6. Mason
Chapter 6
Mason
A s soon as Ladybug is gone, I realize I don’t have a way to contact her, even if by some miracle she does decide to make a deal.
“You could’ve handled that better,” Cohen says carefully.
In reply, I punch the fucking wall, leaving a big hole in it.
“I’ll bill you for that,” Cohen says, surprisingly calm. “Oh, and before you ask, I won’t be discussing Miss Papachristodoulopoulou with you.”
“Papa-what?” I rub my bleeding knuckles.
“Papa-christo-doulo-poulou. It’s a common Greek last name.”
Sure it is. “Thanks for the culture lesson.”
He smirks. “When I invoice you for the wall, I’ll also include one billable hour.”
“Because that’s how long it takes to say that name?”
He shrugs, smirking harder, and I resist the urge to punch the wall again, deciding to save my emotions for practice.
Usually, I feel at peace after practice, especially when sharing a meal with the team like I am now, but not today.
“So, how did it go?” Jason asks through a mouthful of gyro.
Everyone goes quiet, even the restaurant staff.
My lentil hummus suddenly tastes like packing peanuts. “She didn’t sell… yet.”
“That fucking sucks,” Jason says, and the rest of them echo the sentiment, cursing on my behalf in English, Finnish, Russian, and Canadian French.
“I guessed as much by how vicious you were during the drills,” Jason says. “Looks like you’ll have to keep eating your cow food for a while longer.”
By cow food, he means my extremely nutritious but mostly plant-based diet. “I was going to do that anyway,” I mutter. “I eat right to live longer, not just so I can keep playing hockey.”
All of my teammates look at me skeptically. The idea of something not being about hockey is as foreign to them as eating a Boston cream doughnut is to me.
Jason wrinkles his nose at my hummus. “If I ate like you, I’d wither away and die.”
“I agree with Friday here,” Parker butts in. “Except the order of events would be: fart up a storm and then wither away and die.”
Jason flicks Parker on the forehead for using the Friday moniker yet again. He’s fighting a losing battle, though. Since he was born in a New Jersey township named Voorhees and is a goalie, Friday the 13 th jokes are as inevitable as stabbings at Camp Crystal Lake.
“Eating lentils all the time doesn’t make you fart,” I say for what feels like the millionth time. “Your body adjusts.”
Some of my teammates nod, but most make fart jokes, like the overgrown children they are. The annoying part is that I know that they know more about nutrition than the average person, being athletes and all. I simply took my diet a step further than needed for hockey by following an eating plan that was lab-tested at Octothorpe. Combined with some prescription medicine and dietary supplements, my diet is meant to slow aging to a crawl, and at thirty-seven years of age, I feel like I’m in my twenties. Still, I will be the first person at this table to retire, and owning this team is the best way to keep these knuckleheads in my life.
“What did the new owner look like?” Jason asks.
“Why?” I ask suspiciously.
He shrugs. “If she’s not too hideous, maybe you can convince her to sell the team using your… charms.”
The rest of the team make sounds reminiscent of a pack of horny hyenas.
“She’s not unattractive,” I say grudgingly. “But I doubt she’d want to have anything to do with my charms, even if they were the last charms on Earth.”
And the feeling is mutual.
“Not unattractive?” Jason squeezes his gyro until tzatziki sauce drips onto his lap. “Maybe I should help a brother out, with my ‘charms.’”
“Fuck no.” I almost punch his face to punctuate the point, then check myself just in time because what the fuck is wrong with me?
Everyone stops eating and stares at me in confusion.
Jason cocks his head. “You like her?”
He and the rest of the team have been trying to get me laid for a month now, but I’ve been practicing celibacy.
Do I like Ladybug?
The idea is absurd.
I haven’t liked anyone for a while now, and if I were going to end that streak, it wouldn’t be with a disagreeable gold digger. Also, she’s way too young.
“Oh, I get it,” Jason says to everyone conspiratorially. “He can’t act on it because she owns the team. If he tapped that, and then they broke up, things would get pretty bad.”
I can’t believe he says “tap that” unironically. Also, unbelievably, the idiot makes a good point—like a stopped clock that’s right twice a day. Not that I needed his point to avoid Ladybug the way an aphid would her insect namesake.
“Can we talk about anything else?” I imbue the question with enough threat to make sure everyone knows that if they push, their face will resemble that wall in the lawyer’s office.
