Game On

by Victoria Denault

  He gives me a quick hug. Jordan stands up and walks over, grinning. “Brother! We’re reunited at last!” He hugs me, hard and long and the warm rush inside me gets warmer.

  “No one I’d rather play with again,” I tell him and I mean it.

  As Jordan walks back to his locker I walk over to mine. My name is written in Sharpie and stuck to my locker with hockey tape like it always is when a player is new. I should be getting a nameplate soon. If it doesn’t show up by the end of the week I’ll make one myself. I hate the tape thing.

  Temporary, half-ass stuff like that reminds me of my childhood. In the foster system most of the time you only get a garbage bag to schlep your belongings to a new home because suitcases aren’t in the budget. It’s disheartening and degrading and for some reason the tape reminds me of that.

  As we change Luc decides to regale everyone with our Starbucks encounter. Jordan looks up at me and grins his goofy lopsided smile when Luc finishes the story. “These New York girls will eat you alive, Rue. You should have settled down before they traded you.”

  “I’ll never settle down.” I remind him what I’ve told him since I met him his first year in the league. “Besides, you and your brothers stole all the good women.”

  Devin smirks at that from where he’s lacing up his skates. “Yeah we did.”

  “So you’re just going to spend your life breaking hearts?” Jordan questions. This from the guy who went through women faster than underwear before he got back together with Jessie.

  “I don’t break hearts. I break headboards,” I reply and wink. He groans and thankfully Devin changes the subject.

  I love Jordan. He and a few other guys I’ve played with throughout my career, like Avery Westwood and Sebastian Deveau, are the closest thing to family I have, and I’m happy they’ve all found someone they can see themselves spending their life with. I love their girlfriends and wives but when I see them together, it’s kind of like watching an out-of-focus foreign movie without subtitles. It’s vaguely fascinating but completely incomprehensible.

  Practice goes well. I feel comfortable right away, maybe because of how many players I already know or because I’m getting used to playing on a new team every couple of years. But Coach doesn’t seem impressed with me. I keep telling myself he’s just sussing out a new player, but then he pops his head into the locker room when I get out of the shower. “Larue, swing by my office on your way out.”

  I nod. “Yes, sir.”

  I look at Devin because he’s the Barons’ captain and probably knows the coach better than anyone else on the team. He gives me a reassuring smile. “Coach is a good guy. Nothing to worry about.”

  I change quickly and as I grab my jacket and shove my feet into my shoes, Luc calls out. “I’ll text you the Realtor’s info.”

  “Thanks, buddy.” I head out the door and down the long hall to the coach’s office. He’s sitting behind his desk and motions me in.

  As I step into the office he says, “Close the door.”

  I feel like a kid in the principal’s office. I sit down and he sighs, which feels like another bad sign. “So, you were management’s pick. I wanted to keep Allen. He was having trouble scoring, but he liked to keep a low profile on the ice. You like to push buttons and cause opponents to take penalties. That might give us a chance to score, but it’s drama. I don’t like drama.”

  Fuck.

  “But management thinks you’re some kind of team unifier.” He gives me a shrug. “I think our team morale is fine, but they think you can make it better than fine. I don’t think we need a locker room hero. I was outvoted, so prove me wrong.”

  “I will.” I’ve won over coaches before, and he’s not going to be any different. He sighs again, clearly unconvinced, so I add, “I wasn’t drafted, so I had to bust my ass to earn a walk-on chance with the Royales. If it’s grit and determination you’re worried about, I promise I have that. I will give you all I’ve got.”

  He stares at me for a long moment and then gives me a terse nod. It’s not a sigh, so I take it as a win. If you’re not a superstar, being bounced from team to team every few years is the norm. I’m a good player but not a great one, so I knew this would be my fate when I joined the league, but I’ve never had to deal with a coach who actively didn’t want me before. He grabs a piece of paper off his desk. “In the meantime, the management was asked to have a player featured on the sports show Off the Ice.”

