Absolving Ash

by Chantal Mer

  Victor is still staring at his phone when I reach him. “I’ll do it.”

  He jolts and stands straighter when he hears my voice. “You’ll do what?”

  “I’ll fill in for Layne.” My stomach skates to my throat before dive-bombing to my toes.

  A smile, brighter than The Magnificent Mile at Christmas, breaks and spreads over his face, relief and gratitude beaming. “I owe you.”

  “Big time.”

  He claps my shoulder and quickly assesses my stained jeans, Crocs, and chef’s jacket. “You have anything here you can change into?”

  “I’ve got a bag with clean clothes and real shoes.”

  “Great. Go change and meet me behind the stage.” He’s already typing out instructions to one of his many minions and practically jogging for the door.

  Probably afraid I’ll change my mind.

  “Victor.”

  He halts and turns when I call to him. His body stiff like he’s readying himself for a blow to the gut.

  “You sure this won’t put the charity at risk?”

  He relaxes. “I wouldn’t have asked if I thought it would.”

  Hands buried in my front pockets, I nod. “All right, then.”

  “See you out there.” He waves and books it out the door.

  I take a moment, letting the sounds and smells bring me solace. It’s been ten years since I’ve been in the spotlight. Back then, I was cocky, sure, and thought the world owed me. Now, I’m a different man.

  A man I hope people want to know.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Isaiah

  “And that was Kyle Pressgrove, center for Detroit. I’m sure we’ll continue to see a solid and steady performance from him for the remainder of the season.” I pause and hold my smile until my cameraman, Hurley, gives me the all-clear signal.

  Once Hurley drops his camera from his shoulder, I turn and extend my hand to Kyle. “Thanks, man.”

  “No problem.” He spies a waiter with the best sautéed shrimp I’ve ever tasted and beats it. “I gotta go. See you later, Blake.”

  I raise my hand to wave, but he’s already halfway across the ballroom dodging and sidestepping the crowd in hot pursuit of the waiter. When I see Garrett Walker of the Burlington Dragons slicing through the crowd after the same waiter, I nod to Hurley, who already has his camera pointed at what is sure to be a spectacle. It will be great behind the scenes footage for our segment.

  Hurley grunts a laugh, and I cover my mouth as Pressgrove elbows Walker in the ribs who, in return, puts Pressgrove in a headlock. The waiter freezes, a look of fear for his safety evident as he watches two grown men wrestle for the last shrimp. You can take the hockey player out of the rink…

  While Walker and Pressgrove are fighting like it’s the playoffs, Slater Knox of the Buffalo Bedlam picks the shrimp off the tray and pops it into his mouth. He smiles around his mouthful as he takes a selfie with Pressgrove and Walker giving each other noogies in the background. Slater’s thumbs move smoothly over his screen as he makes his way toward me.

  “Tell me you did not just post that,” I say when Slater’s in front of me.

  “You know I did,” he says without an ounce of remorse.

  “Did you eat my shrimp, Slater?” Walker’s voice booms across the room—which is now filled with laughter as everyone has been watching the scene.

  “It was my shrimp.” Pressgrove pushes Walker’s shoulder.

  “Can’t talk now, guys. I’ve got an interview with Isaiah.” Slater grins as he pulls me into a man-hug. “Good to see you, man.”

  “You, too.”

  Walker says something to Pressgrove, who points his two fingers to his eyes then at Slater. “We’re watching you, Knox.”

  Slater blows a kiss at the two who shake their heads because we all know Slater is nothing more than a big kid. Which is one of the reasons the fans love him.

  “So, you got a shot at the big time, huh?” Slater asks in between nods and greetings to people vying for his attention.

  “Yep. If people respond well, it could possibly lead to more.” While I’ve done segments and commentary for some of the local stations, this is my first time working with the Hockey Network. It’s a great opportunity. If things go well, it could bring attention to my non-profit, Hockey Included, and help us partner with more underserved communities. Which would mean more kids have an opportunity to fall in love with the sport that continues to be predominately white. Heck, right now, there are only twenty-four Black players and four Hispanic players in the NHL.

