Chapter 18
Theo
When I get back to the locker room, Grady is pulling on his street clothes. I try to figure out a way to casually ask what Lola is doing and land on, “So Lola has bartending on Saturday afternoon?”
He glances at me. “What?”
I focus intently on peeling myself out of my Under Armor shirt like it’s a complex task. “You said she was busy, and I thought she watched Randie unless she was at work?”
“Yeah, but no. She doesn’t have work,” Grady explains. “She also volunteers at an art gallery. Well, it’s more like an art collective thing.”
“She’s an artist?” I sound gobsmacked because I am.
Grady just shrugs and runs his hands through his damp copper hair, trying to finger-comb it into a style.
“I mean, I haven’t seen anything she’s done, but Landon says she used to be obsessed with drawing and painting.
He’s happy she’s back at it, so he tries to accommodate her.
Also, he’s a sucker for daddy time with Randie and knows there’ll be no missing skates in the play-off push, so he’s taking advantage now. ”
I nod. We’ve found a bit of a groove as a team, and we’re climbing the ranks in the division at the moment, but there’s a ton more regular season to be played.
If we keep this up, we will definitely be in playoff contention, though.
God, I hope we can do it, but I shove those thoughts from my head. “What’s an art collective?”
“It’s a place that is a gallery with exhibitions, but also a workspace where artists can create.
They offer classes, sometimes at no cost or minimal cost,” Grady explains.
“It’s super cool. Landon and I went to one of the exhibits and bought a painting for our bedroom by a queer artist. Oh, and Coach’s daughter takes classes there. Not Mac but Cassia, his younger one.”
“The one who designed the logo in his office? That thing is bad ass.” He nods in agreement. “And she’s there now? At this art collective?”
Grady’s eyes narrow on me. “Lola? Landon and Callan’s sister? Yeah…”
“I heard the cops followed up about her car, and I wanted to touch base. Since I was there… when it happened. When she found it. You know what I mean.” I shrug and peel off the rest of my workout gear, then grab my towel and wrap it around my waist.
“Yeah. Okay. Well, cops say that dude didn’t do it. The Pete guy she dumped.” Grady eyes me oddly. “They told her yesterday.”
“I still think it was him,” I say quietly.
“Yeah, we think so too,” Grady replies. “Which is why we’re gonna install a ring camera at the apartment and she’s quitting the bar.”
“She is?” I didn’t know that.
“She’ll find something else,” Grady remarks as he heads to the door. “See you tonight.”
I shower and throw on my street clothes.
My original plan was to go to the local deli I like, pick up a Cobb salad for lunch, and then have a pre-game nap.
But as I wait in line at the deli, I find myself googling Art Collective Portland.
Only one place comes up, called Sand Dollar Art Collective and Gallery.
I pay for my salad and start scarfing it down with a bottle of water at the counter by the window, and scan their website.
There’s a showcase for new artists happening over the weekend.
I scroll through pictures from previous exhibits and find Lola in two of them.
She’s smiling in both of them, dressed up, and looking incredible.
But she looks incredible in anything. I find the tab on the website about classes.
There are examples of student work. One piece catches my eye because the name underneath is Lola Casco.
It’s a landscape in muted pastels of the beach at sunset, seagulls swooping high in the sky, and dune grass bending in the imagined wind.
I know less than nothing about art, but I think it’s fucking great.
I finish my salad and kick myself once again for not getting her phone number.
I have no choice but to message her through that stupid hook-up app if I want to talk to her.
I walk home, trying not to think about how many other guys have shown interest in her profile and whether she’s responded to them.
I mean, we aren’t exclusive. We aren’t anything, and that’s the way it has to be because I’m in no place to date someone. I don’t even know how to do that… do I?
I’ve never wanted to be in a serious relationship.
Not once. Not even in high school. I used to hear the funeral march in my head when my teammates started getting into exclusive relationships.
I would even whistle it in the locker room when they’d talk about proposing and marriage.
Yeah, I was a delight. But why did I feel that way? And do I still?
I pull up the app as I round the sidewalk on my street.
LUKE_T
Hey. How did it go with Callan? He wasn’t at skate this morning.
I head into the building, up to my loft, and get ready for my nap.
By the time I’m crawling under the covers, she still hasn’t responded.
And after I wake up, there’s still no response.
I make a protein iced coffee, put on a suit, and head out because I like to get to the arena early.
When I get to the locker room, I find Callan at his cubby beside mine.
He looks up, blinks, and then goes back to taping one of his sticks.
“Hey! Missed you at skate earlier,” I say casually as I place my half-finished coffee on the shelf and shrug out of my suit jacket. He doesn’t answer, so I know he heard the police officer say my name. He knows Lola was at my house. “Callan, I think maybe we should talk.”
He looks up at me. “Oh, you think? What about? Why I wasn’t at the skate? Well, buddy, I will tell you why. It’s because I thought I might cross-check your face if I saw you, and I needed time to rein that in.”
“Okay.” I swallow and stop unbuttoning my shirt. If he’s going to assault me, it might be better if I were clothed. “So have you talked to Lola?”
“We had brunch with my parents, and she and I talked about her whereabouts after they left. I told her what a bad idea this was, and she told me to fuck off,” Callan replies and yanks on the tape roll in his hand much more aggressively than I bet he needs to be.
His blue eyes are hard and angry. “And you know what? Normally, I stay the fuck out of her personal life, but her personal life usually stays the fuck away from my work life.”
“Look, I respect Lola a lot,” I say, and he snorts. “Callan, truly. I do. This thing between us is…”
Why can’t I bring myself to say nothing? Not a big deal. Unimportant. A ton of similar words cycle through my head, but none of them feel right. I swallow and can finally spit one out. “Casual. Mutually so.”
