Chapter 18 Dominic
Dominic
“What’s the plan?” Rodney asks, launching himself at the bed in my hotel room. He bounces three times before coming to a stop with his feet hanging off the side and his head propped up on a hand.
“First, get off my bed,” I snap. But I’m grinning, glad he’s comfortable with me, but truly not wanting his germs where I’m going to sleep tonight. “Group meeting in the lobby in fifteen, then dinner.” I hold up my phone where I just texted the team group chat tonight’s agenda.
He nods respectfully, climbing up from the bed and even dusting it off. “On it.” But he pauses at the door, glancing over his shoulder, “Think Kipson will come?”
I don’t know.
Kipson and Anderson have had it out since the season opener, with some pushing and shoving in the locker room, but also a lot of harsh words, and I’m not sure whatever friendship—and I’m using the word loosely—they had will ever be repaired.
“Hope so. He’s gotta eat, so there’s a chance.”
Rodney holds up his crossed fingers as he steps into the hall, and I swing the door closed behind him.
With a sigh, I look to the ceiling for divine intervention, telling myself, “Keep at it, Lee.” I’m doing my best to create some camaraderie in this team, but it feels like using a plastic spoon to dig up concrete with how set in their ways these guys are.
I pull on jeans and a button-down and head downstairs, hoping to not have dinner alone.
When the elevator doors open, I’m shocked at the gathering waiting there—Rodney, Tomville, Bill, Sabine, Pacholek, Anderson, Kipson, plus several other players.
At least half the team is sprawled across the couches and chairs and sitting on the coffee tables and end tables. I scan the group, shocked to my core.
“Hey . . . everyone,” I say haltingly.
“Hope you made reservations,” Kipson tells me. The dumbass on the end is silent, but there all the same in his tone.
Considering I was reasonably sure only a few guys might come, I most definitely did not make reservations. Still, I nod cockily, feigning confidence I don’t have. “Yeah, let’s check out the hotel restaurant.”
Surely they can get us in?
Thankfully, they do, leading us to a table in the out-of-sight back corner since we’re not dressed to fit their jackets-required dress code. The waiter’s face stays perfectly stoic, giving no reaction to having this many large, already too-loud guys at his table.
“Chicken breast, seasonal vegetables, light sauce,” I order.
I notice that Rodney, Tomville, and Bill are all listening to me and then repeat the same order, though Tomville requests a double serving of chicken.
Afterward, they glance at me and I reward them with a small dip of my chin, acknowledging their good choices.
“They just do whatever you tell them to, don’t they?” Anderson sneers. “Like little puppies on a chain, following the big dog around.”
My face hard and jaw set to stone, I cut cold eyes his way. “Woof. Woof,” I say flatly, letting my voice go low and dark.
The air charges between us and I take the measure from me to him on the other side of the white tablecloth–covered surface.
He knows I’m the one who told Kipson what he said about Sofia, and since he has less than zero chances of winning against a brokenhearted beast with nothing to lose like Kipson, Anderson has decided that redirecting his anger toward the messenger—yours truly—is the next best thing.
Only problem with that plan is, he can try to start shit with me, but I’m more than ready to dish it back out to him.
As far as I’m concerned, if Coach is problem number one, setting the tone for the team, Anderson is problem number two, enacting Coach’s missives.
“I’ll have the chicken too,” Pacholek says, holding up a hand to get the waiter’s attention. He’s trying to insert himself and slow this runaway freight train. But this standoff has been coming since that first night at O’Neal’s. It’s not about Kipson. It’s about the whole team.
I’m changing things around here, which means I now hold a power Anderson mistakenly thinks I took from him.
Newsflash: He never had real power because he treats this team like a frat, never taking anything seriously until it’s time to hit the ice.
His influence has existed in a vacuum, a vacuum that I’m filling.
I take it all seriously—practices, games, on the ice, off the ice, and most importantly, every single man sitting around this table.
I send text messages in the group chat, have conversations that go beyond “good game, bro,” and offer some guidance about our beloved sport, especially to the new guys who are acclimating to a whole different level of hockey.
And the mere fact that this many teammates showed up tonight speaks to how well it’s working.
Unless they’re here to watch Anderson kick my ass. Admittedly, that’s a possibility too.
