Okay, there was the stuff that revolved around my game, but all hockey players were superstitious, and most sports aficionados had a lucky shirt they had to wear or favorite snack food they always ate while watching the game. I looked it up once and found a weird-ass fucking place on the web where people confessed all the crazy shit they did to “ensure” their team won.
There was this one guy who had to vacuum at halftime while wearing his jersey and his mother’s slippers. Vacuum! Like how did that even start? Not to mention how the slippers came into the equation. Now that was some crazy shit right there that would take years of work for a shrink, I’d say. But perhaps the guy was not as loco as he might seem. He supported FC Barcelona, and reckoned his halftime vacuuming was responsible for a large portion of the soccer team’s eighty-nine trophies. Not all of them, obviously. For one, that guy was only in his sixties and not alive when Barca got their first trophy in 1902, and he says, the vacuuming didn’t start until 1975 when they won La Liga. Apparently, the slippers were added in ’81 so he could help them out of a dry spell.
From my extensive research, that’s what can get to you. People with quirks get sucked into fueling them. The guy with the slippers probably experimented with adding aprons, fuzzy ear muffs, eating donuts, and a ton of other shit to “up” the luck, and each time Barcelona crashed and burned, he probably believed something was missing. I reckon he should examine the vacuuming. I wonder if he kept stats on it. Games lost versus Ws with his Dyson in action or not. If not, then he wasn’t doing his team justice. Statistics, man, they are what counted.
“How’s the season going?”
Charlie pulled me out of my thoughts before I got in too deep. It wouldn’t do to get dragged into that spiral of obsessing and analyzing other people’s obsessions and analysis. “Great. Haven’t lost a game since you left.”
He punched my arm, but we were both just joking. I mean the winning streak was true, but I was mildly obsessive, not a fucking idiot. I knew it wasn’t because we lost Charlie that our luck was holding, more that despite losing him, it had. Six players rotated Charlie’s old D spot in as many games, and we were still hunting for what was missing.
“You sure you don’t want to come back? I have to work so much fucking harder without you.”
“Never thought I’d see the day José Estrada would miss me.”
“I don’t miss you, I miss the way you shored up the space in front of me. How’s it going in the big leagues?”
“Okay. It’s hard, you know. Like being back at the beginning. Can’t believe I’m back to fighting for a spot on fourth line again! Although, I did a couple shifts on second at the end of my last game.”
“How soon before you get a yellow jersey?”
He shrugged. “Who knows. Never thought I’d be praying for one of my teammates to get injured—but you know this game.”
Yeah, I did. It reminded me of those cheap sliding puzzle things you had as a kid, with one open space, and you had to move tiles up and down to get them to reorder a picture. If there wasn’t a space above, you were stuck, and sometimes you had to move sideways or even down to make progress. Being in the leagues was as much of a strategic game as playing hockey.
“But you’re up there, Hamilton, you have a contract and everything. You’ve done well. The rest of us are still dreaming, buddy.”
Charlie looked up at me when I called him that, and for a split second, a big fat grin appeared on his face. I knew he hated how our friendship was fucked up because he fell in love with my sister. Weeks ago, Kai let it slip that Charlie and Mia started seeing each other while she was tutoring him—and when I stopped seething at that revelation, Kai gave me a lecture about how it was my fault that both my twin and best friend were miserable all summer because I caused Charlie to call things off between them.
‘Buddy’ had slipped out. It fit with the rhythm of the sentence, felt right, felt comfortable. I never meant anything by it, but I found myself thinking that perhaps it shouldn’t be an empty word. Charlie had made it quite clear that he’d still be there after I finished my temper tantrum. I was just not sure I was out of the sulking phase yet.
“How’s the new apartment?”
“Small.” Charlie glanced over at Mia, who was talking animatedly with Daisy and her boyfriend. “I wish I could give her more, you know? But it’s cozy, and we don’t need much furniture. My mom gave us the money to buy a bed, and that gets a lot of use.” He winked at me, and I physically shuddered. Charlie wisely changed the subject. “How’s the new roommate working out?”
