by S. R. Grey
Guess not, seeing as I hear you don’t spend much time outdoors. Word on the street is you much prefer the darkened strip clubs around town to the neon jungle.
Is that true, Jaxon?
Are you really that much of a dog?
Let’s put it to the test, shall we?
Squirrel!
Giggling, I go on to recap the game, but with far less vitriol for the other players. I feel crappy placing so much responsibility for the loss on Jaxon, as I’m sure he’ll receive even more negative attention from the fans after this post goes live, but you know what?
Jaxon Holland is a hockey player.
He’s tough and can take it.
As I’m putting the finishing touches on my post—or should I say Mr. Hockeypants’s post—my phone dings, indicating that I have a text.
It’s my best friend, Noelle Sandlund, demanding that I call her ASAP.
Guess I better see what she wants. After all, it could be secret info on the game.
Noelle doesn’t know it, but she’s my covert inside contact for all things Wolves-related. That’s how I knew about Jaxon and the strip clubs. Noelle doesn’t work directly for the organization, but she’s related to someone who does—her twin brother, defenseman Noel Sandlund.
Blowing out a breath, I hit Call.
Noelle answers right away with a sad-sounding, “Cara?”
“Hey, what’s up? Is everything all right?”
“No it’s not,” she groans. “Didn’t you watch that sorry excuse for a game? It was God awful, I swear. I still feel sick even now.”
“I saw it, yes,” I say, sighing in commiseration. “And I feel pretty gross about it myself.”
Is that really why you feel sick? a little internal voice taunts.
“Oh, hush,” I whisper.
I type with more vigor, covering up my words and finishing up my blog post.
Noelle, of course, notices. “Hey, what’s going on over there? It sounds like you’re doing…something.”
“Oh, um, I-I…,” I stammer. Get it together, get it together. “I was just thinking about the game, that’s all. It really was a heartbreaker.”
There, that sounds believable.
“It really was,” Noelle agrees. “And I just don’t know who to blame the most.”
Er, I have an idea.
I, of course, don’t say that out loud. What I do instead is toss the tablet onto the coffee table so I can pay full attention to Noelle. I just can’t take a chance on slipping up again since she doesn’t know I’m Mr. Hockeypants.
And she must never find out.
Even if I swore her to secrecy, she could inadvertently divulge to her brother that I’m the person behind the blog the Wolves love to loathe.
And we can’t have that, right?
No.
So I need to tread carefully and not blame Jaxon Holland for this huge loss. Once I publish tonight’s post, Noelle could see it and put two and two together. After all, everyone reads Mr. Hockeypants.
Trying to sound pensive, I state, “Just don’t blame anyone then, Noelle. Or better yet, blame them all.”
“Yeah, I guess,” she says, sighing. “Though you have to admit, Jaxon Holland looked like total crap tonight.”
Here we go…
Play it cool, play it cool.
“Hmm…” I pause as if I’m still lost in thought. “Yes, he made some mistakes, but it wasn’t just him out there on the ice. The whole team played like shit.”
Noelle is quiet for a beat, then softly says, “I didn’t realize you were such a Jaxon Holland fan, Cara.”
“Um, I’m not. I mean, I am, but that’s not why I’m defending him. I just think everyone on the team bears responsibility when you have a loss like that.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she muses. “Mistakes were made by everyone, that’s true.”
Now that I have her back on-track, I say, “Yeah, the Wolves didn’t generate nearly enough offense early on. You can’t get behind, not even by one goal, in a game like that.”
“Still, Cara, Holland had a chance to tie things up and blew it. What a time to fuckup, right?”
I’m quick to maintain, “Sure, but in the end it’s the whole team’s fault for the loss.”
Noelle laughs. “Wow, I think you might be the only person in this whole town giving Jaxon a pass right now.”
If only she knew.
“Wait, Cara, you don’t have a crush on him, do you?”
Okay, now she’s talking crazy.
