Game On

by Victoria Denault

  I laugh. “I don’t mind kids at all. In fact we usually get along great. And as for the night of debauchery, all you doofuses are married and lame now and I’ve got no interest in running around bars with the rookies like their chaperone.”

  Devin moves his arm and looks over at me. “So you’ll come to dinner?”

  “Yep.” I pause as I remember my volunteer shift at Daphne’s House. “But I have a thing Friday. Any chance we can do the following Friday instead?”

  “Yeah that should work.” He yawns—loudly.

  I pull my ass out of the chair I’ve been parked in for the better part of two hours to let him grab the nap he desperately wants. I played in Seattle for almost four years and I have a lot of friends in town I could go see. “I’m going to head out.”

  “Like out? Out of the hotel?”

  “Yeah. Seattle has got way better food than the buffet the hotel will be serving us later,” I explain and walk toward the door. There’s always a dedicated room for meals, supplied by the hotel, during road trips but there’s no rule that says we can’t go out.

  Devin sits up and looks at me with concerned eyes. “Listen…I know you’re still friends with a lot of guys on the Winterhawks, but Coach hates when his guys are out with other players. He used to even give me grief about hanging out with Jordan and Luc after games when they were on other teams.”

  “Oh,” I reply flatly and try not to frown. “That seems excessive.”

  Devin looks apologetic. “I know. But it is what it is. I’m not saying you can’t hang out with Deveau or whoever, but I’d wait until the next trip. I wouldn’t purposely rock the boat right now, you know?”

  I lean my back against the closed door and fold my arms across my chest and decide to deal with the elephant in the room directly. “My existence rocks his boat enough, eh?”

  Devin’s remorseful expression magnifies. “He’s butt hurt. It’ll pass. Besides I don’t know one player who isn’t happy to have you with us, dude.”

  I try not to frown as I inhale deeply and let it out long and slow. I fucking hate feeling like I have something to prove. I’ve earned my way into this league and I did it the hard way.

  “You’re a great addition to the team, Rue, no matter how you got here,” Devin reminds me like the good captain he is. I can imagine what it was like for Jordan growing up with Devin in his corner. Sure, they love to press each other’s buttons but the fact is, they are each other’s biggest fans. I fought my way through hockey—and life—as a kid with no one having my back. It sucked.

  “Thanks, man.” I nod. “Tell Callie I’m in for dinner. And to make a lot of food because I eat like ten men.”

  He chuckles. “Yeah, she’s used to that.”

  The door to his hotel room swishes closed behind me and I make my way back to my room. My cell rings from the pocket of my sweats. I pull it out but hesitate on answering because I don’t recognize the number.

  I decide to do it anyway, in case it’s Kristi about the loft apartment I want so badly.

  “Alex?”

  “Yes?” I don’t recognize the voice.

  “This is Brie Bennett from Daphne’s House. Do you have a moment?”

  “Yes,” I reply and instantly worry she’s calling because she’s changed her mind about letting me volunteer.

  “I just wanted to confirm that you’ll be coming in on Friday?” She sounds different. Unsure. She’s been nothing but a ball of condescending confidence since I met her so this is odd.

  “Yep. Do you make personal confirmation calls to all your volunteers before every shift?” I ask, knowing I’m being a little bit snarky. But the way she thought that the only reason I would volunteer was if it’d been court ordered has been really eating at me.

  “No. Just you…because I also wanted to ask you if you were serious about donating some Barons tickets for our fund-raiser that’s a week from Saturday,” she says, her voice still abnormally timid.

  This is a woman not used to asking for things. I have that figured out now after a little Googling. So you bet your ass I’m going to make her beg for it. Sure I didn’t make the best first impression but the level of shade she threw at me the first two times we met seemed excessive. And now that I’ve done a little research on Brie Bennett I’d bet my paycheck she’d have been less of an ice queen if I were a billionaire or a prince, since she’s hung out with both, according to Page Six.