“He didn’t. He was an utter slob, even Kai couldn’t deal with his untidiness. But thankfully, he couldn’t bear us either and moved out.”
“Huh, so what you going to do?”
“Well, Angie suggested we get another girl, and I could live with that.”
“Yeah, I bet you could.”
“Nah, never shit where you eat, man, you know that.” Except, perhaps Charlie didn’t. After all, he fucked my sister in our apartment. “Women are tidier. Angie says her bestie might be interested, so we’ll see.”
“Nora?”
“Yeah, I think that was her name.”
Charlie rolled his eyes at me.
“What? Am I supposed to remember all of Angie’s friends now? I’m not the one dating her, that’s Kai’s department.”
“Christ, José, Mia is best friends with Nora, too. They did everything together.”
“Yeah, I know that. I just have a hard time remembering her name.”
“You’re kidding me? She hung out with us all at the after parties.”
“I’ll take your word for it. If she washes her dishes after she uses them and keeps her shit in her room, I don’t really care.”
Mia must have overheard us talking, because she butted in. “Who are you talking about? Oh, God! Do you have a girlfriend moving in with you?”
“No. Angie wants Nora to move into Charlie’s old room.”
“And José doesn’t know who she is.” Charlie raised an eyebrow at Mia as he spoke.
I was definitely missing something and was beginning to wonder if I might have had a fling with this Nora that I couldn’t remember. That would be awkward.
“Whose idea was that? Oh, my God, this is the worst suggestion ever. Seriously, José, you can be a piece of work sometimes.”
“What? What did I do?”
Four
Nora
I got back from Thanksgiving to find a note pinned to my front door. It read one word—Friday—but it meant so much more.
“What’s this?” Dad unpinned the scrap of paper and handed it to me.
“The apartment I told you about. Seems I can move in on Friday.”
Dad sighed. “What’s wrong with this place? It’s nice.”
It was, too. A recently renovated bottom half of a duplex that had brand new appliances when Angie and I moved in last year. “It’s too expensive, Dad.”
He cocked an eyebrow. “I pay for it, Nora, it’s not costing you anything.”
“Yeah, I know, but without a roommate, it’s costing you double.”
“I’m okay with that. I just want my princess to be safe and comfortable.”
I reached up on tiptoe and kissed him on the cheek. “I know you do. The new place is only a couple of blocks away, which is safe and comfortable, too.”
“Do you get your own bathroom?”
“No, but that’s okay, Dad. I don’t mind sharing.”
He frowned at me, no doubt not believing me after the countless years of me complaining when I had to share with my cousins when we went on vacation.
“Besides, the new place will be more fun. I’ll be back with Angie, and there will be four of us living there.”
“Well, if you’re sure you’ll be happy. So, who else are you sharing with?”
“Angie’s boyfriend, Kai, and Mia’s brother.”
“That goalie you are always talking about? Is there something going on b
etween you two? You never shut up about him at Thanksgiving.”
“No. He’s just a great net minder, Dad.”
My father dropped my bag on the floor and leaned on the counter while I made us coffee. Next to him was a pile of books Mia gave me. We had this thing about sports romances. Actually, it was closer to an addiction. Mia had found this little pile of goodies in a thrift store over the summer and snagged the lot for two bucks! When she moved out, she left them with me as a thank you present. I was not sure what I was being thanked for, but I couldn’t wait to dive into them.
“Does this ‘talented’ net minder look like one of these guys?” Dad held up the top book. It had a picture of a very hot guy standing in compression shorts, holding his hockey stick nonchalantly against his bare chest. Piercing blue eyes stared out from the cover and a cheesy title, ‘Pounding the Net,’ strategically covered the bulge in his shorts. “Is this supposed to be a euphemism?”