“Please,” I scoff.
“You have to admit, he is pretty hot.”
“Irrelevant,” I scoff.
She ignores me and says, “I could ask Noel to introduce you sometime.”
This girl is relentless!
I sputter and cough at the absurdity of such a thing. Can you imagine? Jaxon Holland set up on a date with Mr. Hockeypants?
What if we really liked each other?
Pfft, that’d be crazy.
Not to mention, I’d feel like the biggest jerk on the planet if he ever really liked me.
So, yeah, no.
Emphatically, I state, “No way would I ever go out with that guy. It would never work, Noelle.”
“Why not?” she asks. “I actually think you two would make a cute couple.”
Sweet baby Jesus, make her stop.
“Can we please just talk about something else?” I beg.
Relenting, she says, “Sure, like what?”
I scramble to come up with something other than Jaxon, but since hockey is still on my mind, I end up asking, “Is there anything new with Noel?”
“I haven’t talked to him today at all,” Noelle replies. “But he said yesterday that if the Wolves lost this game, he’s going to be heading over to Sweden to play for Team USA in the hockey world championships.”
I welcome the subject change, and say, “Oh, wow, that’s cool. Didn’t your great-grandparents come from Sweden? Maybe Noel can look up history on your family tree while he’s over there.”
“Yeah, they did,” Noelle confirms. “And I hope he does just that. I only wish I could go with him. Not to go all Ancestry.com or anything, but I could use some time away. Knowing I was passed over for that summer internship I really wanted freaking blows.”
Noelle is working on her MBA and was in the running for a fantastic internship with a huge tech company.
Sadly, though, she didn’t get it.
“I still call bullshit on that one,” I say, rallying for my friend. “You were definitely the better candidate.”
It was down to two women, and Noelle was certain she had it in the bag. But at the last minute, the company went with the other candidate.
“Whatever,” she sighs. “Maybe you and I should just say ‘fuck it’ and go somewhere.”
“What do you mean?” I query. “Like go on a vacation?”
“Yeah, Cara. Why not?”
“It’s not a bad thought,” I muse. “And Lord knows I’m always up for traveling. Hmm, maybe we should.”
I think about how hard I worked this hockey season to make the Mr. Hockeypants blog a success. And I did just that. Quite an accomplishment considering it was my first stab ever at blogging.
But with the Wolves out of the playoff picture, I can now relax a little. Since they’re my primary focus, I won’t have nearly as much to chat about.
“You know what?” I say at last. “No maybes about it. A vacation is a great idea. You want to get away, and I could use a little time off myself.”
Since Noelle doesn’t know about the blog, I’m not surprised when she says, “Uh, no offense, but you could use a little time off from what exactly?”
Eek, think fast.
“Oh, just work,” I say.
Crap, that’s not a good response. She’s going to be really confused now.
Sure enough, she says, “Work, Cara? But you don’t even have a job.”
Noelle’s not being rude. It’s true. I don’t work outs
ide of the blog. And all she’s aware of is that I inherited a tidy sum of money, in the form of a trust fund, from my grandfather when he passed away a couple of years ago. That’s how I originally paid for my apartment, car, etc. But now Mr. Hockeypants takes care of those things.
If only Noelle knew hockey pays for my bills, just like it does for her brother.
Too bad I can’t tell her.
So, instead, casually I say, “Hmm, good point on the no job. Still, it’d be nice to get away.”
“It would,” she agrees.
“So where should we go?”
“Oh, I know the perfect place, Cara. And the best part is it won’t cost us a penny besides airfare.”
I laugh. “Wait, that sounds too good to be true.”
“It’s not,” she assures me. “Guess you forgot all about Noel’s beach house. It’s available for the whole summer now that he’s going to Sweden.”
“Holy crap,” I exclaim. “I did forget all about that place.”
Noelle’s brother owns the sweetest beach house known to man. It’s on a freaking private island off the coast of Florida and it is spectacular.