  He hands me a piece of paper. “They do day-in-the-life kind of profiles, right?”

  “Yep.” He rolls his eyes and the crease between them deepens. “It’s another distraction no one needs but the fans like it and they buy the tickets, so once again I got outvoted. So the team wants the profile to be on you. Our tickets sales were down last year and didn’t pick up the first month of this season, and they think your profile will put more butts in seats. Like I said, you weren’t hired for your on-ice abilities.”

  Ouch. And fuck. I nod even though the last thing I want in this world is to have a television crew follow me anywhere. When I played in Seattle they profiled one of the guys and it looked like a nightmare. They followed him everywhere except the shitter and I’m sure they tried. But I just nod again because I’ll take it up with PR, not Coach. He’s pissed off enough as it is, the last thing I should be doing is complaining to him. He leans back in his chair. “So contact Liz in PR. She’ll set things up for you. Her number is on the sheet. I’ll see you on the plane tomorrow. Be early. Not on time, not late. Early.”

  I stand up and give him an easy confident smile. “Yes, sir.”

  He turns to his computer screen so I head out the door. Well, that kind of sucks donkey’s balls, I think. There is no way in hell I am doing a TV show that’s going to expose my personal life to the masses. It’s Jordan or Luc or Devin or hell even that quirky young kid Tommy with the wild slap shot they should be profiling, not me.

  I frown as I step out into the chilly fall air and walk across the arena parking lot toward the subway. My phone buzzes with a text from Luc with the name, email and number of his real estate broker. I contemplate calling her now, but decide I’ll email her later since I have somewhere to be. I usually find a group home or charity to volunteer at after I get settled in a new city and while I was unable to sleep last night, I looked up some places online. Normally I would give myself a couple weeks to settle in, but this place I’ve decided to volunteer at only does orientations and applications for new volunteers once every few months, so I either go today or I wait months. That’d be way too long. Too much free time without focus. When my teammates are with their families I volunteer. It’s the only thing that I feel connected to outside of hockey.

  As I approach the subway entrance I see a young, too skinny guy sitting on a dirty duffel bag holding a shitty piece of cardboard that says “Any help is appreciated” but he’s spelled “appreciated” wrong. He’s probably in his early twenties and looks like life has kicked him in the teeth for at least half that time. He briefly makes eye contact as I approach.

  “You hungry?”

  He looks up and blinks and for a second I think he doesn’t realize I’m talking to him. “Always,” he says quietly.

  I glance past the subway entrance and see a little deli on the corner. “Wait here, I’ll grab you a sandwich. Any preference?”

  He hesitates before answering. “Honestly, anything would be great.”

  I head to the deli. It’s tiny and packed. I glance at the time on my phone screen. I’m not sure how long it takes to get from one place to another in this city but I think I’m flirting with being late for the volunteer thing. I hope I’m wrong. Ten minutes later I hand the guy a paper bag with a ham and cheese sandwich, a pastrami on rye, two apples, and a bottle of water. Then I hand him forty bucks and a hot coffee.

  “Thanks, man, you’re the best.”

  “Hope things get better for you, man.” I nod and walk to the corner, pulling up Lyft on my phone. When the car shows up
I ask the driver how long it’ll take to get there and he winces. “Hope you’re not in a hurry, dude. That’s on the other side of town and traffic is a disaster.”

  “It is what it is,” I reply and try not to groan in his face. I’m going to be late. Of course. Because the only kind of karma I have is bad. Ugh. This whole first day in the Big Apple can bite me.

  Chapter 2

  Brie

  I hate today,” I declare dramatically and Len laughs in my face.

  “Thanks, pal,” she replies tartly. “Since you spent the last three hours in here with me, I appreciate that.”

  I smile sheepishly at my best friend, who also happens to be my accountant. “You know I love you. It’s just I hate math. I hate paperwork. I hate numbers.”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Len nods, her eyes back on the laptop screen in front of her. One hand zips around the track pad and the other twirls one of her dark curls around her finger. “I swear we’re only friends because together we are a whole, fully functional person. Separately we’re disasters.”

