Chapter 2 #2
I smile at her. She is going to be an absolute nightmare to work with, and yet I think I'm looking forward to every minute of it.
Two days later and I'm at the rink putting on a masterclass in how to look like I've never held a stick before. I try to force my way through two defenders instead of just making the simple pass, and lose the puck for my trouble, nearly landing on my ass.
It's a rough showing, even by my recent standards. We're at the team's practice facility, just the squad and the building staff, the low drone of the refrigeration units the only soundtrack to my professional decline.
"Oof. Reckless move there, O'Rourke," Jonesy calls out from the dot, leaning on his stick with an amused look.
"Aye, piss off, Jonesy," I bark back, swinging toward the boards to dig the puck out while his laughter echoes through the rafters.
"Stick to the wine ads, star boy," Betts bellows from the blue line. "Leave the actual playing to the guys who remember which way the net faces."
"You managed a whole of two goals all last year, Betts," I shoot back, digging the puck out of the corner. "I'd be careful about critiquing anyone's accuracy with numbers like that."
A snicker ripples through the guys, and Betts performs a dramatic gasp, clutching his chest like I've wounded him. I flip him off without slowing down, and the row of them erupts into laughter.
I've been getting slagging all week about the Solstice wine deal, the same way I did for the Guinness deal, and the week I shot the watch campaign, and the stretch where my face was plastered on the side of every bus in San Francisco.
None of it gets under my skin. I grew up in Ireland, where slagging is more or less a constitutional right. I wore a striped jumper to primary school once and then answered to Captain Hook for three years straight. A bit of chirping about rosé barely registers.
I circle back to the dot, jaw tight, and this time I don't even bother to set up. I just wind up and hammer it, aiming for the top corner. The puck sails wide.
Not even close enough to be unlucky.
"Fuck's sake," I mutter.
Jonesy skates up, spitting his mouthguard into his glove. "You'll get it back, man. You always do."
By it he means my game, which has been off for the better part of a year. I grunt and push off toward the boards to avoid a deeper conversation I'm not ready to have.
I was the league's golden boy. People used to throw around words like generational talent. Then a massive hit shattered my knee. My calendar filled with meetings and photo shoots through the rehab, and even after my body mended and I returned to the ice, my focus stayed fractured.
It cost us the Cup last year, and I can't let it happen again.
The shrill blast of Coach Whelan's whistle cuts through the arena, and we all peel off toward the boards. I catch my breath against the wall as he surveys us with an expression that says he has zero sympathy left this morning.
"We reached the Final last year," he says, his voice carrying easily through the cold air. "And we were humiliated. Right now Chicago is making a run, Boston is looking elite, and New York is sitting out there waiting for a rematch, with Brennan playing like a madman."
Liam Brennan.
He's the league's latest star, a year my junior, and last spring he decided that my professional dismantling was a personal project. Fearless on the ice. The same arrogant confidence I used to carry before the injury and I cannot fucking stand him.
This season is supposed to be my rebuttal. Proof that the slump was a glitch and nothing more. Instead, all through practice I've been fighting my own instincts, and if we do both claw our way back to the Final, Brennan will be looking to finish what he started.
Whelan rolls into the usual talk of forechecking and finishing, but his voice blurs into background noise until he slaps his clipboard against his thigh with a sharp crack.
"That's enough for today," he shouts. "Clear out."
The lads peel away toward the tunnel in small clusters with the usual post-ice chatter. I move slower, caught up in my own head, and Jonesy drops back from the group with his helmet off, blond hair damp with sweat. He's my closest friend on the squad, and he's watching me with concern.
"Stow that look," I say, skating past him. "I'm fine, I just need to lock in."
"I'm not looking at you like anything," he says, falling into stride beside me. "Though I will say, you look like hell."
I let out a dry chuckle. "Cheers, Jonesy. Massive ego boost."
"Always happy to help."
We head down the tunnel toward the dressing room, already a wall of humid noise and bad music. Twenty guys peeling out of heavy gear, arguing about the playoffs and where to eat. I sit down and start unpeeling the tape from my wrists.
"So." Betts drops onto the bench opposite me with a towel around his neck. "Mr. Wine Ambassador. You going to bring in a bit to share with the rest of us?"
"I will, yeah." I laugh. Betts nods happily, having still not picked up on Irish sarcasm despite being teammates for years now.
"Good. I want something a bit fancy." He leans back against the wall. "Though I do think it's pretty funny, considering I've never actually seen you drink wine in my life. You're a bit of a fraud, you know?"
I snort. "Fraud is such a negative way to look at a fat check."
"Oh, leave him be, Betts," Tom calls from two stalls down. "You're just bitter that nobody's offering you buckets of cash to put your face on a billboard."
"Well, not all of us were blessed with a face for the camera like pretty boy over here." Betts gestures toward me.
"First sensible thing out of your mouth all morning," I say, and the entire row of them groans.
They aren't wrong that the money is ridiculous, which is largely why I signed on. I love the game, but I don't want to be in the rink forever, and I've seen what happens to the lads who never built a life outside the rink.
So I do the deals and bank the money. If it means my parents can retire comfortably and my four sisters never have to stress over a bill, then I'll play the part.
"Have they actually got you learning wine?" Jonesy asks, dropping onto the bench beside me. "I enjoy a glass as much as anyone, but that sounds boring as hell."
"Apparently." I ball up the tape. "Some kind of crash course on Monday."
"Samantha and I had a sommelier do the pairings at our wedding," Tom says, leaning back. "The wine was great, but the guy was so far up his own ass about it." He shrugs. "Though I did end up buying a whole case of this one bottle he picked. Pull one out every year for our anniversary."
I smile as I toss the used tape toward the bin. Tom plays like a freight train on the ice, but he's a romantic at heart.
"That's more or less the vibe I'm getting from the whole industry," I say, starting on my pads. "Though there were some decent people in the mix at the launch. And it's a woman I'm working with, for what it's worth."
"Ooohhh." It comes from a half dozen directions at once, perfectly synchronized.
"Grow up," I say. "Real professionals in here today."
"Is she your age?" Jonesy asks. "Or like, an older estate-owner type? Cardigans, reading glasses, a dozen cats?"
"Mid-twenties, I'd wager," I say as I haul my jersey over my head.
Jonesy grins. "So with your history, I assume you’re planning on asking her out?"
"No," I say firmly. "She's pretty and everything, but she's not my type. Plus I think she hates my guts."
"Finally, a woman with taste," Betts shouts from across the room.
"Yep, clearly a woman of intelligence," Jonesy agrees, nudging my arm, and Tom snorts into his towel.
I roll my eyes. Honestly, calling Margot pretty is like describing a category-five hurricane as a light breeze.
She's stop-traffic gorgeous, with glossy dark hair and a face that belongs on a vintage pin-up.
A smile as sweet as honey and eyes of steel, and I'll be damned if that combination doesn't get right under my skin.
"You still with us, Cillian?" Tom asks, laughing. "Daydreaming?"
Guilty, but I'd sooner take a puck to the teeth than admit it here.
"Praying for better teammates," I say. "Anyway. I'm focusing on the game. I don't need any distractions right now."