a gold medal for the work I do to avoid the director’s more than friendly touches throughout the day.
I don’t like it. Just like I don’t like the dark colors on her nails that aren’t bright or fun or meaningful like they are on Winter’s.
She probably painted them for fun. Winter painted them for a purpose.
It’s easier to avoid Kayleigh when the photographer, who happens to be none other than my head coach’s wife, shows up full of repetitive apologies and her service dog trailing beside her. “So sorry, everyone. I’m a last-minute fill-in for today because the original photographer had to pull out.”
Honor, with the golden retriever standing next to her with his service vest on, sticks out her hand to me.
“Hi, Moskins. I hope you don’t mind that I stepped in.
When I heard today might not go as planned, I offered my services.
Don’t worry. I won’t make you pose or force you to smile because I don’t want your scowl to break my camera. ”
I huff out a laugh at her sarcasm. I’ve only been around the redhead a few times, and it’s easier to see she’s become more comfortable in social settings.
She used to be more reserved. Civil, like she didn’t want to say the wrong thing.
I like that she isn’t holding back. She’ll need that, being surrounded by a bunch of brutes like us.
“That’s good,” I muse. Because the cold shoulder I’ve been getting from Winter since Kayleigh pulled me away hasn’t particularly put me in a smiley mood.
Part of me likes that she’s jealous enough to react.
The other is pissed off that she won’t even look at me.
If she did, she’d realize I’m not returning the advances.
“They better be paying you good money to do this,” I say, making small talk with Honor. “Bodhi mentioned how busy your studio has been lately.”
Honor beams as she sets up her camera, testing it by snapping a few pictures around the room.
“I don’t mind doing side gigs like this because it keeps my connections fresh.
If someone I know hears about certain events happening, they’ll refer me as the photographer.
So if it means moving around my schedule a little, then it works out in the end. A paycheck is a paycheck.”
Bodhi Hoffman talked more about his wife’s success when I met with him to speak to Mikhail a few weeks ago than he did about his own.
It doesn’t matter that he’s heading his own NHL team and getting mad money for it.
The only thing he really cares about is Honor’s booming studio photography business.
I get it, though. My old team didn’t know much about my personal life, but they sure as hell knew that my wife put herself through medical school.
She didn’t expect me to contribute, even when I got my contract with the Penguins.
I saw the grueling hours it took for her to get where she is now, and I didn’t let people take away the credit where it was due.
I may have helped her study a little, but her success is hers and hers alone. That’s exactly how Bodhi is with Honor.
Winter is silent more than she isn’t after Honor starts, only speaking to our famed photographer when she needs to. It’s easy to see that she’s mad at me, and the reaction is comical at best.
It tells me exactly what I want to know. That she’s impacted by me as much as I am by her. I want to say, it’s not fun, is it? I want to make a comment that will make her blush. Maybe one that will make her glare and flip me off.
Instead, I behave like the good little boy I am, no matter how much I want to mess with the glowering blonde watching from the sidelines in frumpy clothes that do little for her figure.
Is she trying to seem unappealing? Because not even the oversized shirt tucked into the worn pair of pants can make me uninterested at this point.
I shake hands and smile, and even sign a few pieces of paper when young fans come in.
Outside of the professional shots Honor gets, I take pictures with a couple of the volunteers for their social media and a few kids who tell me they plan on buying my new Fireflies jersey once it goes on sale because I’m their favorite hockey player.
It’s a gentle reminder that people give a shit, despite what Mikhail or the media thinks. I may not be the best person, but I’m a damn good player. The fans who watch know that I’ve got something not everybody has. I need to make sure I don’t totally fuck that up.
I go about the day helping sort through donations to check their expiration dates, stock shelves, and assist between the drive-thru and in-person distributions, all while Winter watches me with my kitten in her hand and her lips pressed into a line that tries not to give too much away.
Sucks for her because that expression says more than she wants to admit.
She’s jealous.
Especially when Kayleigh or one of the other girls comes up and offers me their fakest laughs and biggest smiles as if I get off on fake pleasantries.
It sucks for them. A month ago, I probably would have invited both of them to a hotel room with me. We could have enjoyed each other’s company and gone our separate ways, feeling satisfied and victorious.
It’s too bad for them that a five-foot-three blonde with permanent pink on her cheeks has burrowed under my skin and stayed there like a nuisance.