  “Cool.” Slater’s eyes dart around the room, and I realize I haven’t seen Noah Alzado, Slater’s teammate and roommate.

  “Where’s Noah?”

  Slater’s normally easygoing, fun-loving expression droops. “I don’t know. We had a fight.” He chews on his bottom lip, eyes darting from the entrance to the stage. “Hey, promise me that if no one bids on me, you will?”

  “I don’t think that’ll be a problem, but yeah, I promise.”

  A woosh of breath blows from his lips. “Thanks, man.” Pulling out his phone, he puts an arm around my shoulders. “Say cheese.”

  I smile even as I inwardly groan. Slater and his social media posts are borderline obsessive. But the guy is too nice to refuse.

  “Bachelors if we can have you backstage, and if everyone else can find their seats, we’ll begin soon.” My dad, Booker Blake, one of the league’s greats and emcee for tonight’s auction, stands at the podium. His salt and pepper hair is—as it’s always been—clipped close to his head, and his suit is tailored to fit him perfectly. His shirt, heavily starched, would stand at attention if it weren’t on him.

  Slater pockets his phone. “Gotta go. Remember to bid on me if no one else does.”

  “I got ya. We’ll talk after the auction.” I point to where Hurley is standing near the exit. We fist bump, and Slater takes off for the stage.

  An hour later, Hurley and I are finishing up the most recent interview with yet another Hockey Bachelor and the winning bidder. The bidding has been competitive in a fun way, and we’ve gotten some great footage. I’m bursting with pride because everyone here is more than willing to open up their wallets to help the cause. I wasn’t out when I was in the league, and I’m ashamed to say that I said some horrible things as a way to fight who I was.

  Let’s face it, I didn’t want to disappoint my dad. Having looked up to him for forever and knowing I’d never be the player he was, I always felt like I was a disappointment.

  As we wait for the next bachelor, my dad is proving to the crowd that he knows more about hockey and its history than anyone here, by reciting some random college stats about the last bachelor. Dad comes off as a blowhard often, but as a Black man in this sport, he’s had to work ten times as hard just to get half the credit some of his lesser counterparts receive.

  “How many more bachelors do we have?” Hurley asks as we wait.

  I glance at the program. “Looks like Layne Coleman is the last one. Maybe we can get some insight on whether he’s retiring at the end of the season or not.”

  My attention returns to the stage when I see Victor, the president of Hockey Allies, whisper something to my dad and slip him a piece of paper. The only time my dad doesn’t have on what my sisters and I refer to as his game face, is when he’s at home, with family. He’s learned to be guarded and doesn’t give anything away. While I respect why he does it, his game face makes him seem unapproachable—even to his own kids.

  So, when his face morphs into disgust and rage for a split second before returning to his resting game face, I’m on alert. He says something to Victor before he nods.

  As Victor leaves the stage, my dad’s gaze darts over the patrons in the room before landing on me. He stares at me like he’s trying to impart something important, some words of wisdom or warning. I’m not sure which, and my scalp tingles.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a last-minute change.” My dad announces. “Unfortunately, due
to unforeseen circumstances, Layne Coleman will be unable to participate in our auction this evening.” There is a smattering of good-natured boos and hisses. Dad raises his hand. Once the crowd quiets down, he looks at his paper and continues. “The Hockey Allies is happy to have partnered with this gentleman for the last five years. Not only is he the owner and head chef of one of Chicago’s favorite Tex-Mex restaurants, Long Change, but he has also donated his time and talent to providing all of the food for this event.”

  The crowd claps. Someone yells something about wanting more shrimp, and the group laughs and cheers.

  When Dad opens his mouth, the next words that come out leave me breathless. I grab a seat at the nearest table, elbows on my knees as I wait for Layne Coleman’s last-minute fill-in to take the stage.

  Asher Delacroix.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Ash

  A bead of sweat trickles down my neck, and I pray that I’m not sweating through the white button-down I changed into. It’s bad enough to be in the spotlight, but somehow I’d forgotten that Booker Blake is the emcee. The same Booker Blake who is the father of Isaiah Blake—the man whose career-ending hit was caused by me.

