Chapter 15 Dominic
Dominic
I want to speed-demon rush through my postgame routine and get to Briar’s as soon as possible.
But I can’t. On top of the typical media bullshit, I have work to do here.
Especially since the fuse I lit inside a particularly troubled defenseman is starting to pop and fizzle in warning.
We’re going to have dynamite-level destruction in three, two, one . . .
Right on time, Kipson roars at Anderson, “You son of a bitch! You know what you did!”
They are nearly nose to nose and on the cusp of throwing hands, but more shocking than that is Anderson’s unusually grim expression. For a good-time guy, he’s got an impressive “don’t fuck with me” face. “You’ll have to be more specific. I’ve done a lot of things.”
“Sofia.” Kipson giving his ex-wife’s name breath steals all the air in the locker room.
“Oh, that? Her?” Anderson scoffs. “You’re welcome, man.
Better off without that anchor weighing you down, huh?
Now you can put your focus where it should be, without the whining and pouting every time you travel for games.
” He moves his hand like a mouth talking, right in his ear, his face the picture of annoyance, painting an image of what Kipson and Sofia’s relationship was like.
Or at least what Anderson thinks it was like.
Seeming to think that’s explanation enough, Anderson slaps Kipson’s shoulder like they’re buddies again, but Kipson reflexively swats his arm away. “Better off?” he snaps. “She was the only thing keeping me out of hell and thanks to you, she’s gone.”
“Nuh-uh,” Anderson tuts, waving a hand. “Don’t put that on me.
You’re the one who fucked up what you had.
Though why you’d want that, I do not understand.
” He shakes his head, confused. “Especially when this is the alternative. I’m just showing you what your life could be.
” Anderson pats his own chest like he’s the ultimate example of happiness.
And maybe he thinks he is. But I can see through the shallowness in which he lives his life. I hope others on the team are starting to see through it too.
Kipson looks like Anderson just slapped him with his words. His mouth opens and closes like a fish ripped out of the water. I’d put odds at fifty-fifty on whether Kipson’s going to punch Anderson or collapse from the weight of the regret he’s been carrying.
“Your life is shit. Empty, hollow, meaningless shit,” he says quietly, intensely, instead. Kipson means every word of it, no holds barred. I happen to agree with him, but for the moment, I stay quiet, watching this play out, along with the rest of the team.
Anderson laughs. “But it sure is fun,” he brags, looking around for support.
There are a few awkward chuckles, but nobody rushes to fully agree.
Anderson doesn’t care, though. “Whatever. You know the drill. Hockey first, yourself second, women . . . well, they’re like item ten on the priority list. Right, Coach? ”
I follow Anderson’s line of sight to see Coach Boothe standing in the doorway of his office. How much did he hear of Kipson and Anderson’s discussion? Judging by the stern set of his jaw? Enough.
Coach probably doesn’t think so, but I’m doing exactly what he brought me here to do—fix Kipson. I just might break a few other things in the process. What’s that saying? You’ve got to break a few eggs to make a cake? Well, I’m breaking egos to make a team.
Hopefully.
Briar’s neighborhood is filled with small homes.
Some are more rundown than others, but all in all, it seems safe.
As I count down the numbers to the address she sent, I already know which house is hers.
It’s got to be the one with potted flowers on either side of the front door.
There’s a level of care and warmth that makes the little yellow-and-white house stand out.
Yep, unless she has neighbors who also happen to love animals a lot, the one with a wreath on the door made out of every animal print ribbon in existence and proclaiming Welcome! It’s basically a zoo here must be Briar’s.
I knock, my nerves already settling as if they know we’re close to her.
“Hey!” she says, swinging open the door.
She looks gorgeous. Still in my jersey—which does things to me I should probably deny—with her hair down around her shoulders, fresh gloss on her smiling lips, and a sparkle in her blue eyes.
“Hey. Like the wreath.” I flick one of the zebra-print ribbons.
“Thanks. I won it in a raffle at work.” She looks at the wreath fondly.
“Only cost me fifty bucks in tickets. And we do not discuss that I could’ve bought the ribbon and made it myself for half that.
” She gives me a warning glare, probably thinking it looks threatening, but it’s too cute to actually intimidate anyone. Especially me.
“What I’m hearing is that you donated money to a great cause.”
“Ooh, yeah. I like that,” she says, appreciating my point of view. “Come on in.”
I step immediately into her living room, which is small but cozy, with a couch and a TV on a wood cabinet right next to the door.