I blushed. I’d already skimmed that book and let me say, there were a few dog-eared corners where the book fell open. From my brief foray into the pages, it was most certainly a double entendre. Mickey Dean, the H in the story, did a lot of pounding—both at nets and in the bedroom. I snatched it out of my dad’s hand and swiped the rest of the books out of the way. “No, Dad. José isn’t like that.” Liar. “And that’s a story about a great goal scorer, not a goalie.”
“That can’t afford a shirt I presume?”
“Seriously, can we change the subject?”
“Okay, princess, tell me about your classes. You think any more about switching to law?”
“Nope, my mind is made up. I like teaching. It makes me happy. Besides, I don’t want to be a stuffy lawyer. That takes years of studying, and it is boring.”
“Being a stuffy lawyer is what has given you everything, Nora. The luxury holidays we took you on as a kid, fancy restaurants, designer clothes, the latest Apple products… shall I carry on?”
“I know, Dad.”
I wanted to add that I didn’t care about any of those things because it was being a lawyer—with all those long hours—that led to missed birthdays and times when he could never come to my games or recitals. Ultimately, it was also responsible for my parent’s divorce. Those things mattered to me more. I’d have chosen having him and Mom still together over any of those material things. But I didn’t say any of that, because, even though his job always came first, I loved my dad, and he only wanted the best for me.
“I just need to be me.”
He wandered to the refrigerator and pulled out the creamer. “Jeez, Nora, this fridge is empty. Are you eating?”
“Of course, I’m eating. I just spent the last four days at your house. I emptied it before I left, that’s all. I’ll go grocery shopping in the morning. Stop micro-managing me.”
He gave me a concerned look but went back to his coffee. “Have you decided what you’re doing for Christmas? Are you still going to your mom’s?”
“It’s her turn, Dad. You got me for Thanksgiving.”
“You know you don’t have to do that anymore. You’re nineteen, you could choose for yourself.”
“Don’t. I love you both equally. Now quit trying to guilt me. Rotating has worked for twelve years, let’s not mess with the system.”
To be honest, I was both happy and sad to wave goodbye to Dad. Happy because I could finally concentrate on packing up my stuff, but sad because we lived this segmented life, and my relationship with my parents relied on a freaking timetable. Even though I’d joked about not messing with the system, I hated the damn schedule. It felt like I had to make sure my time with both parents was dead equal, like I was the freaking candy bar that had to be shared between two squabbling kids—and heaven forbid, if the allocation was off by a sliver.
After seeing Dad off, I went back inside and picked up the book he teased me about earlier. I stared at the hunk on the front. No, he wasn’t anything like José Estrada because my not-so-secret crush was far more delicious than any author could conjure out of their imagination. José had brooding chocolate-colored eyes that were almost black, and a light earthy ochre complexion that I was sure would look exquisite next to my vanilla cream one. He also had a strong jaw that was the definition of chiseled, and a flop of ebony hair that had a habit of hanging sexily over one eye so he had to brush it back with his fingers before he put on his goalie mask. And, if you were ever lucky enough to see it, he also had the sexiest damn smile a girl could imagine.
But José Estrada did have one thing in common with the fictitious Mickey Dean—not knowing I existed. Plus, like the drool-worthy character in the book, José might as well be fictional, too. Book boyfriend and an unreciprocated crush both kept me awake at nights lusting over them, and I didn’t stand a chance with either of them. Pedestal toppers, that’s what they were. Lord, I was kind of making this thing of always wanting the unobtainable a damn habit.
Instead of packing, I ordered take-out and curled up on the sofa with Pounding the Net. I had plenty of time before the move, and a night with Mickey Dean seemed like just what the doctor ordered.
Unfortunately, I woke the next morning, fully clothed, still on the sofa, with the consumed paperback lying face down on the floor. While completely satisfying, the story left me with a bad taste in my mouth. Mickey was the ultimate player. Too handsome for his own good, and a total dick around women. Even though the author cleverly manipulated Mickey’s character and turned him around, Mickey falling for the sweet innocent virgin who wouldn’t give it up until she was married left me with an ache in my chest.
