Chapter 10
Thayne
I know it’s wrong.
I know it’s wrong, and my brain still does it.
Every time I lay eyes on her, I internally sing that silly little snack jingle, but instead of pocket, I sing rocket because that’s what we call her.
Hot Rocket.
Not to her face.
Never to her face.
Most of us – self included – are looking to last awhile in the league versus being forced into earlier retirement via LITR brought on by getting knocked so hard in the sack we can’t ever skate again.
Under normal circumstances calling Harlow Hennington, Owner and GM of the Dalvegan Dragons ice hockey franchise, Hot Rocket would be redundant – since that’s what a rocket is by definition – except in her case hot is in reference to her temper, not her smoking hot body.
Which she still has even after popping out twins during her first year as the bench boss’s boss.
I bet Gilly will look even more beautiful pregnant.
Holding our first born.
Second.
Third?
Is three too many?
Not enough?
I could do four.
Hell, even five.
Hennington drags her hands slowly down her brown skinned face prior to grousing, “Do you fucking pheasants just get together for a post season conference call or an off-season round of golf and discuss new and fucking unfathomable ways to get me to go fucking gray before I’m fucking fifty?!”
“I bet it’s a group text,” playfully interjects her younger husband, Brendan “Bricks” Brickley, one of our equipment managers, between sips of his ice-cold beer.
She slowly angles her head in his direction while the hula group continues practicing a few feet away. “Do I look remotely amused, Baby Bottle Pop?”
Despite the shrill whistle on the play, he open mouth chuckles.
Continues grinning.
Enjoys another sip of his drink.
Guess bud really enjoys living that Bon Jovi prayer life.
“Tell me,” Hennington commands on a swift snap of her face back our direction, “that Blanc knows about this.”
“I bet you a dinner at Hell’s Kitchen during our anniversary trip that he doesn’t,” Bricks cheekily mutters.
“I don’t wanna eat thousand-dollar cat food wrapped in mushroom bread-”
“How. Dare. You.”
“And I don’t want you to be right.” She jabs her pointed, pissed off finger closer to my face than I care for. “Tell me, he’s wrong, tendy.” The digit creeps higher. “Tell me, Blanc knows that you’re wheeling his little sister and is fucking fine with it.”
My mouth cracks open to answer yet somehow opts to investigate instead. “How do you know she’s his sister?”
“More jokes?!” Hot Rocket shrieks at the same time she flings her hands into the air.
“I’m sorry, is this the cheeky, Dalvegan green bikini I got from Jokes “R” Us and not Clara’s Culotte?
” Her husband does his best to swallow his snickers alongside another gulp of beer as she squawks, “She’s the fucking team dentist, you pineapple shorts wearing pigeon! ”
Technically, they’re just triangles.
But I could rock a pair of pineapples.
Purple tank top.
Pair it with my straw hat.
Maybe something for my next date?
You know.
Assuming I live to see it.
“Forgive her,” Bricks mirthfully interjects. “The Great American Bulldog has the day off, so there’s no one other than me to remind her of the numerous legal – and financial – reasons she shouldn’t say half the shit that she currently is.”
“Why exactly does Adelstein have the day off?” I innocently ponder.
“She wasn’t supposed to be needed,” he replies, humor loudly lingering in his tone. “This little shindig is for players and on ice staff only.”
“Right…” my head tilts challenging to one side, “and that means…you technically aren’t even supposed to be here as the owner.”
“GreatOneHaveMercy, that had to sound better in your fucking head than out loud,” bites Hennington.
“It did,” immediately escapes during a frantic nod. “It really did.”
“She’s the owner and his wife,” Gilly meekly reminds. “Her presence – while a favorite gasp worthy moment in a telenovela – isn’t actually that wild and crazy considering the circumstances.”
Fuckme…that’s a fact.
We’re talkin’ Smoky Robinson being crucial to Motown’s success level.
We’re talkin’ Jacques Plante being one of the first goalies to consistently wear a face mask.
We’re talkin’ coffee cherries being the fruit that houses the coffee beans we roast.
It’s a truthbombsky tune I don’t wanna hear but can’t turn off.
“And as for the dentist comment – although I’m an endodontist which is technically a dentist that has additional years of advanced specialized training –” Gilly lets her gaze gravitate up to me, “the Dragons recommend my practice to all the players who need our services. We’re the ones who handle any and all mouth related injuries or issues – including supplying the team with a team dentist – which Bull is, but he has no additional accreditations.
The practice also custom fits the team’s gumshields – or mouthguards as they’re colloquially called – especially for the rookies and fresh trades, something else that is part of Bull’s responsibility as the actual team dentist. I’m just…
his boss. And have agreed to fill in if ever necessary, but I doubt it’ll ever be necessary. ”
I love that she has her own career.
Her own passion.
And if it weren’t for “Mama Say Knock You Out” vibes Hot Rocket is currently sending me, I’d admit that.
Out loud.
Right now.
I always want Gilly to know how incredible I think she is.
“Plus,” the lei wearing vixen beside me struggles not to cringe, “she’s come to a few of the get-togethers that I’ve helped Mari host for the WAGs of the coaching and management staff who crave the consanguinity that the Slayers have that they’re not invited to since they’re technically not Slayers because they’re not with players. ”
“I didn’t know Coach’s wife did that.”
“And I didn’t know,” our team owner mockingly begins, “that you were wheeling her sister-in-law.”
“I’m not,” leaves me too quickly. “I mean not yet?” Scratching the back of my neck mindlessly occurs. “It’s not that we haven’t thought about it-”
“Have you thought about the words coming out of your fucking mouth right now?!” Hennington high-pitchedly huffs. “I don’t want – nor need – your strategy for bagging your coach’s-”
“One of my coaches.”
“-sister!” Her hands fall to her hips and firmly clench. “Tell. Me. He. Already. Knows. Groff.” My jaw lowers again, yet nothing comes out, prompting Hot Rocket to redirect her glare to my date. “Tell. Me. He. Already. Knows. Gillian.”
“Uh…” a loud hiccup bounces her entire figure. “Not in um…” Two more make themselves heard. “Those words?”
“Those words or any words?” growls the woman most likely considering a trade for me right about now.
Instinct pushes me to wind my arm protectively around my Slayer’s waist and declare, “We’ll find the right ones, GM. Promise, aye.”
“And the right time,” croaks Gilly as she warmly leans into my hold.
“There is never going to be a right time,” Hot Rocket informs on a shake of the head.
“However, for the sake of this team, this family, I’m only going to say this once.
” Sternness overwhelming her expression precedes her stare boring into mine.
“You have two options, tendy. Tell him or don’t date her. ”
Relief threatens to bear hug me. “You’re not gonna tell him first?”
“That’s not my job,” she swiftly states.
“That’s your job,” her chin kicks itself at me, “as one of his players. And that’s your job,” the action is replicated at Gilly, “as his sister. My job,” Hennington stabs herself in the chest with a pointed digit, “is to make sure this family has the least amount of off ice problems possible for that Whora The Explorer Ramirez to find and report on.” The lean forward executed is beyond menacing.
“Do. Not. Make my job any harder than it already fucking is. Clearskies?”