  “I mean…maybe.” I can hear her sharp intake of breath at my nonanswer, and it makes me smile as I pull my key card out and slip it into my door. “Do you want the tickets? It’s just hockey.”

  “Yes. I absolutely do,” she says swiftly. “I personally don’t know much about hockey but I’ve been told by more than a few people it would be a great addition to our prizes.”

  “Oh well okay I guess,” I say and bite my bottom lip to keep a snicker from escaping. My hotel room door swishes closed behind me. “Maybe I can get a couple for you.”

  “I’m not trying to pressure you but if that maybe can be a hard yes then I can add it to our online advertising and we can hopefully get some more tickets sold,” she explains and seriously, the need in her voice is adorable.

  “You need a hard yes from me?” Oh yeah, I am totally moving this into innuendo territory.

  “Ah…yes?” Now the awkward discomfort in her voice is being quelled by the indignation she’s trying, and failing, at taming.

  “I’m good at hard,” I explain to her. “So I’ll give you a hard yes.”

  “Thank you.” Her tone is clipped now and it’s really hard not to chuckle. She takes an audible breath. “So because you’re donating a prize you’ll be given a complimentary ticket to the event. Will you be joining us?”

  “In the Hamptons? Why the hell not,” I fall onto my bed.

  “Great! So I assume it’s okay to add your name to the information then…”

  “What? Put my name where?”

  “On the advertising,” she explains like it’s no big deal at all. “We often mention specific prizes as well as famous attendees. I hear you’d be a pretty big draw and since you’re so behind the cause I thought—”

  “You thought wrong,” I interrupt sharply and then pause to rein in the harshness in my tone. “I don’t want to advertise my involvement. Mention the tickets as a prize, fine, but I don’t want to be promoted. Not me personally.”

  “But I just assumed…I mean you’re a media personality so…” She seems perplexed and that adds to my annoyance.

  “I’m not a media personality. I’m an athlete,” I correct her.

  “Yes but you’re always giving interviews and stuff,” she argues. “You’ve done ads for Gatorade and Nike and even a car dealership in San Diego.”

  “Those were endorsement deals or one-offs for corporate sponsors for the team I work for,” I explain tersely and I can feel the muscles in my shoulders and neck start to knot with tension. “I don’t make my charity work media fodder.”

  “Oh, so you’ll put your name on something only if someone pays you to do it?’ she challenges and I automatically want to groan. Of course, she’d take it that way. She has a shitty opinion of me and wants to stick to it.

  “I keep my personal life personal,” I say and I know it’s a vague answer but I don’t want to get into it too deeply with her. If I start publicizing my involvement with charities, everyone is going to want to know why. Everyone loves a personal sob story to get behind a cause and I am not giving mine. Not now, not ever.

  “You did a five-minute YouTube interview with some internet sports reporter about the pros and cons of boxers and briefs,” she says. “That doesn’t make it seem like privacy is your issue.”

  “Look, I know you’re not used to being told no, but the answer is no,” I reply. There is an intended sharpness to my tone.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” she demands. I could tell I’ve hit a hot button with her.

  “You’re not the only one who can do an i
nternet search,” I bark. “I picked Daphne’s House because I have a soft spot for kids beat up by the system, but I didn’t research it too much until after I met you. I know it’s run by a company your parents own.”

  There’s a long, hard pause. When she speaks, her tone is dripping in ice. “So?”

  “So you assume I will be anyone’s media whore and I assume a girl whose parents gave her a business to run straight out of college isn’t used to hearing no,” I tell her and I swear I can feel her anger boiling up through the phone. I’m actually surprised it doesn’t get hot in my hand like a curling iron. “But you’re hearing it now. I want to volunteer and I will donate game tickets. Hell, I will donate an entire row of tickets but I’m not going to pimp myself out. Sorry.”

  I wait for her response. I even hold the phone half an inch off my ear so if she yells she doesn’t make me deaf. But instead of her voice I get nothing more than a dull beeping sound. I glance at the screen and see the end button flash once before the screen goes dark. She hung up.