“And you think that makes it better?” he asks, and now I’m confused. “You think I want you using her?”
“I’m not… I mean, it’s mutual. We’re both… have you ever had a casual… like no strings…”
“A situationship?” Callan says and aggressively rips the tape. “Yeah. It’s all I do. But not with your sister.”
“So you’re telling me she’s off limits?”
He opens his mouth and then closes it instantly, frowning.
After a deep breath, he stands up. He’s taller than me by almost two inches, but I’m thicker.
That said, if he throws a punch, I’ll let him.
“I don’t own my sister. She’s free to… situationship with whomever she wants. But I don’t think that’s what this is.”
“It is. Trust me, we both laid out our terms clearly,” I reply. “We’re friends now, too, I would say. But that’s it.”
“Sure,” he says in that way that lets me know he thinks I’m full of shit.
I frown. Callan grabs the stick he was working on and continues.
“Thing is, there’s only one thing that Lola steers more clear of than a relationship.
And that’s a hockey player. So this isn’t normal for her, and that makes it more than casual. No matter what you say.”
He walks out of the locker room, carrying his stick with him. My eye catches Xavier’s on the bench, and he shoots me a smile. “Sounds like a messy situation.”
“Situationship,” I correct. “And it’s not, even if Callan doesn’t believe it.”
“I hope so, for all our sakes, because you two play great together and I would hate for that to change.” Xavier stands up and heads out of the room as well.
I ignore the weird feeling in my gut and check my phone one more time. Lola still hasn’t responded to my message.
We play a decent game, but can’t pull out the win.
Sometimes it happens, and I used to be the first to shrug off those losses where everything goes right, but you still come up short.
I feel this one, though, it’s heavy, like a bad omen, and I don’t have a beer to wash it down.
Coach Larue walks in and claps his hands as we peel out of our gear.
“Shake this one off, boys. We have a 14-day road trip, and I’m sure you don’t want to start on the wrong foot.
Landon, Theo, Conner, media duty in the hall. ”
He jerks his head toward the door. I sniffle and groan as I stand and grab my baseball cap from the stall behind me.
I tug it over my damp hair and follow Conner and Landon out for the press.
I get asked the usual “What can we improve?” “What do I think cost us out there?” “How do I feel about the upcoming road trip?”
“I feel good. I think we just gotta shake this one off and go in fresh, not hold onto this loss,” I say, and the reporter stares like he’s expecting more.
“This will be your first time back in Vegas, facing your old team. Any thoughts on that?” he prompts.
“Oh. Right.” Did I actually forget? No. But I’ve been doing a pretty good job at ignoring the fact that we’re playing Vegas. “I mean, I’m not fixating on it. I’m sure it will be nice to see some of my old teammates.”
“Any worries? Any concerns about falling back into the habits you developed there?” Usually, during interviews, I stare at the ground or off into space, but now I snap my gaze right to the reporter.
He’s about thirty or so. Balding. Wide-set pale eyes behind glasses and a pseudo-smirk on his face as he waits for my response.
“I didn’t become an alcoholic because of Vegas if that’s what you’re saying,” I reply flatly. Conner looks over from where he’s standing a couple feet away. He must have heard my response. “I’m confident in where I am in my journey and don’t intend to revisit anything anywhere. Thanks.”
I turn to leave without asking if he’s done with his questions because I do not give two fucks. I head back into the dressing room and get ready to shower. Callan stares at me as he strips out of the last of his gear and reaches for his towel. “You good? You don’t look it.”
“I’m fine,” I grumble.
After my shower, I take my time dressing.
The guys were mumbling about going out to shake off the loss, but I intend to just go home.
I’m officially in a shit mood. When I step out of the locker room and make my way down the curving hallway to the players’ entrance, I check my phone to see that Lola still hasn’t responded to my message on the app. My mood somehow gets darker.
And then I smack right into Landon. “Dude.”
“Sorry,” I mumble.
“Are you going out with us?” he asks, and I shake my head. “Are you sure? I mean, is it the booze part that has you—”
“No. I just… I’m in a shit mood.” Because your sister won’t message me back. “I wouldn’t be any fun.”
“Okay. Do you need to talk?” I shake my head again.
“So… your sister is watching Randie?” I ask, and he kind of looks confused by my abrupt change of topic.
“Lola? No. Not tonight. She’s with my Aunt Winnie and Uncle Holden,” Landon says. “Lola had plans.”
“Working?” I ask, and even I can hear how desperate I sound.
“At the bar? No. I think she might have a date,” Landon surmises, and my heart trips in my chest. “She’s been squirrelly about what she’s doing, and she only gets that way when there’s a dude involved.”
“Oh. Cool,” I say, and I sound like it’s anything but cool. And besides, why would I think it’s cool his sister is acting squirrelly? “I mean, not cool, but good for her if she’s got someone. I mean, if she’s dating. I guess. I don’t know.”
Landon’s blond eyebrows pinch, and he gives me a WTF smile. I shake my head. “Ignore me. I told you. Bad mood. I need to go.”
I turn, and Callan is standing farther down the hall, clearly waiting for Landon. Our eyes lock, and he gives me one sharp raised eyebrow. I ignore the pointed look and shove my phone in my pocket. “See you guys at the plane tomorrow.”
In my car, I look at my phone again. She has seen the message, I can tell.
But she isn’t responding. She’s probably been on the app to find another guy to hook up with.
A guy she’s out with right now, apparently.
And this feeling in my gut, which seems to be a mix of nausea and anger, I don’t have the right to feel.
She owes me nothing. She’s done nothing wrong. I’m an idiot.
I delete the app from my phone and go home.