“Sure,” Jason says with an impish grin. “Seen any new nature documentaries lately?”
I groan. I let him share my Netflix account, and this is the thanks I get. He must have spied on my Recently Watched, which are all nature documentaries because they help me relax.
“Sure, I saw one about ladybugs,” I say with a straight face. If I don’t show them that it bothers me, the teasing will subside more quickly. Hopefully. “They’re carnivorous and therefore a natural insecticide, which is why they’re considered a lucky charm all over the globe.”
With loud snore sounds, Jason drops his head toward his plate, stopping only an inch away from it. “Shit. That was so boring I fell asleep.”
“You should repeat what you just said, but in the voice of David Attenborough,” Parker says.
“If you know who David Attenborough is, you must’ve seen your own share of nature documentaries,” I point out.
“No, I haven’t,” Parker replies, a bit too quickly. “Also, it’s Sir David Attenborough.”
I grin as the ribbing turns Parker’s way—with everyone insisting he call them sir also, followed by more nonsense.
I sigh. My teammates are like my brothers, for better or for worse. When it counts, we have each other’s backs and wouldn’t tease about something real, like my button thing. In fact, no one has said anything, but I’ve noticed they’ve started wearing buttonless tracksuits when I’m around, even when we go out to fancy clubs.
Fuck. If I don’t buy the team, I’m going to let them down. What if she makes changes that impact us for the worse? Or?—
“When are you going to talk to her again?” Jason asks, bringing me back to the matter at hand.
“No idea,” I say. “First, I need a game plan.”
As soon as I step into my apartment, my cat, Spike, runs over and greets me with an enthusiasm you’d expect from a golden retriever puppy.
“I’m happy to see you too,” I say gruffly before heading into the kitchen to feed him a few slices of sashimi-grade tuna.
Next, I grab a bottle of my favorite vodka and videocall Evan, my buddy from Florida. We have a mutually beneficial arrangement to not let the other drink alone.
“Hey,” Evan says, then frowns at the bottle in my hands. “I’m sorry, I quit drinking.”
“You did?”
“I have a kid around now,” Evan says. “Don’t want to set a bad example.”
Ah. Right. “Makes sense.”
“You should quit, too,” Evan suggests. “It doesn’t fit your healthy eating schtick.”
“Actually, back in Estonia, vodka is believed to cure all sorts of ailments.” When I was a kid, whenever I was sick, my mom would dip my socks in vodka and have me put them on, so I’d smell like an alcoholic when I got to school.
Fuck. Now I need that drink all the more. This happens whenever I think back to my family and how they’ve cut all ties with me.
“Weren’t you born in the US?” Evan asks.
I shrug. “My Estonian-born parents still managed to pass on their vodka beliefs to me.” And their obsession with saunas, which I got the whole team into.
“Well, I’m pretty sure the science on it isn’t great,” Evan says. “So if you’re avoiding doughnuts, you might want to avoid vodka too.”
“You know what? Next time I don’t want to drink by myself, I’ll head over to a bar instead of calling you and getting a lecture.”
“Perfect,” he says. “That way, maybe you’ll finally meet a woman who?—”
I end the call.
Why does everyone who starts dating want me to join their cult? Similarly with people who have children: they turn into walking PR campaigns for spawning.
I eye the vodka and debate breaking the drink-by-myself taboo.
No. I guess some things I learned from my parents are too difficult to ignore.
Fine.
I put the vodka away and videocall Coach, the person in my life who simultaneously serves as a therapist, priest, and probation officer.
“Hey, kid.” Coach strokes his record-breaking beard. “Or should I call you Boss?”
“I’m not your boss… yet.”
“What happened?” Coach mindlessly tugs on his beard—or as Jason would say, “looks for a snack in it.”
I tell Coach what happened, and when I get to the CPR part of the story, he compliments me on my life-saving skills, and he might as well be patting himself on the back since he’s the one who suggested that I learn first aid.
He tosses his beard over his shoulder. “Maybe you should consider my other suggestion?”
“No.” I can’t believe he’s bringing it up again. Despite the beard making him look practically ancient, Coach is only ten years older than I am, yet he’s got it into his head that he should retire—provided he finds a suitable replacement first. Why on earth he thinks I’m capable of filling his sasquatch-sized shoes is beyond me.