  After the hit, I sneaked into the hospital. Isaiah was alone but drugged and hooked up to monitors due to some swelling of his brain. Seeing him, his handsome face slack and pale, I knew with certainty that I could not continue playing when I had done this. And I told Isaiah that.

  Yes, he was out of it and wasn’t even conscious. Still, I told him I was retiring effective immediately.

  As I tried to leave, inconspicuously, Booker returned to the room. Let’s just say he was not pleased to see me. I don’t blame him; everyone knew how protective he was of his family. And the shit I went through in the league was nothing compared to the racist crap he was subjected to. I still think he doesn’t get the credit he deserves because he’s Black. If he were white, the guy would have had more endorsement deals than he had time and already be in the Hall of Fame.

  Now, as I wait behind the curtain, I hear Booker reading off my bio. I refused to let Victor put any of my hockey stats in because those days feel like another lifetime.

  “You okay?” Beside me, Victor is watching me like he might have to push me through the curtains.

  He might.

  “I’ll be fine.” Neither one of us believes it, but there’s no turning back now. And then I hear my name.

  “…Asher Delacroix.”

  There’s an audible gasp and then murmuring. Followed by a few random claps.

  Shit. This is not good.

  Victor gives me a nudge, and I step onto the stage. I squint until my eyes adjust to the spotlight shining on me. What little sound there was before my entrance has been sucked into some black hole, leaving only deafening silence. The back of my shirt feels like it’s plastered to my skin as pricks of perspiration dot my core. When the HVAC system kicks on, I’m chilled from the heat blowing directly on me.

  “The prodigal son of hockey has blessed us with his return.” Sharp and cool but ever professional, Booker’s words slice.

  I don’t look back at him. He has every right to hate me. Hell, I hate me. Instead, I step forward and begin the exceedingly long walk down the stage as Booker tells the still silent audience that a date with me will entail me making breakfast for us, tomorrow morning at my restaurant. When I get to the end of the stage, I scan the crowd. The faces seem more shocked than hateful, but that may just be wishful thinking on my part.

  As I pivot to turn, I stumble and nearly fall off the stage when my eyes collide with none other than Isaiah Blake. Dressed in a navy-blue suit and a crisp white shirt, opened at the neck, he crosses his arms and leans back in his seat, causing two of his dreadlocks to shift behind his shoulder. I do the only thing I can think of—in lieu of hyperventilating—and give him a nod of acknowledgment. The corner of his mouth curves slightly, but I can’t tell if it’s friendliness, or if he’s enjoying my humiliation.

  “Can I get a starting bid?” Booker growls into the mic.

  If it weren’t January in Chicago and we weren’t in the Atlantis Room of the Winward Way Hotel, I’d swear crickets would be chirping. This was a bad, bad idea. The Hockey Allies is going to suffer because of me.

  Shit. I should never have let Victor and Alejandro talk me into this.

  I knew it.

  Hands in pockets, I head to the middle of the runway as one of Victor’s minions instructed, turn, and pause.

  “Five hundred.” A voice from the back speaks up, and my pounding heart slows. The bid is more than the hundred-dollar opening. There’s a smattering of applause.

  I can’t tell who spoke, but I smile and lift my hand in thanks.

  “Sold,” Booker pounds his gavel like he’s presiding over a serial murder case.

  The audience claps, and I hightail it off the stage.

  Victor greets me with a glass of water in hand. “See? You brought in more than the minimum bid.”

  “Yeah.” I guzzle the water before choking and sending it splattering all over Victor and anyone within a twelve-foot radius. “Jesus, Victor, this is vodka. I thought it was water.”

  “I figured you could use something stronger.” He wipes his face and attempts to dry off the papers on his clipboard.

  “Warn a guy next time.” I place the glass on a nearby table, wiping my mouth with the back of my arm. “Now what?”