  “Merde.” I swear and drop the phone onto the bed as I stand up, too agitated now to lie down anymore. I know I just made this volunteering gig a hundred times harder but I don’t care. When I started Googling Brie Bennett the other night it was because I needed a distraction more than actual curiosity. I had woken up from yet another nightmare and was looking for a simple distraction to get my head out of the darkness that always lingers after a bad dream so I could hopefully fall back asleep.

  I didn’t find out who owned Daphne’s House until after finding out a lot of other information—from social media sites and New York–based blogs—which made me realize if you looked up “silver spoon” in the dictionary you’d find this woman’s picture. Her father was CEO of a Fortune 500 company. Her mom is a socialite who helped organize just about every ball or charity event in Manhattan. Brie’s an only child. She also has an open Instagram account that she hasn’t posted on since two years ago, but it shows pictures of her skiing in Aspen, beaching in the Bahamas and boating on Lake Como. Not to mention all the food pictures of meals from Michelin Star restaurants and the pictures of her partying in designer dresses in VIP sections of clubs.

  I didn’t actually resent her for it, because it’s not her fault she’s privileged, but she and I are from two separate worlds. It’s funny because both times I met her, I kind of had this weird feeling of potential with her—like despite the attitude she was throwing at me, which should have come with a windchill warning, I might actually connect with her. Like maybe she was just challenging me to work harder to impress her. I thought it seemed like a worthy challenge, but now I realize it’s not. Sure, it seemed noble at first that she would want to run a place like Daphne’s House when she could clearly just jet around the world and be nothing more than a social media selfie queen, but it’s easy to care when Daddy buys you a place to do it.

  Frustrated, I grab my jacket and my wallet. Fuck the coach, I’m going to hang out with my friends. People who get me.

  An hour later I’m sitting at the juice bar at Elevate Fitness staring across a thick green smoothie at Shayne Beckford. Shayne started dating my friend and former teammate Sebastian Deveau shortly after I was traded from the Winterhawks. I got to know her pretty well over the summer when I came here to Seattle to visit him. She’s gutsy and bold and a total sweetheart, which is exactly what Seb needs. “This is not what I expected when I decided to come here to see you.”

  “Then you don’t know me at all,” she quips with a snarky smile.

  Sebastian had a late-afternoon practice and a team meeting so he told me to swing by here and hang with Shayne until he was done. She somehow roped me into spending the time taking her yoga class and now she’s making me drink this kale goop . She takes the dirty blender and starts to rinse it under the faucet in the sink. “You need some good food in you. When was the last time you had something green?”

  “I prefer having things that are blond, brunette and redheaded,” I joke and she laughs. But then she frowns and reaches across the bar and presses down on both my shoulders with the palms of her hands. I feel them drop a couple inches. “There. Much better. You shouldn’t look so tense after a yoga class, buddy.”

  “Sorry. It’s not you or the class. I’m just still annoyed by this woman,” I mutter and sip my smoothie. I hate to say it, but it’s actually not bad. It’s got a limey pineapple taste despite all the green leaves she threw in the blender. When I look up from my cup she’s staring at me in amusement with one eyebrow cocked.

  “A woman has gotten under your skin?”

  “She gets under my skin like it’s her job.” I frown and sip more of the oddly tasty drink.

  She leans her elbows on the counter between us and says in a rapt whisper. “Tell me more.”

  “It’s not like that,” I warn her because she’s looking at me like this is some missed love connection and it’s not. “I mean she’s hot and everything, but we couldn’t be more different. We honestly have nothing in common, which is normally not a deal breaker, but she’s an exception.”

  Shayne lets out a huff and I give her a sheepish smile. “What? You know me, I don’t have to like someone for my dick to want to be inside them. But trust me, even he is annoyed by this woman.”

  I point down at my pants.

  Shayne’s eyes follow my pointed finger and then snap up. “Men are ridiculous. Anyway who is this woman?”

  “Just some woman I keep running into,” I reply vaguely.

  Shayne, luckily, doesn’t push for more information. “Why doesn’t she like you? You’re adorable and charming.”