  I nod. We’ve been saying that since we met at age twelve in school. I’m intuitive and street smart, she’s analytical and book smart. She tutored me in high school when I was struggling with calculus and I, more than once, have saved her from sketchy potential suitors and internet scams.

  “We’re almost done here and then you can get back to your precious children,” Len says and smiles to offset her judgy tone. She loves these kids as much as I do, she’s just too scared to admit it. If she didn’t she wouldn’t volunteer here at Daphne’s House, which is the charity for homeless teens that I founded. She offered to teach a budgeting class as soon as the doors opened; I didn’t even have to ask or beg and I would have done both.

  “Yeah but before I leave here you’re going to give me that horrible number and it will put me in a bad mood,” I sigh, dramatically again. The number I’m referring to is the amount of donations we need for the last quarter of the year.

  We’re doing a fund-raiser in a few weeks and if the number we have to hit is astronomical I’m going to get depressed. I would dip into my own savings again, but at this point if I do, I won’t be able to pay my own bills. This year we just haven’t gotten the media exposure we have in the past and if people don’t know about us, they can’t donate. I’ve tapped out all my personal contacts. My parents have been more than generous with donations and would help me out if I ask, but my dad just retired and I am not eating away at his hard-earned savings. He and Mom have made plans for that money and they deserve to keep them.

  “I wouldn’t worry about it,” Len says and gives me a comforting smile. “Just have Vic invite all his snooty friends to the fund-raiser. They love to throw money at things they think makes them look like a good person. It’s easier than actually being one.”

  I let that go like I always do because Len has every right to be bitchy and I am still feeling guilty for setting her up with Robert, one of Victor’s close friends, who dated her for almost two months and then completely ghosted her. Instead I correct her on the one thing I can without feeling bad. “Victor. You know he hates being called Vic.”

  Her wide, perfectly glossed mouth takes a downward turn. “See? Snooty.”

  I can’t help but laugh. I’ve known since almost day one that Len didn’t like Victor. But she tolerates him and respects my decision to date him. Still, I get the distinct impression she didn’t think it would last six days let alone six months.

  I glance at the clock. “How much longer, tax master? I have a new volunteers coming in here and need to prep the classroom for the GED lesson.”

  “Fifty grand…give or take ten grand,” Len says firmly. Her blue eyes finally look up and meet mine and when she sees my pale face she adds. “Not too bad. I think you’ll be able to make that at the Hamptons thing.”

  “So sixty thousand dollars?” I croak, feeling sick.

  “Fifty…give or take ten grand,” she repeats, pauses, and relents. “Yeah. Sixty. It just feels less painful the other way.”

  “Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity, fuck, fuck.”

  “Brie, seriously, we can do this.” Len covers my hand with hers on the desk. “I’m bringing everyone I know. And I will make sure they donate. We can do this.”

  “I hope so,” I say and force myself not to dwell on it. I’ll panic after the fund-raiser, if I have to, not now. I can’t even think about losing this place. I won’t. I stand up. “Time to tackle the classroom. The art teacher who came in last night to teach sketching didn’t clean up afterward.”

  Len looks up. “How’s Hesperia? Have you heard from her?”

  I smile. She loves to pretend she’s an ice queen but Eleanor Levitt is a big old ball of mush. Hesperia is one of our recent success stories. She came to Daphne’s House two years ago when she was sixteen after she’d run away from her fifteenth foster home. She was easily angered and had major trust issues, but we convinced the judge to let her into our unsupervised housing facility and skills program and he did. Hesperia stuck with the program here, taking all our life skill classes and seminars and even earned her GED. She never once broke the rules. She left seven months ago after snagging a job and finding a room to rent in the Bronx. “Yes. She’s passed her probation period at work and got a bit of a pay bump. She’s loving the job and her roommates. She said she’s even started a little savings account and is thinking of taking college courses online.”