Perhaps Dad was right. This book could have been written about José, but sadly the woman who stole Mickey’s heart bore no resemblance to me.
In the last couple of years of high school, I acted out. Maybe it was my parents renewed squabbling just before Mom got remarried that took me down that path—it had been a rocky year with Dad moving out-of-state as well, and him wanting me to go with him rather than stay with Mom’s new setup. Either way, I briefly decided that being a good girl was not all it was cracked up to be, and for a wildish couple of semesters, I thought drinking, smoking weed, and finally losing my virginity were all good ideas.
I climbed stiffly off the sofa, and padded to the bathroom. After I peed, I washed my hands and stared at my reflection in the mirror over the sink. “Jesus, Nora, what are you doing? You spent almost all of freshman year crushing on a guy who was so out of your league, it wasn’t funny.” My reflection looked a teensy bit sheepish. “Why, girl? Do you just get off on being rejected?”
Well, technically, José had not rejected me. That would imply he had noticed me in the first place, and that perhaps we had a fling, or a thing, or even a damn moment. But the awful truth was I was pretty sure he didn’t even know my name.
I went to my room and stripped off yesterday’s clothes. Leaving them where they fell, I pulled out some Lycra leggings and a slouchy tee from a chaotic laundry basket that I was ninety percent confident contained my clean clothes. I’d shower later, after I did some packing.
As I pulled out a bunch of flattened cardboard boxes from under my bed and began to tape them together, I caught sight of a picture taken last year at one of the hockey games. Wearing our team jerseys, Mia, Angie, and I were crammed together in front of the ice rink. In the background, the boys were practicing. I had my face turned, momentarily distracted from the photo being taken, and if you followed my line of sight it led directly to José Estrada, hidden by his mask and pads, as he defended his goal. Jesus Christ, I was a hopeless case.
I picked up the framed print and ran my finger over my foolish face in the picture. “You need a change, girl. How about we move on from José Estrada?” Saying it out loud and doing it were two totally different things, but even the inner romantic in me was tired of my irrational self. If the guy hadn’t noticed me in more than a year, he wasn’t ever going to. Besides, if I didn’t shake this crush, things were going to get super awkward when I moved i
n with him.
I dropped the photo frame into the carton I just taped together and looked at my chaotic bedroom. Hmm, this was probably another thing I should conquer. Heaps of clothing lay around the place, covering the bed, floor, and most other surfaces. Maybe in my new place I would strive to be tidier, and actually use the closet.
With the cartons on the floor beside me, I set about dropping random stuff in. My packing wasn’t very organized. I kind of started in one corner of the room and worked my way towards the door. Clean clothes, dirty clothes, books, magazines, school work, knick-knacks, lamps… everything got added to the boxes as I reached them. When one box was full, I started another, promising myself I’d sort it all out when I unpacked. There was no use trying to tackle my messy nature now, was there? But when I moved into the new place, I would be super tidy and crush free!
I wandered into the living room with a couple more empty boxes and began grabbing stuff to fill them. I picked up the next book of that hockey romance series, Shoot First, Date Later. Seriously, who thinks up these titles? Ten minutes later, the packing was forgotten, and my head was in the book.
A couple of hours after, my stomach gurgled and I went in search of the leftover take-out from last night. As I ate, I realized the day was already running away from me. I had hoped to have completed most of this packing before I went back to classes tomorrow. It was not going to happen. Puck You was demanding to be started. If only I could find a super sexy guy like my newest hot book boyfriend, Jovie Knicks—okay, is there a special book of ridiculous character names that authors use for their heroes? Damn, I should stop reading these trashy romance books because my expectations no longer lined up with reality. But if I was moving on from José, and about to become organized and tidy, then I had to hold on to at least one guilty pleasure, right?
Five
José
Shut Out: Contemporary Sport Romance (Hockey Boyz Book 3) Page 3