  “And don’t forget the captivating French accent, ma belle,” I add.

  She laughs. “Oh I can’t forget that. I fell victim to that sucker myself.”

  “Sebastian learned everything he knows from me,” I tell her.

  “And remember, I hated him too in the beginning,” Shayne replies. “Well, at least I wanted to. Desperately. And look at us now.”

  She waves her left hand at me. Her big diamond ring glints in the glow of the lights above us. I almost choke on the green stuff in my mouth. “Shay, kiddo. Trust me. That’s not the ending here. Not with her or anyone. Not for me.”

  Shayne looks honestly devastated for a second and then it turns to disbelief. “Come on, Alex, it’s just me and you. I saw how happy you were for Seb and I when we got engaged. And how happy you were for Jordan and Jessie at their wedding. I won’t tell your hockey buddies but admit it. You love love.”

  “I do love love,” I say and dare to take another quick sip of my drink. “It makes my friends happy. I want you all to be happy, even if that means you take away my wingmen one by one.”

  “Ha. Ha,” she says, rolling her eyes. “So why not get your own piece of happiness?”

  “My happiness isn’t a picket fence, two-point-five kids and a hybrid,” I explain flatly. “I’m not wired that way.”

  “Are your parents still married?”

  I get that wave of darkness that envelops me when someone brings up my family…it’s like being in the ocean in the pitch black of night and being hit with this cold, dark wave out of nowhere. I hate it. It’s so empty and all consuming. My shoulders must have risen again because she reaches over and presses them down gently with her palms again. She thinks she knows why and gives me a soft smile. “It’s okay. I get it. My parents were not exactly the shining example of how to have a happy, well-adjusted relationship.” She pats my hand. Shayne’s dad is an ex-NHL player who cheated on her mom throughout his career. “But if I can get over all my relationship issues and be madly, completely, head over heels in love with a hockey player, you can eventually settle down too. I promise. In fact, I would bet money on it.”

  “You would lose.” I give her a wink to soften the firmness of my words. I wish I had her faith. I wish the darkness that swirled inside me could be lightened.

  “Did your parents ever come to Seattle when you played here?” Sh
e starts to wipe down the bar top with a damp cloth.

  “I’m not in contact with my family.” I offer a half-truth

  Her eyes soften again. “I’ve been there too. Still am there I guess since I haven’t talked to my dad in months. I haven’t even told him I’m engaged. I assume my mother has.”

  She takes a deep breath and releases it heavy and slow. “Family doesn’t have to be blood.” I say what I’ve told myself for decades because she looks like she needs to hear it too.

  She smiles. “Truth.”

  Her eyes move up to the clock on the wall and she drops the rag in the sink and starts to untie her apron. “Shift is over. Let’s go meet Seb for dinner. He should be done with his team meeting by now.”

  “Cool.” I pause to inhale the last of the smoothie and she laughs as she comes around the bar to stand next to me. I give her a grin. “You’re right. It didn’t taste like wet grass after all.”

  She gives me a side hug as we walk to the changing rooms. “I’m always right. You’ll be saying that again in a few years when you’re all in love and settled down.”

  “Ha!” I give her a shove and head into the men’s locker room to change.

  The next morning I wake up feeling grounded and content…for about three minutes until my phone starts ringing. I grope for it on the nightstand knocking my bottle of water and the change I pulled from my pocket last night to the floor. I curse and rub the sleep from my eyes so I can read the name on the screen.

  “Hey, Avery. What’s up?” Avery Westwood, former captain of the Winterhawks and current captain of the team I was just traded from, the San Diego Saints, is probably the person I’d consider my best friend.

  “You’re banging Shay.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” I’m wide awake now. I sit up so quickly I get light-headed.

  “Someone took your photo with her. At the gym. You two look cozy,” he explains. “They posted it on Instagram and of course now everything thinks you’re sleeping with Seb’s girl. The puck bunny brigade are posting it everywhere else calling her a whore and you a dirt bag.”