by Lane, Stacy
“That’s sweet…I think.” I grin, then say with a straight face, “But it’s a lost cause.”
“Agreed. Not for the same reasons as you, though. The Labelle brothers will never settle down. Alex, maybe, but Cam and Brooks…bachelors for life.”
“Alex is the third brother, I take it.”
“Yep. Triplets.”
“Wait.” Turning fully toward her, I reiterate, “They’re triplets?”
Chelsea points around, at nothing specific, just swirling a finger in the air. “Hence the name of the bar they own.”
“Oh. I never put it together.”
“It’s okay. You get a free pass. You don’t pay attention to hockey so you wouldn’t know anything about the power those brothers have over this city.”
“But I heard from Earl that Alex doesn’t live here.”
“Not yet. There’s been a lot of talk about him becoming the new GM.” At my blank stare, she finishes, “General manager of the Fury. Which is crazy because he’s so young.”
“He must be pretty knowledgeable.”
“No doubt about that. Alex used to play. He was extraordinary before he got injured.”
I raise a hand and start ticking off my fingers. “One plays hockey, one could be the general manager of a hockey team, and one owns a hockey bar. That’s…”
“A triple threat.” Chelsea drawls with a sigh that could be felt and appreciated from all of those with a chance to be near these brothers.
Leaning in close to her, I ask in a whisper, “I going to assume he’s just as hot as the other two.”
“Very,” she exhales on a moan.
Pulling on the last of my beer, I set the empty bottle down. “Gotta pee.”
Chelsea nods as I slip off the stool and head toward the line outside the girls’ bathroom. When I’m done and walking through the crowd and back to my seat, I notice everyone distracted by something going on in the game.
Climbing onto the soft cushion, my eyes zero in on the jumble of players from both teams huddled together. What I assume is heated competition from frustrations rising and getting the better of them was accurate…and then some.
Fists are being thrown, gloves and helmets scatter the ice, and the referees are doing everything in their power to pull men twice their size apart from the others. One striped shirt has a hold of Brooks, both hands wrapped around his large body as he pushes him away from the pile. Brooks is grinning as they pull him off.
“What happened?” I ask Chelsea.
“One of the Panther players pulled a dirty move,” she says with disgust. “They’ll show the replay in a sec.”
“So they retaliated in return?” I question more, trying to understand.
“That’s the way of hockey,” she replies with simplicity.
The dirty move Chelsea talked about replays soon after. A guy in red comes barreling behind a white jersey, slamming his entire body into our guy. The force of the hit and the angle our guy held himself shoved his head down into the boards. I wince.
“Boarding.”
“Huh?”
“The penalty is boarding.”
A Panther player sits inside a closed box as another one joins him. The ref holding onto Brooks has to lead him to an identical box on the other side.
“Why is Brooks getting a penalty?” I ask.
“For fighting.”
“They were all fighting,” I deadpan.
Chelsea smiles, finding my confusion funny. “Yeah, but Brooks and the other guy didn’t stop when the refs came to break it up.”
The camera zooms in on Brooks inside the penalty box. He’s standing, yelling through multiple plates of Plexiglass, and you guessed it, grinning.
With his helmet off his eyes are more visible. The intense gray swirls like an angry storm; Thor spinning his hammer and creating a whirlwind of raging clouds and lightning. Like a tornado, I’m sucked in.
“He looks crazy,” I murmur.
“That’s Brooksy for ya,” Cam interludes, leaning a hip on the bar and peering up at the TV. “Always enjoys a good fight.”
“Brooks likes to taunt the other players,” Chelsea adds. “Rile them up, get under their skin. He excels at it. But not in a nasty way like that twerp from Boston.”
“Fuck no,” Cam agrees with revulsion.
“You guys know that means absolutely nothing to me, right?”
“There’s a player from Boston who licks his opponents,” she informs me.
“Oh gross!”
“It’s disgusting,” Chelsea shudders. “I know some people find a good-looking, sweaty man appealing, but no. Just. No.”
“There’s a time and a place to lick sweat,” Cam adds, giving us his full attention now. “The ice ain’t it.”
Suddenly, licking a warm body doesn’t sound half bad. Cam put the image in my head, but he’s not the recipient I’m thinking of.
The game carries on. After witnessing Brooks in action, I find it hard to dismiss the hockey game as easily as I did all the other times.
Cam brings us an order of fried pickles and fresh drinks. We watch the rest of the game at Triplets, leaving when the final horn blows.
Chelsea took a cab to the restaurant, so I offered to drive her home. She lives on Davis Island and her and Vic share a car. I found that strange but kept my opinions to myself. The players leave their cars parked at the airport while they’re away. Vic takes the car instead of leaving it with his wife who could easily pick him up when he returns.
Pulling my car through their gated entrance, up the long and curvy drive, and parking beside an extravagant Mercedes, my curiosity gets the better of me.
“Thought you and Vic shared a car,” I say, coming to a stop next to the shiny silver sports car.
“We do. Brooks drove out here before they left for Miami. He was very thoughtful, leaving me his car so I wouldn’t be without one, but Vic asked me not to take it unless an emergency. I don’t know the roads very well yet and he didn’t want me wrecking it.”