Our team is one of the few in the league that doesn’t have a captain, but if we did, I wouldn’t even be that. I don’t have it in me to be all rah-rah inspirational. In fact, I’ve been accused of the opposite.
The words “pessimist” and “cynical” have been thrown around a lot in my vicinity.
The beard twitches in a way that suggests that Coach might be pursing his never-visible lips. “In that case, try again with the new owner. Maybe be cordial next time.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Great advice. Why didn’t I think of that?”
His eyes narrow. “Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit.”
“Puns are lower. And fart jokes.” Along with the other things that come out of Jason’s mouth.
“Be that as it may, my advice stands,” Coach huffs. “Keep your temper in check. It’s a good idea on the ice, if you become a coach, and really, as a human being in general.”
Great. He’s in one of those moods. “I’ll be nicer to her next time. I promise.” It will be a huge challenge, but the team is worth it.
“Great.” He scratches where his chin might be hiding. “Now, I have to go. Wife wants a foot rub.”
“TMI,” I say and hang up, but with a reluctant smile.
Coach has found himself a unicorn: a happy marriage.
Pretty sure in all of New York, that’s him and one other guy.
I pace around my place while Spike, channeling a circus cat, glides between my feet. The thing I’m pondering is: how do I take another stab at talking to Ladybug?
Step one: I need to find her. I doubt Cohen will help me again, so I’m on my own this time.
Speaking of Cohen, thanks to him, I know her last name now, even if I wouldn’t dare try to say it out loud: Papachristodoulopoulou. Her first name—Sophia—I know from Theodore.
I head over to my laptop and google that combo.
Nope. There’s an alpine skier named Sophia Papamichalopoulou, but that’s not Ladybug. Something else I learn is that her last name means “descendant of the priest and servant of Christ.” Huh. Another search later, I discover that unlike their Roman Catholic counterparts, Greek Orthodox priests are allowed to marry, which can lead to pretty long last names for their descendants.
Put another way, I find out nothing.
Hmm. She looked to be in her early twenties, so it’s a good bet that she’ll be on TikTok.
Nothing comes up. Weird.
Snapchat?
Still no. Same goes for Facebook.
Not into social media? I guess that’s one thing we have in common.
Fine. Plan B—which will make me even more of a stalker.
I dial Landon and make a point to not use video so that I don’t have to see his smug “I told you so” expression when he learns how much of a mess I’ve made.
“Let me guess,” he says instead of a hello. “Was it her who said, ‘How dare you?’”
“It was. You were right. Can we move on?”
“Hell fucking no,” he says. “Tell me what happened.”
I do so, feeling sick of the story already.
“Is she hot?” he asks.
“What?” I’m squeezing my phone too hard again.
“She sounded hot,” he says. “All breathy and indignant.”
I clench and unclench my free hand. “What she looks like is irrelevant.”
“Is it?” he asks.
Great. Another one. If he asks me to convince her with my “charms,” I’ll introduce him to Jason so they can braid each other’s pubes.
“I need your help,” I grit out through clenched teeth.
“Obviously you do,” he says. “So much help that you’ll have to be more specific.”
My fucking phone case is creaking again. “You have a guy who can find information on people. I want him to make a dossier on her.”
Silence.
“You there?” I growl.
“Yeah, I just can’t believe my ears. Two seconds ago, you said that I was right when I called you a stalker. Now, instead of changing your ways, you’re doubling down on it.”
“What choice do I have?”
He sighs. “Wait till she meets with you and the team? She is the new owner.”
“Fuck, no. If you don’t want to help, that’s fine, but I?—”
“I’m texting you the guy’s info,” he says, and I can somehow hear the eyeroll over the line. “I’ll also tell him to expect to hear from you.”
“Thanks. I owe you one.”
“It’s nothing. Just tell me how it all goes.”
I grudgingly promise that I will and hang up. Then I get in touch with the guy, whose name is Max Stolyar, and pay his exorbitant rate. Max reassures me that no, he doesn’t charge per syllable in the query’s name, and that he’ll have something for me in a few hours.
To bide my time, I turn on the TV and put on the next nature documentary from my very long to-watch list.
The show takes place in the ocean, which would usually be calming as fuck, but the unresolved Ladybug situation is bugging me too much to enjoy anything at the moment.
Finally, after what feels like a year of waiting, I get a text from Max.