BETTSY
My age is catching up with me because two-day hangovers are now a thing, apparently. I’ve got the mother of all headaches—and to make things worse, Johnny has summoned both Danny and I to his apartment to make a plan.
I’m stretched out on his sofa, shoes off and the hood of my team jumper pulled up over my head to shield my eyes from the light.
The only good thing about this is Johnny being far too wrapped up in his notebook to care that I’ve got my feet up on the sofa. Shoes or no shoes, he lets none of us do this—not even when you’re hanging out of your ass like I am.
“Now this is where the hard work begins,” Johnny says. There’s a fumbling before I hear his laptop being thudded down on the coffee table. “Getting selected is the straightforward part. We need to figure out who you guys are up against.”
“What’s there to plan?” I ask. “Surely we turn up to camp and show them what we’ve got.” I prop myself up on my elbows to peer at Danny, sitting opposite me in the single armchair.
He nods, reassuring me that it’s not a crazy idea.
From what Coach Adams, our league coach said, we’ve got a week to prove ourselves—to keep in the running to be named on the official roster. And considering Team GB is already quite an established team, there’s only two or three slots available.
“Absolutely not,” Johnny says. “If I was up for Team Canada … I’d already know who my competition was—and I wouldn’t be hungover.” He glowers at me, judging me for another post-game drinking session.
He picks up his notebook and flicks through the pages, stopping on a fresh sheet near the back, opposite a list he’s already compiled .
I peer out from under my hood at his scribbles, blinking several times to make sure my eyes are working correctly.
“Please tell me that’s not Patrick Langdon’s name at the top?” I groan.
Rick Langdon is a complete ass-hat and I hold him personally responsible for losing around three grand of earnings last summer.
I had plans to work with Danny at his old-man’s construction site to save up some cash for a rainy day, but Langer had other plans for me.
Due to his inability to perform a clean hit, I was on concussion protocol.
My parents forced me to stay at their place for the off-season while my mother engaged in ‘cotton-wool deployment’—as my sister put it; ever since we lost my older brother, no injury or mild-headache goes untreated when Judith Betts is concerned.
“Yep—he’s had a similar output to you this season, so I think it’s only fair to assume he’ll be at camp too.”
“Fuck’s sake.” I let out an exasperated breath before grabbing one of Johnny’s sofa cushions and shoving it over my head. I may as well end it all now. Because it’d be a damn sight more enjoyable than being up against Langer.
Another cushion comes flying at me from Danny’s direction, and I abandon the attempt on my life.
“One defence spot, by the look of it,” Johnny says. “And two wingers.”
“How did you figure that out?” Danny asks.
“Well, we know who retired last year, and we know where they were on the roster,” Johnny says. “And Buttons has an injury. There’s a spot right there. Honestly, you guys don’t pay any attention.”
I pause, half debating grabbing the cushion again, because that will mean that Langer will literally be the one to beat. Johnny’s right—I’m unprepared and I don’t know if I stand a chance .
What if I got selected to make up the numbers because the pool of British defenceman available is slim pickings?
Johnny reels off names of wingers and Danny looks like he’s thinking along the same lines as me.
“Got any of the good coffee, Cap?” Danny says. “I think we could all do with a cup.”
“In the cupboard—right, Betts … defencemen … Patrick Langdon and Sean Knowles. That’s my guess.”
I consider this for a moment. Knowlsey’s a good guy but I think my presence is more effective in the PK … but Langer—he’s a piece of work and the more I think about him, the more my head hurts.
“Please, can you bring some paracetamol with the coffee, Dan? And a banana.”
“On it,” he calls back from the kitchen.
“Betts—you know this needs to stop, right?” Johnny says. “I’m starting to sound like a record stuck on repeat, but the partying and late nights need to be done with.”
“I agree—but we were celebrating. Again.”
Johnny sighs.
But in all seriousness, the news of being up against Langer is forcing me to re-consider my actions. Starting tomorrow … no booze and no junk food, along with my vow of no sex.
A banana comes flying at me a second before Danny places a mug down on the coffee table, alongside a blister pack of pain killers.
I force myself into a sitting position and pop two tablets into my mouth, swigging them down with a bottle of water I had on the floor next to me. Then I get started with the banana.
Instant relief.
I’m about to reach for my coffee when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
Hutch’s name is flashing up on the screen and since he’s a texter, not a talker, I answer it straight away .
“There’s some girl buzzing on the intercom for you,” he says. “And before you ask—it’s not Rochelle.”
“Who is it then?” I ask.
“Not sure.”
Hutch and I share an apartment on the fifth floor; with Johnny being on the eighth floor, it means I can be home in a matter of seconds. However, since I’m not expecting anyone, and I’m busy, whoever it is can wait.
“Tell her I’m unavailable,” I say.
Hutch hangs up, and I tune back into Johnny.
He’s got a spreadsheet open now, adding stats and various bits of information he deems necessary, but since he’s got it in hand, I make myself comfortable so I can drink my coffee.
He’s explaining the importance of ‘off-ice’ performance when his intercom buzzes. All of us swivel our heads towards the phone on the wall and, a few moments later, he rises to his feet to saunter over to the receiver.
“Hello?” he says.
And the voice on the other side of the line is faintly audible from where Danny and I are sitting.
“I’m looking for Mike Betts—Bettsy. I’m looking for Bettsy,” says the voice. And the first thing I notice is that she’s got the same accent as me. Do I know her?
I peer over to Johnny who’s eyeing me with question—and I shake my head. Despite being curious who it could be, I leap to the possibility of it being an ex from back home who I definitely don’t want to see.
Johnny mouths something I can’t understand, then hits the button on the intercom to talk back. “Umm, he’s just stepped out, but who shall I say is asking?”
Okay, I can live with that. But what I don’t expect is the reply we get from the voice on the other side of the intercom.
“Can you tell him it’s Ellie—Ellie Kitchener,” she says, pausing before adding, “Kitch. ”
The sound of her nickname sends a rush of excitement flow through my body, right before the anxiety kicks in.