Chapter 6 The Good Stuff
THE GOOD STUFF
FORD
The penguin’s almost there. One more corner in this maze, and I’ll get him to the end. But the maze fucks with me, shifting ninety degrees on the screen.
Ha. I won’t go down that easily.
I readjust to the new spatial orientation, maneuver the penguin through the last turn, and send him safely out.
I punch the air.
“Dude, how fast were you today?” Wesley Bryant, one of our star wingers, asks from across the locker room as he tugs on his shoulder pads.
“Thirty-two seconds,” I say proudly as I stretch in front of my stall and toss my phone into the cubby.
Our goalie, Max Lambert, wiggles his fingers from his stall. “Gimme. I can beat you.”
I scoff. “You wish.”
He taps his temple. “I’ve been training my brain for a long time.”
From the other side of me, Tyler Falcon snorts. “Might want to see if you can get a refund next time,” says the defenseman, who became a fast friend after joining the team a couple years ago.
Max strides over, half-dressed in his chest protector and shorts. “I will kill it in this penguin game,” he declares. “I do eye exercises all the time.”
“Yeah? Then use your eyes to look it up on your phone. It’s called—hold on,” I say, waiting as he doubles back and grabs his phone, presumably opening a search bar or app store. As he looks back at me, I finish, “The Penguin Maze That Ford Devon Owns Your Ass In.”
Max glares at me like he wants to murder me in my sleep.
It’d be a long, slow, painful death.
I’d probably deserve it.
I flash a closed-mouth grin as I pull on a yellow undershirt. “Look, I’m happy to wipe the floor with all you clowns in the brain-game department,” I say.
I’ve only been playing them my entire time in the pros. Anything for an edge.
Anything to prove I belong here.
When I was younger, so many people said I didn’t.
Well, the facts said it too. I went undrafted.
After college, I had to claw my way up. I went to a training camp for the Miami team as a free agent and impressed them, but I got sent to the minors.
Then I landed a shot at the Phoenix training camp.
Same deal—I was an undrafted free agent too, only older.
But I played hard, worked harder, and finally snagged a slot on the roster.
Didn’t log ice time in my first NHL game until I was twenty-four.
Nearly ancient by this sport’s standards.
Definitely an anomaly, as sportscasters pointed out. Hockey pundits figured I’d be an afterthought. The player who’d spend a couple of months in the pros, fill in here or there, and disappear.
I defied the odds.
I stayed for twelve.
A career in hockey was a puzzle to solve.
And that’s what I fucking do.
These brain games help with focus. And now, all my focus goes to the ice.
I pull on my jersey, then grab my water bottle—the same one I bring to every game, covered in stickers of mountains with the words Surprise Them across the side. “All right, kids. Hitting the ice for warmups,” I say.
“Good plan, old man,” Max calls. “Let me know if you need your AARP card to play tonight.”
I flip him the bird and head out.
Look, I’m not saying the Penguin Maze warmed up my brain, but I am in the zone physically and mentally.
In the first period, when I’m not on the ice, I’m laser-focused on studying the Chicago defenders here in our rink and the way they try to snag the puck from our forwards.
When it’s time for a line change, I hop over the boards and attack, drowning out everything but the game.
The crowd noise? Gone.
The chirping from the opponents? Irrelevant.
Every thought outside of this second, this play, this chance? Nonexistent.
Falcon snags the puck on a rebound and flicks it my way.
I escort it down the ice, taking a shot on goal.
It’s nearly there, but their goalie lunges for it, snagging it just before it goes in.
Next time.
We’ll get it next time.
I don’t get stuck on what didn’t happen in one play. The past is already written. But the future? That’s still up for grabs.
When the shift ends, I hop over the boards, take a breath, and visualize what’s coming.
And in the third period, I’m fucking ready when Bryant jumps on the puck, racing down the ice. I’m right by his side, but a Chicago defender comes out of nowhere, stripping it from him.
Fuck that.
As the guy spins, clearly hunting for a teammate to pass to, I reach out my stick, thank you very much, and take it for myself.
I race back toward the net, calculating, waiting, reading the Chicago goalie.
He shifts right.
I send the puck left, straight to Bryant, who whips it past a sliver of an opening.
Perfect shot.
The lamp lights. The crowd roars. For a brief second, I let the sound filter in.
That’s another thing I’ve learned over time—how to block out the noise that doesn’t matter. And how to let in only the good stuff since the good stuff fuels you.
Otherwise known as how to have a thick skin.