Then maybe Vic should have ridden with his teammate and left their car for his wife.
I say nothing and nod.
“Wanna come in for a cup of coffee? I know you have a little bit of a drive ahead of you,” she offers.
“Yeah, that sounds great. Good idea.”
The inside of her home is beautiful, though a little sparse. She mentioned they’re still working on getting settled in.
“So how long have you been married?” I ask.
“Since Vic got drafted,” she answers, but my inexpressive stare informs her that tells me nothing. “We were eighteen.”
Wow. That’s young. Chelsea looks around my age, maybe a couple years younger.
“High school sweethearts, I take it.”
“Yep.”
“Thinking about kids?”
Her eyes glaze over, shoulders slumping. “We’re ready for it if it happens.”
I decide not to press any further. Her body language told me more than her response. It’s a sensitive topic whether they are trying and it hasn’t happened yet, or one of them wants a family and the other may not. Either way, I’ve killed the mood with small talk.
“It’ll be hard for me if it happens,” she mumbles. “My entire family is in Vancouver. It’s not the way I pictured it, but I’d love to be a mom.” Chelsea goes about making a pot of coffee, losing herself in her own thoughts. I never interrupt, letting her say whatever she needs to get off her chest. “When Vic got traded I knew it was good for him and his career, but it’s been really hard for me. I come from a big family. Never alone, nothing is ever quiet, so living here in this big house with nobody in it but me most of the time is strange and uncomfortable. It’s our house, and yet I don’t feel like I’m home. Marrying a hockey player, you know the odds of moving around, but the reality of it is much harder than I expected.”
When she states the last sentence I get the impression it’s more of a reminder for herself than an explanation to s
omeone like me who is not familiar with their lifestyle.
“Don’t hesitate to call anytime you need the company, Chelse,” I tell her. “You’ve got a set of friends in Taytum and I. Lord knows I am never doing anything, so when Vic’s away for a game, we’ll hang out.”
“Really?” she asks with surprise.
“Yes.”
“I’m trying to befriend some of the wives and girlfriends of the team. Vic expects that of me. But they have families. Their schedules with their kids are just as heavy as the guys. And I refuse to hang out with the women Brooks and the other bachelors have around.”
“Like the redhead Brooks had that first night I was at Triplets,” I mumble, swallowing the contempt trying to rise in my throat, and keeping my tone level.
“Exactly,” she rolls her eyes. “Amber’s a regular for him, but not in the lasting kind of way.”
Clearing my throat, and changing the subject as fast as possible, I say, “Guess I better get used to liking hockey if I’m going to be around all of this, huh.”
Chelsea laughs, sliding a steaming cup across the counter to me. “Damn right.”
“All right.” Sipping the hot brew and savoring the rich black beams, I respond, “You got to tell me about this five-hole play. Just the name alone sounds kinky.”
FIVE
Brooks
The last one through the tunnels, I ambled down the halls despite the skates on my feet and the sweat-drenched gear covering my body. The threads I wore were as comfortable as my own skin.
Glove taps, ass smacks, chest bumps, however one decided to celebrate a win, they happened from the second you skated off the ice and walked to the locker room.
“Whoo! That’s what I’m talking about boys!” Adrenaline coursed through my veins as I entered the guest locker rooms. “We showed those pussies how it’s done.”
Hoots and hollers met my own excitement.
The Panthers were considered our rival team since we shared the state, but as always, it was an easy win. With a few weeks into the new season, we weren’t doing as well as we all hoped after that first puck drop.
Reaching over my shoulder I pull the soaked jersey off and dump it in the large basket. Sitting on the bench, back to the locker, I started working at my laces.
“Brooksy, thanks for having my back out there,” Claude says, stepping in front of me with a hand out.
We slap palms and I reply, “My pleasure, brother.”
“Not like you need a reason to drop the mitts, but I appreciate it.”
Claude took a nasty hit to the boards in the first period. Like any real hockey player, he was back out on the ice once cleared through the protocol.
“Gentlemen, you got thirty minutes till the bus loads,” Coach calls out.
I finish stripping and walk stark naked across the room and into the showers.
Four minutes later, a towel wrapped firm and low on my hips, I pull a tee and jersey shorts from the bag in my locker. As I get dressed I check my phone and see several texts from four different people. Three of them are family.
Amber: Good game. Want any company when you get home?
Hmm. Pass.
Dad: Your mom says stop making fighting look like it’s fun. Kids are watching and they look up to you.
Dad: I say you should have gone after that hoser another round before the game ended.
Jesus. My parents are nuts. They still make me smile, though.
Alex: You’re going to have to start doing something wrong when I get down there. Otherwise, everyone will think I’m playing favorites.
That message makes my smile grow wider.
What people don’t fully know yet is that the rumors are true. And by people, I mean every one of my teammates and the public. News travels, and I get asked at least once a day, but they believe I’m just as clueless about my brother taking the job like the rest of them are.
Except, Alex told me the truth last month when negotiations were being sorted. This time next season, our current GM will be out, and Alex will be in.
