Chapter 9
Thayne
Post a semi awkward truck ride downtown – that’s only made slightly less uncomfortable thanks to a summer song mix of Rose Royce, Kool & the Gang, and Kenny Chesney – we valet, check in, and navigate our way past security to the expansive, outdoor, secluded pool section we’re using for photos.
“Groffeeeeeee,” calls out Tanner “Snowman” Frosky during his stroll closer, tan arm draped lovingly around the shoulder of his honey, brown sugar skinned fiancée, Arden Hoss, “the best Tendy in our hemisphere.”
His Doctenn accent makes that sound like a fact rather than an opinion.
I like that.
We’re talkin’ from one bud to another, not the way broadskies literally climb fences to touch his stick.
I don’t swipe that way.
And honestly don’t care if any of my teammates do.
And you know what?
I think at least one does.
But it ain’t my job to let the world know that.
He will when he’s ready.
If he ever is.
We may be welcomin’ and acceptin’ out here in Dalvegan, but the sport as a whole has a shit ton of work to do.
“Geographical or cultural?” curiously inquires the female whose fingers are still folded with mine.
“He can’t spell either of us those,” Hoss teasingly cringes, “let alone define them.”
“I am not nearly as unintelligent as Ducky: Warrior Princess,” his blond head casually tips in our old media coordinator’s direction, “would like you to believe.”
“My bikini top is not that gold, Hamster Boy.”
“You look like you raided her wardrobe on set between takes.”
Hoss’s jaw drops in outrage.
“However, I must admit your tits look infinitely better than hers did.”
“Gram worthy all day,” thoughtlessly compliments my baby brother on a slow head nod.
“Bronskie!” Snowman warmly greets prior to grabbing a fist full of his shirt. “Cool down.” One effortless tug sends him flying over the luxurious pool’s edge into the water, making a very large, attention-grabbing splash. “And keep your eyes off my Slayer, Pee-Wee.”
Laughter immediately escapes me along with him yet his fiancée gripes, “What if his cell was in his pocket, genius?”
“Wasn’t,” I casually reassure. “Had him leave it at homeskies.”
“A teen without his phone?” playfully ponders Frosky’s other half. “Is he gonna die?”
All of a sudden, Bronny pops his frame back up and wildly shakes his head, “Woooooo!”
“Seems alright to me,” chortles our highest scoring player on a casual smirk.
Hoss exhibits no hesitation in shoving him over to join my sibling at the same time she declares, “You will be too.” Upon the splash, she cordially extends her hand towards my own Slayer. “Arden Hoss, but the boys usually just call me Hoss.”
“Gillian,” their palms clasp together and shake, “and most people call me Gilly outside the office.”
The second their touch splits, her head cocks to one side in obvious curiosity. “You look so familiar.” Sounds of Snowman resurfacing threatens to summon my attention elsewhere. “You a season ticketholder?”
I brace myself for the inevitable whistle on the play I know is coming as Gilly frees a hiccup that delays her response. “No.”
“Foundation volunteer?”
“No.”
“Friend of one of the boys?”
Another hiccup becomes heard.
“Actually, you kinda remind me of-”
“That’s a great shot,” gushes Romella Pascual, Hoss’s replacement due to her recent promotion, from beside Perdita Lumet, our lead inhouse photographer. “Chicks are gonna love seeing Snowman soaking wet like that.”
“She’s not wrong,” Hoss casually agrees. “I see the thirsty twat comments from broadskies on the reggie.”
“And the push into the water was top cheddar,” Pascual praises upon them closing their distance.
“Got that too,” Lumet assures prior to squatting down to snap a few more shots of Snowman wrestling with my little brother.
“This is what I’m here to capture.” She gives her dirty blonde hair a good push out of her face and resumes clicking.
“I want everyone loose and casual and fun and relaxed like I’m invisible, just like they do at the games. ”
“Lummy, you’re the only one here dressed like you just left an Alice in Wonderland themed tea party,” chirps Hoss with a crooked smirk. “You’re impossible to fucking ignore.”
She sharply cuts the camera upward and snaps a pic. “Try.”
Hoss flashes the woman her middle finger sparking warm giggles to freely leave Gilly once more, the sound settling my heart that’s been repeatedly skipping beats like a new DJ scratching his first record.
The mental reference easily reminds me of something I need to do, which prompts me to back away towards the booth that’s set up beside the tented arrangements. “Y’all excuse us. I need to see a man about a microphone.”
“Isn’t it a horse?” Pascual ponders in confusion.
“Yeah, but it’s Tendy,” Hoss’s offhanded dismissal precedes me spinning on my heels. “Just go with it. Goalies are weird.”
Once we’re out of their earshot, Gilly quietly inquires, “Does that not bother you?”
Determination to reach my destination doesn’t deter. “What?”