“So what do you think?” she asks. “We could fly down in a day or two and stay as long as we like.”
“Um,” I say, hesitating. “I don’t want to be a downer, but shouldn’t you ask Noel first?”
“Nah, he’ll be too busy over the next couple of days. I’ll just tell him once we’re down there. Trust me, he’s not going to mind.”
From all I’ve heard, Noel is a pretty laid-back guy, so I go with Noelle’s instinct on this one.
“Well,” I state, “guess I better start packing.”
“Definitely, and I’ll get things set up. I just need to call down there ahead of time and make sure Noel’s staff knows to stock food and essentials for us.”
Impressed and a little awed, I remark, “Wow, your brother has a staff?”
“He does indeed. But don’t be too impressed. It’s just a groundskeeper and a housekeeper who check in every couple of weeks. You know, like for basic upkeep since Noel’s not there much.”
“Hmm, I see.”
“Oh wait, I just thought of something else. I’ll have them stock liquor too. We can’t lie out on the beach without little umbrella drinks, right?”
“Definitely not,” I agree. “Perish the thought.”
She laughs. “So, do you have any special requests?”
I think it over and come up with only one— “Could you ask someone to stock a couple fifths of vodka?”
“Ooh, that’s right. I forgot your favorite drink in the world is Sex on the Beach. So yeah, sure”—I hear pen-to-paper and conclude that Noelle is taking down notes—“we’re going to need vodka.”
Damn. I sigh. It’s been so long for me that I kind of wish another kind of Sex on the Beach was in the cards, like actual sex on the beach. That’d never happen on this trip, though. The island is too secluded and far too private. It’ll just be me and Noelle down there, with an occasional appearance from the staff. Anyone else on the island will most likely be a worker, as well.
I realize then that Noelle is in the middle of asking me something.
“Wait, what?” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t catch that.”
“I was just asking you what you were thinking about,” she says. “It sounded like I’d lost you there for a minute.”
“Oh, you did,” I confess. “I was dreaming of turquoise waters and island breezes.”
And sex, I don’t add.
“It’ll be more than that,” she replies. “We’re going to have lots of fun, Cara. You’ll see. This is going to be a trip to remember.”
Somewhere deep inside, I get this all-consuming feeling that it will be a trip to remember, maybe even the kind that changes an entire life.
Wanna Get Away?
I feel like I’m living in one of those Southwest Airlines commercials. You know the ones, where they ask if you… “Wanna get away?”
Yes, yes I do!
I want to get as far away from Las Vegas as I can. I’ve got reporters calling me like crazy, and irate fans mailing me stuffed squirrels and fake fucking bongs.
Too bad those aren’t real. I’m ready to light up anything mind-numbing at this point.
And it’s all fucking Mr. Hockeypants’s fault!
I’d like to kick that dude’s ass. He made a bad situation a hundred times worse with his dumbass blog post. I swear if I ever get my hands on that guy, whoever he is, it’s not going to be pretty.
Too bad his damn identity is a total mystery.
Trust me, though. I’m going to eventually uncover the man behind that keyboard.
And when I do…
But for now, I simply need to get away. That’s why I plan on taking a nice, long vacation.
I just don’t know where to go.
“I’m open to suggestions and traveling companions,” I told my teammates the other day when we were all cleaning out our lockers for the summer.
So far, there’ve been no takers in the traveling companion department. No one is mad at me anymore, but everyone’s too busy with their own lives. Brent has his wedding with Aubrey coming up in Minnesota this summer, and he and Nolan have plans to fly up early to get in some fishing and quality bro time.
Benny is busy with Eliza and her daughter. And Dylan and his new wife, Chloe, have a baby on the way. A lot of the other guys are playing in the world championships over in Sweden, including my good friend Noel.
So I’m on my own.