When the game ends with a W, I skate off the ice, grateful we’re starting the season with another win.
More grateful that I feel good.
Well, mostly good.
I move through my post-game rituals. But even after a quick bike ride at the arena, and then a polar plunge for five minutes at fifty-two degrees—and doing them after nearly every home game for more than ten years doesn’t make these ice baths any easier—my muscles are still sore, and my neck is tighter than a jack-in-the-box.
Nothing that some time in the hot tub at home won’t fix though.
On the drive there, my mind wanders to my cute and irresistibly sexy neighbor, who I’m meeting in a couple days about the renovation.
And I wonder, can I see her from the hot tub up on the second-floor balcony? Is there a view into her kitchen? Her bedroom? Her living room? I’ve never looked, and the whole way home, I can’t stop wondering what I’d see if I did.
The thought is entirely too tempting as I walk in the door.
With board shorts on, and Zamboni watching my every move, I grab my water bottle from my bureau—the one I keep at home that my sister’s kids got me for Christmas.
They’re just as practical as their mom but a bit more creative since they put stickers of Corgis, German Shepherds, and my dog all over it.
Patting my thigh, I say to my girl, “C’mon, Zamboni.”
She trots by my side as I pad across the bedroom to the sliding glass doors, tug them open, and walk onto the balcony. I stretch under the stars, lifting my arms to the sky, shifting my neck back and forth, and keeping my gaze fixed firmly in front of me.
Not to the side. Not to my neighbor’s home.
I won’t look.
I definitely won’t look.
I’ll just enjoy the stars along with the bubbling hot tub. Setting my phone on top of a stack of towels on a small, low stand away from the water, I sink into the welcoming heat. Zamboni parks herself on the wooden deck.
As I gaze up at the inky sky and the stars winking on and off, I take a drink of water—gotta stay hydrated in the jacuzzi—then close my eyes, letting the water work its magic.
I let my mind go blank. This is owning my time, right? I’m using this moment to relax and recharge.
And it works. Hell, it’s easy to keep my focus in front of me. It’s late, nearly eleven, and I bet Skylar isn’t even up. If I did glance next door, the curtains would be closed, the house shrouded in darkness.
Don’t think about your neighbor. Think about relaxing in this final part of your post-game ritual.
But…what if I could see her?
Except, nope.
I shouldn’t do that. I really fucking shouldn’t. I don’t watch my neighbors. I mind my own damn business.
But there’s a difference between watching and just…noticing. Right?
I’m not spying. I’m just…curious.
What’s the harm, really?
We live next door to each other. We’ve seen each other a few times already. She walks her dog. I walk mine. I’m simply sitting here on my balcony. Just…checking out the neighborhood. A safety check of sorts.
I open my eyes and look.
Hmm. Just the side of her house.
I shift to another seat in the hot tub. Nope. Still just the yard, like always.
But wait.
If I lean my head to the right…
I peer farther into her yard, and there it is—the catio her brother had built over the summer.
Huh. I’ve never had a close-up look at a cat playpen before. That’s interesting. I wonder how many shelves it has, how far it goes, what the levels look like.
“What do you think, girl? Should I get a better look?” I ask Zamboni as I shift around, and…
Oh.
Well.
I’ve never sat on this side of the hot tub before.
And right here, I can look down and see the kitchen.
Where Skylar’s walking around in—I squint—are those sleep shorts?
The light in her kitchen is soft, casting a golden glow on her pale skin. Her legs are long, smooth, toned in a way that makes my chest tighten. The cami clings to her just barely, like it’s hanging on for dear life.
And that hair—copper waves have been braided loosely, messy strands slipping free.
Like she’s just casually twisted her hair into a braid, with barely a second thought.
What was she doing when she swept it up?
Was she talking to a friend on the phone?
Singing along to an upbeat tune on her playlist?
Bingeing a comedy series? No. She probably watches something I’d never expect. Like, I don’t know, zombie shows.
And she’s holding her phone, talking into it—a voice memo maybe? She walks to the counter a few feet away, and I can’t see all of her anymore. I break my stare to grab a drink of water, then set the bottle down again.
And…hold the fuck on. She’s back in view and…now she’s bending over.
Heat rolls through me. I shift in my seat, adjusting myself beneath the water.
My grip tightens on the edge of the hot tub.
My neighbor—the woman I’ve just hired—is standing in her kitchen, wearing the tiniest fucking shorts I’ve ever seen.
A lot of good the water break did. I am parched.
I should look away. I should absolutely, one hundred percent, look away.