Friday, Four Days Later…
On game day, I had a strict routine, most of which was designed to help me focus and ensure my body was ready for the punishment I was going to put it through. Goalies, unlike the rest of the team, played a full sixty minutes, and it was one whole hour of total concentration, as well as the physical challenge on my muscles.
To be honest, every practice I went to was part of that prep, but on game day, everything had to be right.
I rolled out of bed at seven. Although my alarm went off, I was already wide awake, preempting the alarm by two minutes. There was something nice about that time of the morning. I liked the peace and quiet. Kai and Angie were still asleep, and as I left my room, the door to Charlie’s old room was shut, too, which reminded me the new girl must be in there. I heard her moving things around last night and had to stuff my noise cancelling headphones on to block her out. When I meet her, I’ll need to get her to understand that on pre-game nights, I needed it quiet. No distractions, bed by ten, asleep by ten fifteen. Nothing could mess with that.
While the bacon cooked, I whipped up some pancake mix and set it cooking in a heavy frying pan. Once I made it through all the batter, the cooked stack of pancakes was four high, and I piled on six pieces of bacon and three scrambled eggs that I cooked in the microwave. I carried my plate over to the small kitchen table and faced the wall while I ate. The guys I roomed with were pretty good at keeping the place tidy and limiting my stress, but I didn’t want to get distracted by any of the clutter they might have left in the living room or the washing up behind me.
After washing down my breakfast with a huge glass of orange juice, I cleaned up all the stuff I used to cook and set everything back in its proper place. When I put away the cutlery, I noticed not all of the spoons were facing the right way in their compartment, so I had to take a moment to reorganize them. While I swapped them over, I also noticed a fork had been thrown in with the knives and wondered if this disorder was the new girl’s doing. I added that to my mental list of stuff to talk to her about tomorrow.
Once I restored order in the cutlery drawer, I showered, and after that I spread out what I needed for the match and the clothes for during the day. For the game, I always wore the same stuff under my equipment—a lucky pair of Jockeys and an Under Armour tee that I have worn since I turned seventeen. The seams in the tee were puckered and it would never be truly white again. Even though they were straight from the wash, there was an ingrained odor in both garments that never quite shifted—the smell of victory and defeat. Though not the most aromatic of fragrances, I’d wear them, anyway.
For before game time, I selected jeans and an olive-colored Henley. I tried to vary my game day clothes, as I was conscious of creating a new “routine” that would plague me, though being random about my choices was harder. Some twisted part of my brain had unconsciously collected statistics on every item of clothing I owned, and it had become a battle of will to ignore the data in my head.
To avoid the worst of it, I grabbed my choices for the day and dressed quickly, then hurried out to the kitchen so the clothing choice became obsolete as other routines took precedence.
First, I downed a glass of water—one of many as I tried to get my hydration up for the match ahead. Goalie gear was heavy and hot, and I sweated a lot throughout the game. It wasn’t unusual for me to drop four or five pounds by the end of sixty minutes of play.
That’s one area in which my OCD tendencies were an advantage. With the help of the nutritionist and coaching staff at college, I had followed a successful game day diet that optimized my physicality. My mental quirkiness loved that I got to follow that diet to the letter every single match day, guilt free. They weren’t lucky foods, but instead it was sound nutrition that just happened to satisfy my need to keep my food choices consistent.
After going for a light jog, the rest of the day was given over to school work and then relaxing. For someone as intense as I was, that meant reading and listening to loud music for most of the afternoon in order to keep down my stress levels. With Black Sabbath blaring out of my ear buds, I’d found I was no longer reading Journey to the Center of the Earth, but staring at the wall right in front of me. Behind it, I knew the new girl, Nora, might be there and I removed my buds to listen. Sure enough, I heard the sound of tape being pulled off of something, followed by drawers opening and closing. Nora must have been unpacking. I should have probably said hi, but it would have to wait until tomorrow. I tried not to talk to anyone on match day to avoid the distraction.
There were two hours to go before the game, but I was already at the rink. Fueled up and still drinking plenty of water, I found a quiet corner and began my mental prep. While the rest of the guys gathered to build team spirit, I needed to cut out anything and everything beyond the match. With my ear buds back in, and my iPod playing heavy metal, I focused on some visualization exercises and rolled a medicine ball against my legs, back, and abs, warming them up, loosening, and building up the muscles. Since around four o’clock, I’d been in isolation. No phone, no internet, no people, just me and my thoughts going through the routine.
With an hour to go, I began coordination exercises. Using two racquetballs, I started off slowly by throwing them alternately at the wall and snatching them out of the air as they bounced back at me. By the time I reached the end of my thirty-minute warm up, the racket balls simultaneously rebounded from the wall as fast as I could throw them. It was all muscle memory and hand-eye coordination, all conscious thought was gone. Reach, grab, throw. A thousand repetitions that had become a hypnotic rhythm.
Then Coach Peterson stuck his head out of the locker room. “Estrada, get in here,” he yelled above the pounding noise the balls made, and his voice pulled me out of my zombie-like state.
While I pulled on my goalie pads, Peterson went over play by plays. The rest of the team were all ears as he barked out set plays, but none of that mattered to me. I had one job and it was pretty damn simple—keep the puck out of the fucking net. End of story.
By the time the match began, my muscles were loose, and I was focused and strong. The first fifteen minutes acted as a confidence booster, as I blocked over twenty shots. Thirty seconds before the end of the period, Kai scored a breakaway goal, and we took a step closer to victory. When the horn sounded, I headed back to the bench with the rest of the team. We were all feeling confident that we had the game in the bag.