Last message is from my other brother. It includes a picture.
Cam: In good company tonight.
Tapping on the photo I see the profile of flawless, creamy skin, glasses, and a long blonde ponytail.
Jo.
It’s clear Cam took the shot without her knowing. Chelsea sits beside her watching the TV above.
Me: She still there?
Cam: No. She and Chelsea cut out about ten minutes ago.
Me: Did you talk to her?
Cam: When do I not give the women in my bar my undivided attention.
Me: So she remembered you?
Cam: What’s with all the questions?? It almost sounds like you’re fishing.
Fuck that. I am not fishing.
I reopen Amber’s text to respond with a time to meet me, but my thumbs pause above the keyboard before I start typing.
“Dammit,” I groan, pressing the side button and locking my screen.
Duffle in hand, I walk out of the locker room.
I’ll hook up with someone when I get home, but not Amber. She’s picked up on the brush-offs lately, and it’s resulting in desperately calling and texting me almost every night.
Once the bus is loaded, we’re off to Fort Lauderdale International Airport. I pop earbuds in and relax on the short trip from the bus to the airport, and from there to home.
Tampa has been home to me for the past five years. Before I traded here I was in New York. Back then my brothers and I were scattered across the states. Alex was in LA where his career began and ended, and Cam played in the minors in Wisconsin.
My parents were living where we grew up in Toronto back then. I came to Florida first, Cam followed with claims of early retirement, and when my parents decided to stop pushing Alex to move and deal with his new life without hockey, they packed up and came down here as well.
This was home. I signed an eight year deal last year. I planned on retiring with this team, God willing.
I wanted my team to succeed, but I can’t lie that I hope our success shines after Alex comes on board. I haven’t played with my brother since grade school, and we won’t exactly be teammates since he’ll be the boss, but I missed him. Hockey life is the lives we chose, but brothers—more importantly, triplets—is the life we were bonded to.
After the forty minute flight from Fort Lauderdale to Tampa I was in the car with Vic to drive back to his house. I left my car there in case Chelsea needed to go anywhere. Something her husband should have been worrying about, yet he didn’t.
The man made enough money to buy his woman a car. She’s unfamiliar with the streets, I get it. Still didn’t make it right to leave her for days without wheels.
As the house came into view so did the cars.
“Chelsea has a guest over?” I ask, staring at the back of a white Volvo.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “And I asked her to tell her friend to move her car so I could pull in the garage.”
It’s late and a plane ride can pack on extra exhaustion, but Vic’s attitude sounds more sour than necessary.
I climb out of his car and walk up to mine, setting my bag down by the door. Chelsea has my keys, therefore, I have to go inside. I wait for Vic as he takes his sweet time getting out and messing with his phone.
“She’s not answering,” he grumbles.
He unlocks the front door and we step inside. The house is quiet and dark, only a kaleidoscope of colors from the TV in their living room radiates into the foyer. The light footsteps from our slide sandals echo from wall to wall.
We cross the threshold and I’m greeted with quite the most charming sight I’ve ever seen.
Crossing my arms, I raise one hand to my mouth, pressing my fist to my lips to keep from laughing out loud and waking the two sleeping women on Vic’s couch.
“Guess that explains why she wasn’t answering my text,” Vic whispers. He walks across the room, around the coffee table, and bends over his
wife knocked out in the recliner.
Her guest on the couch is passed out as well.
Jo is sprawled out on the cream microfiber couch, one arm hanging over the side and the other flung above her head. Her glasses are askew and her mouth hangs wide open. I stare, transfixed and astounded she’s not sawing logs in that position.
I want to laugh so hard at the sight she makes mainly because I find it so damn cute.
Chelsea stirs, eyes fluttering open.
“Hey, babe,” she murmurs and smiles with a sleepy moan. “You’re home.”
“I told you to have Jo move her car. The garage was blocked when we pulled up.”
“Oh. Sorry. We were watching a movie and must have dozed off.”
“Okay. Well, wake your friend so she can move it. Please.”
Chelsea nods, but I stare at my teammate with fresh eyes.
“Your keys are on the kitchen table if you need to leave, Brooks,” she tells me.
“Thanks.” I walk to the back of the house as Chelsea goes to wake Jo. In the big kitchen, I find my keys on the little table in the breakfast nook. When I return, Jo is still out cold.
“We’ll let her stay the night, Vic,” Chelsea explains to him as I rejoin them in the living room.
“Fine. Can we get her up to the guest room at least? I’m too wired for bed and I wanted to watch some TV.”
Chelsea spots me over the back of the couch. “She sleeps like the dead.”
“I’ll carry her up there,” I offer, nodding my head to the stairs on my left.
“Thanks, Brooks. Let me check the room first. We haven’t had any guest stay in there yet.” Chelsea walks off, Vic right behind her.
Coming around the couch I kneel down beside a sleeping Jo. I’ll gladly carry her upstairs, but I doubt she’ll be happy about it if she wakes up in my arms.
“Jo,” I say in a tone just above a whisper. She doesn’t respond one iota. “Jo, wake up.”