  “Now, you go out and introduce yourself to number sixty-seven and work out the logistics of tomorrow.” Victor’s already busy directing the after auction cleanup and plans, so I head out to the back of the ballroom.

  Seeing a burly-looking guy holding a paddle with the number sixty-seven on it, I approach him. “Hi.” I extend my hand. “I’m Ash Ariti.”

  The guy takes my hand, but his forehead creases. “Thought you were Asher Delacroix.”

  I kick the carpet with the tip of my boot. “I’m him, too.” Not really wanting to get into why I changed my name if he doesn’t know the history, I move to a less toxic topic. “So, tomorrow morning… What time works for you?”

  “Sorry, dude. I’m not the one who bid. He had to run but said he’d meet you at the restaurant at eight. That work?”

  “Oh. Okay. Yeah, eight works. Do you know if your guy has any food allergies or anything?”

  “Don’t think so.” He picks up a big bag and hefts it to his shoulder. “Nice meeting you, Ash.”

  “You, too…”

  “Hurley.”

  “Nice meeting you, Hurley.”

  I glance around the room to see if I can spot Isaiah, and I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when I don’t see him. Part of me wants to apologize, but another part knows there’s no apologizing for what I did.

  Realizing I never got the name of the bidder, I turn to ask Hurley, but he’s gone. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Isaiah

  The early morning sun is deceiving in its brightness, making the world look warm and inviting. Instead, it’s frigid, and the wind blowing off the lake penetrates my multiple layers, chilling me to the bone. I blow into my hands and rub them together before digging them deep into the pockets of my camel wool coat. I’m going to have to buy yet another pair of gloves. I swear I don’t know what happens to them, but I can never seem to keep a pair around.

  The streets are relatively quiet, but for a few passing cars, and people walking their dogs. The city is still bundled in their cozy beds, which is where I want to be. But when I saw Asher Delacroix looking uncomfortable and unsure—so different from the man on the ice years ago—I couldn’t let the moment pass. Couldn’t let him suffer any more pain or embarrassment because of me. What must it have taken for him to walk out onto that stage?

  I bury my nose into my scarf as a gust of air whips a mini tornado of dead leaves and debris into my path, and I wonder for the hundredth time since last night if I’m doing the right thing. Will Asher feel like he’s being
ambushed? Does he resent me for the hateful, tactless shit I spewed when I was insecure and out to prove to the world I was as good a player as my dad?

  I wouldn’t blame him if he did.

  But when I saw him on that stage, the light accentuating the strong jawline evident under the closely-cropped dark beard—really more of a five o’clock shadow—and the green in his hazel eyes, the tension that pummeled me from hearing his name was eviscerated by a want. A want to know him, to be known by him, and to be connected in a way other than the misfortune that connects us now. So, here I am, standing in front of Long Change, my heart skipping, and my breath heaving like I just ran a marathon.

  Slowly, I push open the old wooden door of the former fire station turned Tex-Mex restaurant. Living in Chicago, I’ve heard of this place but have never had the chance to check it out. After the food at the auction, I had already decided I was going to make a point of paying the place a visit. I just didn’t think it would be so soon. Or a one-on-one with the owner/chef this morning.

  The dining area is darkened but for a light shining from the opened door of the kitchen. A rich tenor operatic voice singing in Italian and the chopping of a knife filters into the space. There’s something about hearing opera in a Tex-Mex restaurant that is disorienting. I take a moment to absorb the scent of bacon and something sweet. My stomach has other ideas and grumbles its discontent with my stilled feet.

  Clearing the nerves from my throat, I stay where I am but call out, “Anyone home?”

  The music ceases. Asher emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. Shirtsleeves rolled to his elbows. One arm is covered in tattoos, while on the other, a hint of ink peeks out. For a moment, I’m stunned by his size, as he seems to eat up all of the space of the doorway. I’m not used to being the smallest person in the room. At six-one, I still work out and have the build of a player, even though I haven’t played hockey professionally in a decade. But Asher has at least five inches on me and has filled out. Like he’s grown into his body in a way he hadn’t fully done in his mid-twenties.