  “Yes!” Len raises her hand for a high five and I give her one.

  “I invited her to the fund-raiser so you can get her to praise your amazing accounting courses when you see her there,” I say with a chuckle.

  Len feigns offense. “I don’t do it for the praise. That’s just something I have to endure, because I am an inspiring and incredible human. Not my fault.”

  “Eleanor Levitt, don’t ever change,” I giggle.

  “You either, Gabrielle Bennett.” She winks at me. “I’m going to stick around and get some other work done. Can I squat here?”

  “Of course,” I say, heading for the door. “Feel free to come help me clean if you’re bored.”

  “I’ll never be that bored, sweetheart.”

  I’m smiling as I close the door and head down the hall to the classroom. I feel pride as I walk down the long, narrow first-floor hallway. Daphne’s House has been my dream since I was little. It’s a last chance for kids who haven’t had any luck. It’s not a shelter or a group home. It’s a semi-independent living facility, set up like a boardinghouse. The teens have their own bedrooms with locking doors, but they share bathrooms, a kitchen and living space. Everyone lives rent-free but must go to school or be working on their GEDs and take at least three of our offered life skill classes—be it cooking, fitness and nutrition or the budgeting and accounting classes. We also offer GED classes and art therapy, as well as yoga and meditation. We give them a safe place to start living on their own and the skills to do it successfully.

  I turn into the large classroom and get started cleaning up. As I start putting away easels, I hear Selena, one of our full-time employees, talking in the hall. She’s doing the orientation for the prospective volunteers. I was hoping to do it with her but I’m more behind than I realized.

  “And what’s the age range for the kids?” a female voice asks Selena.

  “All of the kids are between the ages of sixteen and seventeen and they’ve all been approved by the courts for this type of living. They move out when they turn eighteen. Of course we help find them living situations afterward and have even cosigned leases for them.”

  “That’s amazing,” I hear someone else say. I turn off the water I’m currently washing some brushes in and gently place them in the sink. “I’m impressed.”

  “I was impressed too when I researched this place. I’m even more impressed now that I work here,” Selena tells him as I turn from the sink to look at the entryway. I can’t see them. I want to go out there, but I don’t want to interrupt either. Selena is doing a
great job on her own. “They do really great work. The owner is incredibly dedicated to the cause.”

  “So is there an age restriction?” another voice asks.

  “We’ve never had someone come here under sixteen,” Selena tells him. “It’s much harder to get the courts to allow someone much younger to live in such an unrestricted environment. For some reason they still think that sticking them in a foster home with an adult that they don’t know or trust is better than no adult at all.”

  Selena goes back into explaining what we do here. As I’m about to step in the hall to greet everyone, I hear the front door buzz behind me. I glance over my shoulder as a person seems to explode into the room. He’s a blur of broad shoulders and dark fabric and towers over me more than any kid here. He must have been expecting to run or something after he entered because his forward motion is so aggressive that he bumps into me before he can stop himself. I stumble about as gracefully as a drunk chicken. I grab the wall to stop myself from slamming into it. I turn to fully take in whoever the hell just did that.

  Our eyes lock and it’s like we’re colliding again.

  “Colisse!” He exhales the French swear word under his breath.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. Did this jackass hockey player follow me? Oh my God that would be insane. Is he insane?

  “I’m here for the volunteer info session,” he replies.

  “You’re Alex?” Selena interrupts looking at the clipboard in her hand. “I thought you weren’t going to make it.”

  “I’m sorry I’m late. I’m new to the city and I underestimated my commute,” he explains to her and then he somehow manages to give her a fairly dazzling smile, which she returns with her typical friendly one. “Well if you want to join the rest of the tour, I can explain what you missed afterward.”

  “I’ll explain it to him afterward,” I tell Selena and then glance at the rest of the group. “My name is Brie Bennett and I’m the director of Daphne’s House.”