“That phrase.” She waits until my stare finds hers. “The fact that everyone thinks you’re weird.”
“I am weird.” Her mouth twitches in obvious objection pushing me to grin wider during my defending.
“I don’t think that’s a bad thing, Gillybean.
” A small bounce of my shoulders is wedged between statements.
“I essentially get paid to wear a dog bite trainer suit in eighteen-degree temperatures while people shoot rubber circles at me that are going on average ninety miles per hour. Not sure I’d call that normal.
” Light laughs escape us both. “Definitely not sane.” Additional snickers fuse between us.
“The thing is…everyone is entitled to think what they wanna think.” Another innocent shrug is executed.
“And I’m entitled not to care unless I want to. ”
Awe – I don’t think I could ever get tired of seeing – expands in her gaze leaving me no choice but to blush.
I swear to Sawchuk, if she slapshots anymore looks like that at me, the boys are gonna be askin’ me all afternoon how I got sunburned so quick.
Our arrival to the music space is the first time our hands momentarily separate, only done to allow me to properly greet DJ R3VERS3 – who I paid out of pocket to be here.
“Groffee T,” we briefly embrace one another with a one hand pull and pat, “always bringin’ the flava that be.”
“R3VERS3, rewind, and play that shit one more time,” I chime back alongside our splitting.
He immediately lets his dark gaze drift over to the beauty beside me and hungrily strokes the black scruff on his tiramisu shaded face. “And who’s the dime?”
“Mine,” leaves my lips in tandem with me winding an arm around the small of her back.
His hands fly up in surrender. “Understood.”
“Good.” Resuming my carefree nature effortlessly occurs. “Mind if I borrow the mic for a min?”
“Make it do what it do, Groffee,” R3VERS3 cheerfully states, abruptly shorting out the music.
With Gilly still in my grasp, I grab the object, rotate us around to the face the group, and enthusiastically grunt our team war cry, “Ra.”
Everyone in attendance echoes the sentiment.
“Jus’ pausin’ the tuneskies to let everyone know the fajita buffet is set up back by the outdoor open bar for all of the Dragon fam in attendance. Eat and drink as much as you want, the tabs for both are on me.”
“Es-tu honnête?” Matej “Matty” Horák, our Czech forward, questions from the pool stairs he’s occupying with what I’m assuming is his older brother.
“Yup,” I cheerfully answer, proud I know enough of his native language to answer, “total truthskeis, bud.” Returning my focus back to the congregated crowd occurs next.
“DJ R3VERS3,” my thumb kicks backward, “is up for playin’ any music from anywhere,” an extra welcoming grin is presented for those from other countries, “as long as it wasn’t made in the last decade. ”
“Boooooo,” chirps one of the Lagunas brothers aka the Goonie Tunes.
“I also had our latest rookie who I witnessed firsthand dominate camp – Corbin Hale – get me in touch with his sister’s travelin’ hula company – Hula At Your Girl – and hired them to host some teachin’ seshes from now ‘til five. You can find ‘em set up to the left underneath some of the taller palms next to Sal Seashell – my favorite ukulele player who strums a meannnnnn Jimi Hendrix and Janis Joplin.” Light chuckles encourage me to wrap up the announcement. “Whatever you do today, jus’ do it the Dragon Way. Work hard.”
“Ra!” they chant in return with a pound to their chest.
“Play hard.”
“Ra!”
“F…inish that phrase when there aren’t hatchlings around, aye?”
Loud laughs act as an easy segue for R3VERS3 to resume playing music, this time dropping the beat of “Summertime” much to my approval.
“Classic,” I praise during my returning of the mic. “Maybe throw in a little Mungo Jerry ‘In the Summertime’ or Otis Redding ‘(Sittin' On) The Dock Of The Bay’ jus’ for funskies.”
“Those are two very different vibes, man,” R3VERS3 openly chortles while nodding. “Mad respect for both.”
My grin of appreciation continues when Gilly beams up at me, “I honestly don’t know what impresses me the most. The fact you can understand a bit of Czech, that you went out of your way to make Hale as much as his family feel welcomed, that you have a favorite ukulele player, or that you know who Mungo Jerry is. ”
“Can’t be the last one.” I teasingly wink. “That’s jus’ me livin’ up to the amazin’ nickname you gave me.”
Giggles gracing my ears again convinces me to lean over to capture them with my mouth only to unfortunately be interrupted by Jazon “Hedgie” Hedgecomb investigating, “You really organized and paid for all the extra shit?”
Masking my disappointment over our interrupted kiss is done by simply gripping her waist tighter. “Yeah.”
“Pochemu?” Grunts Igor Alexeyev, our team captain, in Russian, large pale arms folding firmly across his chest. “You lose a bet?”
“No.”
“Need better press?”
“No.”
“In arbitration?”
“No.”