The waiter clears his throat and Anderson grunts in annoyance, breaking our staredown to order, “Steak, rare. Fries on the side.” The waiter arches a brow, as much of a tell as he can probably give in fine dining, before disappearing.
The momentary reprieve lets me do a quick check of the table.
Most everyone is watching Anderson with wariness, like he’s the loose cannon they’re worried about.
I don’t think they would jump to my defense if push came to shove, he’s been here too long for that, but they’re starting to see what I see in our goalie—immaturity, unpredictability, volatility.
He’s the poster child for what’s wrong with the Blizzard.
Food ordered, Anderson returns his narrowed eyes to me, glaring angrily.
He feels the change, too, both in the team and at the table.
Unbothered, I let an evil smirk lift my lips, and give voice to the situation.
“Feel that shift? Come over to the dark side, man. We’ve got snacks and braid each other’s hair on Sundays.
” I shake my head a bit, letting my hair rise and fall back into place.
Should I poke him this way? Probably not. But it’s so easy and he takes the bait so readily, which only highlights his inability to emotionally regulate better than a toddler.
“You’re supposed to fix Kipson, not fuck the whole team up,” he bites out.
“I don’t need fixing,” Kipson snarls, sounding on the verge of grabbing Anderson by the neck and tossing him to the ground, Mortal Kombat style.
Finish him.
There’s a small piece of me that wants Kipson to do it.
It would definitely make things easier without Anderson.
Might even help Kipson get out of this mental state he’s in.
I won’t deny that, but he’s a product of the team’s rotten roots, too, living up to the standards Coach sets.
Which means, in theory, I should try to save him too.
But maybe I could let Kipson at him first?
Nothing serious, a few punches resulting in a little blood, ideally internal, or an unimportant bone break that won’t affect the season, like a couple of toes that could be buddy taped, but would be an annoying reminder with every step?
“You’ve been moping around for months, ruining the playoffs last season and barely holding it together this year.
For what?” Anderson shoots back at Kipson, thumping his fist on the table.
“Some bitch left you. Boo fucking hoo, man. And if the depression wasn’t bad enough, now this prick”—he points a thick finger at me—“has you wanting to fight everyone. If you’d kept your shit together like you were supposed to, he wouldn’t even be here! ”
“I don’t want to fight everyone,” Kipson corrects, leaning forward. “Just you.”
His cold glare is locked on Anderson. I’d bet he can’t even see the rest of the guys at the table.
He’s definitely not aware of the three guys between them who have scooted their chairs back to be at the ready if they actually go after one another.
Only three because I’m on Kipson’s other side and I will not be stopping a damn thing if he goes after Anderson. I consider it well deserved.
“You know the rules—no distractions.”
“Sofia wasn’t a distraction. She was my Wife!” Kipson roars as he slams his palms to the table, making the water glasses and cutlery bounce. And oh, we’ve got the attention of everyone in the place now, from the staff to the well-dressed diners.
“Was being the operative word, there,” Anderson taunts, playing Russian roulette with his life.
“My wife. Do you have any idea what that means?” he demands. “Of course you don’t. How could you? You can’t even remember the name of the last woman you fucked.” Judgment drips through his tone, the words harshly spit out with an up and down sneering glare.
“Daphne.” Anderson flashes an arrogant smirk of victory. But is he even telling the truth? Who knows.
“Congratulations. Another empty, meaningless fuck in your empty, meaningless life.” Kipson rolls his eyes and Anderson chuckles, unaffected by the accusation, until Kipson coldly spits out, “If I gave a shit about you at all, I’d pity you.”
Anderson balks. That one stung. I think Kipson plainly stating his complete indifference to him might be the straw to break the camel’s back and actually cause Anderson’s bravado to drop a few notches. “I don’t need your pity. I’m doing just fine. Better than you, for damn sure.”
“Keep telling yourself that.” The fire is dying in Kipson, replaced with his too familiar detachment. “But I’m empty right now because I knew love and lost it. You’re empty because no one has ever loved you. We’re not the same.”
Well, daaaamn. Kipson’s got some self-awareness in that thick skull of his. Who knew? Not me.
“I don’t need this bullshit,” Anderson announces, shoving back from the table. “Fix your shit or bench yourself so you don’t fuck the rest of us over,” he orders Kipson. Turning toward me, he points accusingly, clearly hurt but disguising it with anger. “And you, leave me the fuck alone.”
