Chapter 2 #3
At least the last part is true.
"Good." Betts points at me with a deodorant stick like a gavel. "Don't let the wine distract you from the Cup, star boy."
"Not a chance," I say, and head for the showers.
I'm quick in the shower, and I'm just lacing up my boots when my phone buzzes on the bench. A text from Margot.
Margot: Confirming 9am Monday for the portfolio orientation and tasting. Your assistant said you’d be free, but let me know if this time doesn’t work. Otherwise, I'll meet you in the Solstice lobby then.
I smile down at the screen. Despite wine being nowhere near an interest of mine, I'm actually looking forward to Monday, and I'd be lying if I said it was only about the change of scenery from the rink. I type out a reply.
Me: Works great, and I'm looking forward to it.
The typing dots appear immediately. They flicker, then vanish. Come back. Disappear again, and no message follows. I feel a small, ridiculous surge of disappointment staring at the empty space.
Jonesy leans over. "Wow. You're already hooked, and you haven't even had the first date yet."
"Fuck off." I laugh and shove the phone into my bag.
We filter out in the usual slow herd, gear bags over our shoulders, an argument about lunch trailing behind us.
On the way through the lobby I stop and look at the big framed photo by the door, the team hoisting the Cup years before any of us got here.
I've passed it a thousand times, and I want it so badly it's almost embarrassing.
I was born and raised in Ireland, but my dad's Canadian, and we spent chunks of every year visiting my grandparents and cousins.
Somewhere between the frozen ponds and the hand-me-down skates, I fell for a game my own country barely plays.
My parents were loving and mad enough to back it, which is how I left home young with a duffel bag and a chip on my shoulder, off to prove myself.
I'm still staring at that photo when the front doors open and a familiar voice cuts straight through it.
"Hey, O'Rourke!"
Lucas Anderson, of all the miserable people on the planet, is strolling in with his skills coach, arrogant smirk already in place. He's the resident pest for our rivals in Vegas, and because his parents live in San Francisco, he has a habit of turning up at our facility whenever he's in town.
It's our facility in name only. The team owns it, but it's a public rink with four sheets of ice open to anyone with a credit card, so I've crossed paths with plenty of people I'd rather avoid on my day off. Doesn't make his arrival any more welcome. The man is a fucking asshole.
"I'm shocked you don't have a wine glass in your hand," he says. "Word gets around about the vineyard sponsorship."
"And I'm shocked you're upright, Anderson. Word is that shoulder of yours is held together with tape. I'd have thought you'd be saving what's left of it for the playoffs."
His skills coach coughs into his fist to cover a laugh, and Anderson's smile thins out. A bit of slagging from friends or teammates I can take all day, that's half how I show affection myself. But there's never anything friendly underneath it with Anderson.
"Cute. You know, I actually know that place. Solstice. We did some charity thing with them last year." His smirk creeps back. "I bet you're working with that sommelier chick. The hot one. She's so prim and proper but I bet she's a slutty little firecracker in the?—"
"Careful," I warn. "You really don't want to finish that fucking sentence."
I can feel the rage climbing the back of my neck, a white-hot flash that has my hands balling into fists at my sides.
"Easy. It's a joke." He lifts his hands. "I'm just saying. Make the most of the perks."
I was raised by a mam who’s spent her life in domestic abuse advocacy, all alongside four sisters I would burn this entire building down for.
Then there's my sister Fiadh, who was assaulted four years ago back home after some guy followed her out of a pub.
I was supposed to be home for her birthday, but I'd cancelled for some stupid team obligation.
The what-ifs will haunt me for the rest of my life. So men like Lucas Anderson, and the toxic locker room bullshit they drag around with them, can go straight to hell as far as I'm concerned. And unfortunately, hockey is crawling with assholes exactly like him.
Jonesy steps up beside me, not bothering to hide the disgust on his face. "Fuck off, Anderson. Nobody here needs your creepy commentary."
Anderson rolls his eyes and turns for the desk, then throws a look back over his shoulder. "Oh, by the way, I saw Brennan last week. He said to pass on his best, if I ran into you."
I don't answer. There isn't one that doesn't end with my fist somewhere it shouldn't be. I have to win this thing, if only so I never have to hear that guy's name thrown at me like a threat again. Jonesy shakes his head and tilts his chin toward the door.
I check my phone one last time on the way out, like Margot's message might somehow have changed. Still nothing.
Monday it is.