Beyond that, I can see her kitchen, and there’s a hallway off to the left.
Everything is in shades of green with tan and white accents and obviously cared for, with little touches like throw pillows on the furniture and pictures on the walls.
It feels . . . alive. Like she and Harley don’t just exist in these walls, they’ve created a home here.
I’m struck with a sense of homesickness.
I grew up like this. With a mother who cared enough to put my crappy art on the fridge, start Crock-Pot dinners in the morning so we’d have a warm meal after practices that always ran late, and made sure I felt loved every day without fail.
Briar is that type of mother too. Harley is a lucky kid.
I really need to call my mom tomorrow.
“Thanks for letting me come over. Tonight was a surreal experience.”
I don’t get a chance to explain because a voice down the hall says, “Dom?” A split second later, a torpedo hits me full force in the chest and a vise wraps around my waist. Damn, even the Devils didn’t hit this hard.
“Hey, kid,” I say, patting Harley on the head. The hug feels like a huge leap forward in our friendship. And also, his hair is sopping wet. “Did you have fun at the game?”
“So much fun!” he informs me at approximately one hundred decibels. “It was awesome! And we won!”
I laugh, nodding. “We did.”
“We?” Briar echoes quietly, giving me a told you so look.
She’s right. There’s no sense in denying that the Blizzard is my team now. I might not like it, or like all of my teammates, but it’s where I’m at, so I might as well roll with it.
“Blizzard Blast!” Harley shouts, mimicking the animation that plays on the jumbotron of the team’s polar bear mascot throwing snowballs. Basically, he’s wildly waving his arms through the air like a windmill.
“Whoa. Alright, say thank you and good night to Dominic, and then it’s bedtime for anyone under ten years old. Whoops! Looks like that’s”—Briar looks around the room dramatically, then points at Harley—“you.”
“Mom!”
She tilts her head, her eyes unyielding.
“Fine. Thank you for the game. Good night.” I hold up a fist for him to bump on his way back toward the hallway, but he pauses and looks back at me. “Can you tuck me in?”
Other than the flip-flop my belly does, I freeze. I have never tucked someone in before. I’m not sure I even know how to do it right.
Briar looks at me questioningly and then starts to say, “Oh, he doesn’t—”
But I interrupt her, not able to disappoint Harley, who’s looking at me hopefully.
“Uh, yeah. Sure. I can do that.” I scrub a hand over my jaw, not sure at all.
Is there rocking involved? Or books to read?
I try to think back to my parents tucking me into bed, but those memories are lost to time and youth.
“Yeah!” Harley grabs my hand, virtually dragging me down the hall.
Harley’s room is navy and gray, with a plaid comforter on his tiny twin-size bed. Then again, he’s not all that large himself. There’s a nightstand and a wall-mounted desk, and those small pieces fill the space completely.
He climbs into bed and I lay the comforter over him, figuring that’s tucked in. “Thanks for coming to the game. I appreciate the friendly faces in the crowd tonight.”
“You’re welcome,” he answers, but as I go to the door, he adds, “Wait! Where are you going? We have to cricket.”
“We have to what?” I ask, certain I must’ve misheard him.
Cricket is a game. One I don’t play.
Cricket is an animal. One I don’t hear.
Cricket is definitely a noun, though Harley seems to be using it as a verb.
“Cricket,” he repeats as if I’m stupid. Maybe I am? Is this part of tucking in that I’ve forgotten? “Lie down.”
“Uhm . . .”
“Take your shoes off. Mom says no shoes on the bed.”
I nod. “She’s right.” I don’t lie down, though. Instead, I sit at the foot of Harley’s bed and toe my tennis shoes off. “Now what?”
“We cricket. Close your eyes, rub your feet together like a cricket, and slow count to ten while you think about your day. Then you tell me the best part of your day and I’ll tell you the best part of mine.”
Of course. Cricket. Doesn’t everyone do this?
Assuming I’ve understood what is obvious to him and foreign to me, he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.
Slowly, I let my eyes fall closed, though I peek once—okay, twice—to make sure he’s not fucking with me.
But his eyes are closed and his lips are moving as he silently counts to ten, so I breathe and count too.
“You go first,” Harley tells me.
“The best part of my day was skating around the ice before the game, hearing you call my name, and seeing you and your mom sitting in the crowd. I was nervous tonight, something I haven’t been in a long time. But you two being there made me feel like everything was going to be okay, win or lose.”
He smiles softly. “The best part of my day was—”