Chapter 3
brOTHERHOOD OF THE TRAVELING PUCKS
Declan
“Dude, I saw your socials this morning. I can’t believe you drove a fucking Zamboni,” Alex says over the phone as I head toward the event building on the winery property.
He called as I was walking out of the main house. It’s like he knows I’m with Ginny.
And that I’m getting pissed that something’s up here that I can’t figure out.
It’s more than wine. I caught on to whispers with the staff at the wedding yesterday, but I didn’t suspect it would’ve involved Ginny beyond whatever capacity she was needed in for wedding stuff.
Now, though?
Now, I want to know what the hell’s going on.
Without telling Alex where I am, who I’m with, or why I’m worried.
When it’s none of my business.
After that show Eddie put on in the kitchen, I’m sure as hell not asking her what she thinks. And I’m glad she’s clearing out to let my director-slash-cameraperson and me handle filming on our own.
It’s a low-budget production.
The lowest of low-budget productions.
But it’s a stepping stone.
“If you want to drive the Zamboni, all you have to do is ask,” I tell Alex.
He laughs. “Yeah, we’re all taking turns driving the Zamboni after morning skate. Sure.”
“Afternoon game today?”
“Plowing through Copper Valley this afternoon.”
“Give my regards to their mascots.”
He laughs. “I’m gonna give them and their mascots all a big L today.”
“Your ass on the rebound?” He pulled a glute and was out for a few games. Looked good two nights ago though. You can take the hockey player off the ice, but you can’t take the love of the game out of the hockey player.
“My ass is fine as hell. Want a pic?”
“Foxy Goes There, ass-rater edition.”
He snickers.
When I retired from hockey, I didn’t have a clue what I wanted to do. I’d intended to play for ten more years, but my option came up while I was out with an injury, no teams wanted me, and I eventually had to face that retirement was the only thing that made sense.
The amateur documentarian thing happened by accident.
I got an invitation to shadow my dentist for a day after getting my permanent teeth, so I recorded the whole thing, tongue-in-cheek, and posted a video of the highlights to my socials.
That was followed by an invitation to be a mascot for a day, which I also recorded, and everything exploded when I posted that video.
What began with me documenting my post-hockey life as I took a road trip around the country with my dog, looking for what I’m supposed to do now, has turned into a social media influencer job with nearly three million followers across my channels.
“Saw Foxy went viral again last week,” Alex says. “But don’t tell me that’s the best you could’ve done as a rodeo clown.”
I pause as I reach the banquet hall, leaning against the stone wall, and watch two of the caterers, who are back today, take down chairs with Ginny’s brother.
Something about that feels odd too. “People like watching me fail more than they like watching me succeed,” I tell my friend.
“Shut the fuck up,” he says.
“I didn’t say I’m failing. I said people like watching me fail. You either have to fail or you have to be the best. That’s what gets the views. Easier to look like I’m failing at shit I haven’t done before than it is to look like I’m the best at it.”
“Anyone calls you a failure, you let me know. Including you. I’ll kick your ass for it too.”
And that’s why the guy’s my best friend.
We give each other shit, and he’s always been a better hockey player than I was, but the dude’s believed in me since the day we met.
Often more than I believed in myself.
Being second best—it’s always been my thing. Graduated second in my high school class. Always second line—or third or fourth as my career went on—in hockey. The guy that she would’ve dated if someone better hadn’t asked her out the day before.
Once would’ve been a fluke.
But it’s happened at least a half dozen times.
See again—I got a documentary deal, but it’s low-budget with limited expectations and an inconsequential subject matter.
Meanwhile, I hear Zeus Berger keeps turning down seven-figure offers for documentaries and reality series about his post-hockey life raising quadruplets with his badass CEO pilot wife.
And Alex pulled in six figures for being on three episodes of a behind-the-hockey-scenes documentary two years ago.
He’s bound for the Hall of Fame, but he still treats me like I’m just as good as he is.
“Nobody’s calling me a failure,” I tell him.
“Including you?”
“Including me.”
“You sure?”
“Got three sponsorship offers last week.”
“For real?”
Legit question.
Once again going back to me always being second best.
Despite the number of brands and companies that showed interest in endorsement and sponsorship deals during my pro days, I was always the guy they’d call if their first choice fell through.
And it never did.
But now, I’m getting sponsorship offers.
I get recognized in public.
Dozens of messages land every day from fans wanting me to come to their town and learn to do something they learned from their grandparents, or to spend a day as a chef in their kitchen—that’s a popular request—or to come be the boss of their company for a day.
“For real,” I tell Alex. “Turned one down.”
“Tell me you didn’t rob Flow of the opportunity of a lifetime because of your ego.”
I smile at that. “I haven’t turned down any offers for my dog.”
“Good. She better not tell me any different.”
“If she does, she’s lying.”
“So what was wrong with the offer? Shitty product? Bad company? Insulting payday?”
“Nah, this was a timing thing.”
“Because of your super-secret TV show?”
“Yep.”
“I’m so fucking proud of you, man.”
I rub my chest, glad my dog’s not here to see me getting sappy.
She doesn’t like it when I get sappy. “Proud of you too, my dude.”
“I’m still pissed you’re keeping details a secret.”
“You’ll forgive me.” Or not.
Not if he finds out I’ve been talking to Ginny.
Being protective of Ginny.
Wanting to be Ginny’s hero.
Something knocks on the other end of the phone.
“Shit. I gotta be on the bus in five,” Alex says.
“Kick ass today.”
“You got it.”
We hang up, and I push away from the wall and approach the caterers.
There’s something going on with Mabel Sinclair and this winery. The way she went overprotective mama bear the minute she saw Ginny—those two women are tight.
And those privacy and nondisclosure clauses in the contract? This is more than just a winery.
Mabel has a secret.
And despite the guilt stabbing me in the kidneys over feeling like I’m betraying my best friend by caring that Ginny might be in a bad spot, I’m fucking determined to find out what’s going on here.