When it’s the end of the day, and Honor is packing up her things, I walk over and lean on the wall. “Did your husband tell you I’m working with the team finally?”
I have no doubt in my mind they’re the kind of couple who tell each other everything. I’m sure when they both get home, they share gossip while rubbing one another’s feet with googly eyes full of love plastered on their faces.
I’ll never forget the first time I went to a barbecue at their house with the rest of the guys from the Fireflies shortly after the news broke about the new team.
It was similar to what Bodhi and I have gone to in the past with our former teams. It’s a bonding experience, as if we don’t see the boys enough during the season to begin with.
It was obvious watching them that Honor and Bodhi are in the sickening kind of love.
Honor zips up her camera bag and throws it over her shoulder before reaching down to scratch between her dog’s ears. I’m trying to remember what kind of service animal he is without coming out and asking like an asshole.
Saying, “Hey, what’s wrong with you that you need a dog?” probably doesn’t come across very well. Not that I’m known for my politeness, but I like Honor.
“He did,” she confirms. “He’s relieved that Mikhail agreed to have you come in. He was starting to worry that you wouldn’t see ice time.”
It’ll be a cold day in hell before I let that happen. “I was feeling the same way,” I admit, feeling a pair of eyes on me from across the room.
I don’t turn to Winter or let on that I can feel her staring. Instead, I gesture toward the golden retriever sitting idly on the floor. “Do you mind if I ask what he’s for?”
I’m pretty sure Hoffman told me once, but I’ll be damned if I can remember.
I’ll be the first to admit that a lot of conversations I have with people are in one ear and out the other.
I can’t always find the energy to care. If I’m at big events, I’m usually thinking about when I can finally leave them.
“Puck is a seizure detection and alert animal,” she explains with an unoffended smile. “He’s been a big part of my life for years. Huh, buddy?”
The dog looks up at her with his fluffy, dark yellow tail brushing happily against the ground.
Seizure detection. It rings a bell hearing her husband explain it to a few guys and me when we went over to their place earlier this year. “How did you get him?”
The question is out before I can process it, and the surprise and concern on her face are evident. Her voice lowers when she asks, “Are you okay? Is there—”
“I’m not asking for me,” I quickly explain, studying the dog’s vest that has “working dog” and “do not touch” in bold lettering on the back. Wetting my lips, I peel my eyes off him and back over to Honor. “I’m just curious.”
We both know I wouldn’t be asking if it didn’t matter to me, but she indulges me in an answer anyway. And only when Honor passes me a piece of paper with a website to look into and phone numbers I can call do I feel satisfied enough to stop pressing for information.
“I’ll see you around,” I tell her, slipping the paper into my back pocket and waving her and Puck off.
When I walk over to Winter, there’s a shadow on her face.
“We’ll wrap up, and then you can go.” She passes me Oreo, who looks none too pleased to be given to me.
“Here. I’ll let you deal with her. If you haven’t already, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to post with her and show that you adopted from the shelter. It’ll make you look better.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care about that.”
She deadpans, “The whole point of this is to make you look more human and less—”
“Douchey?” I guess, knowing that’s one of her favorite descriptors of me. “I didn’t adopt Oreo to come off more believable.”
Winter pauses, hesitating with a nibble to her inner cheek as if she doesn’t want to ask me the real reason. Curiosity wins out. “Then why did you get her if not for the attention?”
“To be a little less lonely.”
I deliver the answer with a limp, nonchalant shrug that she gapes at.
“But,” I add quietly, running a hand down Oreo’s spine, “you already knew that. It’s just easier for you to see me as the bad guy.”
She closes her eyes. “I never said that.”
I tug on a strand of her hair lightly, only enough to get her to look at me again. “You didn’t need to.”
This time, she says nothing.
Doesn’t apologize.
Doesn’t argue.
Doesn’t make excuses.
Her eyes lower. Not to the ground, but toward my legs. I’m not sure what she’s thinking because she shakes off whatever thought she had and suddenly looks angry. “I’m going to confirm we got everything and then head out. Thank you for coming. It was a successful day.”
Her tone is too professional.
Civil.
Like we’re strangers.
As if she doesn’t know one of my biggest secrets.
It takes everything in me not to reach out and wrap my palm around her arm to stop her from storming off, but I manage to control myself.
Not here, I think to myself.
Not in front of all these people.
So, I let her go.