I look up dozens of potential vacation destinations on my phone, but nothing calls to me. Maybe I need to be like my parents and find myself a good old-fashioned travel agency. I remember when I was a kid how they used to return with big, glossy brochures depicting cool, exotic locales. Maybe browsing through the pages of one of those, as opposed to scanning around on the internet, will yield better results.
So I search for a local travel agency, one with a real office and everything. It’s not easy, though, as the internet has made most obsolete.
At last, though, I come upon an address for one in a nearby mall.
Perfect.
I make the short drive over.
Unfortunately it’s a Saturday afternoon and the mall is a madhouse. I’m bound to get recognized if I don’t take precautions.
Feeling like an undercover agent, which is kind of cool, I slip on a ball cap and pull it low over my eyes. Then I slide on a pair of sunglasses.
All set…or maybe not.
Seems my undercover attempt is all for naught since, as I’m stepping out of my flashy sports car, someone yells over, “Hey, it’s him. Jaxon Holland. You fucker, you really blew it for us.”
Another heckler chimes in, “You suck, Holland. I hope the Wolves trade you during the off-season. What are you doing at the mall, anyway? Isn’t there a strip club somewhere that you’d rather go to?”
Damn it. That fucking Mr. Hockeypants! I haven’t even been to a strip club in over a month.
I really want to scream something back to my hecklers, but I know the rules—never engage. You’ll always lose in the end.
The fans are still so angry. I should probably scrap the travel agency idea, as I’m sure it’ll be worse inside the mall.
So I hop back in my car, grateful that I have tinted windows.
I’m about to speed away, but then Noel calls.
Hitting the Bluetooth button on the steering wheel, I grind out a strained, “Yeah?”
“Whoa, dude, what’s wrong?” he asks. “You sound kind of stressed.”
“Fuck, man, I am. I’m in the mall parking lot being heckled by irate fans.”
“Wow. That sucks.”
“You’re not kidding. I need to get the fuck out of this city for a while, give these nutty people a chance to cool off.”
Noel replies, “Say no more. It’s your lucky day, Holland.”
Just then someone tosses a stuffed squirrel onto my windshield
, and I mutter back a dejected, “Hmm, I don’t know about that.”
“No, listen,” he goes on, “that’s why I’m calling. I just remembered when we were cleaning out our lockers that you said you wanted to get away. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it sooner, but I have the perfect place where you can go to and be totally left alone.”
“Ah, that sounds like heaven, my friend.”
Someone walks by my car just then, laughing and pretending to toke up.
“Dude,” I sigh. “Anywhere is better than here, so long as there are no Wolves fans.”
Noel chuckles and assures me, “Not a one will be where I’m thinking, I promise. This place is a tropical island, and the house on it is privately owned.”
“Wait, are you talking about your beach house?”
“I sure am,” Noel confirms.
Noel’s beach house is on a tiny island off the coast of Florida. Some other rich people have houses there too, but they’re never really around. That means not only would there be no Wolves fans like he said, but there’d be pretty much no one around at all.
“Dude, you just totally made my day. No, wait, I think you made my whole week. Hell, you made my fucking month!”
Noel laughs. “Cool, because you can stay there that long and more. The house is yours for the whole summer, if you want.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
Just then there’s a knock on my window. It’s a teenybopper girl, holding up a piece of paper.
“Hold on a sec,” I say to Noel. “I think someone wants an autograph.”
Finally, a nice fan!
“No problem,” Noel says.
I power down the window and the girl smiles sweetly at me.
See, she really is nice.
“Sorry to bug you, sir,” she says. “But you’re Jaxon Holland, right?”
She doesn’t strike me as the harassing type, so I let down my guard.
“Yes, yes, I am, miss.”
“Oh, perfect.” Shoving the piece of paper at me, which I take, she says, “Can you autograph this?”
“Yeah, sure… Hey, wait a second.” I peer down at the paper in disbelief. “Is this a printout of Mr. Hockeypants’s blog post? Who would want this crap signed?”