“So that’s a maybe for the hair braiding on Sunday?” I taunt.
“Fuck all of you,” Anderson hisses and then stomps away. At the host stand, I hear him tell the ma?tre d’ to send his steak up to his room. At least he’ll eat well tonight. We do have a game tomorrow, and I’d rather him not play at a calorie deficit.
“That went well,” I declare, stroking my day’s worth of stubble as I nod approvingly. “Could’ve done with a bit more bromance and a touch less blowup, but not bad overall. It’s a solid start.”
Almost a dozen sets of eyes turn to me, some with humor, others with shock, a few with concerns about my sanity.
Pacholek is first to make fresh steps on the groundwork I’ve laid. “I’m sorry about you and Sofia,” he tells Kipson. “If I can do anything to help . . .” He trails off, but the offer is an important one.
Kipson blinks, staring blankly at Pacholek for a long moment, where I wonder if he’s going to tell Pacholek to keep his wife’s name out of his mouth too. But after a deep breath, he says, “Do you know that’s the first time any of you have told me that?”
He scans the group of guys sitting around the table, several of them ducking their heads and unable to meet his eyes. The pall of that hangs in the air, a pain that predates my arrival, but the past needs to be dealt with so that we can move forward as a team with a future worth a damn.
“I didn’t know what to say,” Pacholek explains, “but I should’ve at least said ‘I’m sorry.’ I apologize for not doing that.”
Holy shit! I’m a fucking genius!
I should take up sports psychology once I retire from the ice because I’m fucking good at this shit. We’re having group therapy, right here in the restaurant. I’m tempted to ask, And how did that make you feel? just to see what happens.
“Yeah, you fucking should’ve. Or maybe not been such a dick to her in the first place,” Kipson snarls.
Okay, maybe my next career consideration was a bit premature. But progress is a good thing, even if it’s slow.
“We weren’t trying to be dicks. It’s just how it is,” Sabine says resolutely.
This is an important step that I don’t want to mess up.
Pacholek is on my side and doing better, but Sabine has been Anderson’s bro for a long time.
I lean forward, getting Sabine’s attention.
“How it was. Just because it’s always been that way, doesn’t mean it was right.
Look at the fallout.” I gesture to Kipson.
“Nor does it mean it has to keep being like that. Change can be good, like scratching that itch you can’t quite reach.
” I mime trying to scratch my spine and when I can’t reach, I tilt toward Kipson with a grunted, “Little help here?”
He smacks my back, hard. Coughing, I grin at him, taking the win.
“So what, you’re saying we all need to find WAGs, like yesterday?” Lavoie asks, seeming confused at the concept of a committed relationship.
I roll my eyes, inhaling for patience. “No, fuckwit. I’m saying that having a life off the ice that’s fulfilling makes you a better player, not a distracted one.”
“Where’s your girlfriend then, Lee?” Lavoie quips back.
Ooh, that’s dangerous territory that I’m not ready to explore with these guys yet. I give him my trademark cocky grin, “I just got here. What’s your excuse?”
Bill clears his throat. “I have a confession to make.” That instantly draws all attention his way. “I’m married.”
All the air is sucked out of the space around us as we stare at him incredulously. I’ve done extensive homework on every teammate and nowhere have I seen a single mention of him being married. Yet, he apparently has a whole, entire wife that he’s been hiding?
“What the fuck?”
“Is she real? Dolls don’t count, man.”
Bill grins. “She’s real. Been married just over two years. She kept her name because she’s a doctor.”
Another shoe drops.
“A doctor?”
Pacholek hoots. “Ooh, Bill got himself a sugar mama!”
The teasing doesn’t stop, but Bill takes it all in stride, bragging proudly about his wife before finally pulling up a picture on his phone. His wife is gorgeous, which means the teasing starts all over again about how a guy like Bill pulled a woman like that.
I’m grinning, feeling like I’ve done some real good here, when Kipson leans my way and rumbles, “I still hate you.”
I whisper back, “Aww, love you too.”
And the best part is . . . he doesn’t say “fuck you.” And that is true progress.
“Dinner the same time tomorrow?” Sabine asks as we head back upstairs after dinner.
“Yep, I’ll even make reservations this time.” I think we’ll need them because given tonight’s success, I’m hoping even more of the team shows up tomorrow.