While the team huddled around coach, I stood off to the side. Unlike the big boys in the NHL, we didn’t have the luxury of returning to the locker rooms for pep talks. We got five minutes to down more water and that was about it. Normally, I did more visualization exercises during the break, but at that moment, my attention wandered to the crowd.
With the game going well, and all my ducks lining up, I had a good feeling about my performance. On the bleachers, I spotted my sister wearing her lucky red dress, and Charlie standing next to her, his arm around her shoulder. I was stoked to see them, and wished Charlie was on the ice with us, backing me up.
I continued scrutinizing the crowd and realized I was searching for one special little lady. My good luck charm and new roomie, Nora. But I couldn’t see the petite blonde that attended most of our games. Damn it! As I realized she wasn’t here, my confidence wobbled. Quite literally, something inside teetered, and an anxiousness settled into my chest. I shouldn’t have looked for her, and to be honest, I had no idea why I did.
The first two minutes after the next period started turned into a nightmare. Our defense was caught napping three times in one hundred and twenty seconds, and they left me high and dry every fucking time. We went from one goal up to three down, and the fucking wheels fell off our team. The last of those goals came off the stick of one of my defensemen, and the damn puck whizzed past my ankle while I scrambled to get back in position.
And it didn’t get any better for the remaining seventeen minutes of the period. By the time the horn blew, the opposition had adde
d another goal. As I reached for a new water bottle off the bench, Coach hitched his thumb at me. “Estrada, take a seat, Cullet, get warmed up.”
The fuck!
I have never been pulled.
“Coach, it wasn’t my fault, the D…”
“Sit, Estrada. We need to shake stuff up, change momentum. Cullet, you ready?”
I hadn’t sat out a game in weeks, and even when I did last month, it was only to give Cullet some game experience. Even last season, I played more than seventy-five percent of the time. Being benched filled me with rage, and all I could think about was ripping my D a new one. Assholes. Fucking lazy, cock-sucking assholes. How many times were they caught up high, leaving me to face the attacking player on my own?
As I wallowed, my eyes went to the crowd, and I scoured the faces for the blonde, wondering if I’d been mistaken earlier, and, perhaps, she’d been in the ladies’ room, or maybe at the concessions. After several minutes of searching faces, I had to face facts. Yeah, she was definitely a no-show. Immediately, my weird as fuck brain started rolling through its extensive stored up stats, and before I know it, I was thinking I had to make sure Nora never missed another game. My career might depend on it.
Usually after a game, I went into shut-down mode, limiting any stimulation around me. The parties were a sensory overload on my already stressed system, and I’d be better off skipping them—but I couldn’t. If I didn’t celebrate a victory with the others, it could jinx the next game. Like wearing my lucky undies and eating the same meals on game day, the after party was a non-negotiable part of my routine. So, instead, I found one thing to focus on to block out everything else, which was usually a willing female that would sit on my lap and keep me engaged.
I knew what it looked like to others, and it had earned me a reputation that frankly was over-exaggerated. We rarely did anything more than tangle tongues and grope each other. Sometimes, it went further, and we got each other off in the bathroom or in a secluded spot outside.
Kai and Charlie assumed I brought the girls back to my place, but honestly, that had never happened. Sometimes, I would stay at the woman’s place—I was not a fucking saint—but if I did, I got up early and went home before they woke. Once the adrenaline was out of my system, exhaustion hit me, and all I wanted to do was sleep things off in my own bed. It was kind of like a hangover—at least, from what I remember from the one and only hangover I ever had.
No bullshit. I don’t really drink, just a couple of beers—two, maximum. Alcohol was one of those things that aggravated my OCD. It racked up my compulsions and made me paranoid. The one time I got shit-faced, I turned into a fucking weirdo, and it took me days to reset.
I watched the rest of the game from the bench, and, mercifully, things were looking up. By the time the horn sounded, I had to admit that Coach Peterson’s decision to sub me did change the momentum. We walked away with a six-four win. For a guy that hadn’t played much, Cullet was like a machine that let nothing through. Even though Cullet deserved the win, it stuck in my throat and caused indigestion as well as a fucking sour stomach.
“Hey, don’t let it get you down, José. It wasn’t your fault.” Kai’s hand landed on my shoulder, but I shrugged it away and stormed into the locker room. I’d had more than twenty minutes to purge the adrenaline from my body, and I was fucking exhausted, as well as pissed off. Everyone sensed my mood, and they kept their distance. Only Kai had the balls to sit next to me while I changed, and even he kept his mouth shut.
As the locker room emptied, he stood and hovered beside me. “Um, you want me to wait for you, or will you meet us there?” I frowned at him. “The party? Do you want to come with me and Angie, or are you going back to the house first?”
“Oh,” I muttered. I was seriously thinking of not going at all. Although technically it was a team win, it was a loss for me. “I’ll catch up with you later.”
Kai nodded, picked up his gear, and left me on my own.
Back at the house, the place was shrouded in darkness. I dropped my bag on the floor and slumped onto the sofa. As I sat in the dark, I couldn’t help but analyze the day’s routine, searching for the reason my game was off. But everything was as it should have been. No detours, nothing forgotten, except… Nora wasn’t at the game, which was the only difference.
Suddenly, a bright light filled the room and left me blinking.
“Jesus Christ, José, what the hell are you doing sitting in the dark?”
The girl’s voice scared the life out of me, and I leapt to my feet. “You almost gave me a heart attack.”
She laughed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you right back.”
“Where were you?”
“In my room, I didn’t know anyone was home.”
I strode over and looked her up and down. This woman was my missing good luck charm from the match and I needed to know why she ditched the game.
“Are you okay, José?”
“No. What are you doing here?”
“I’m Nora.” She stuck out her hand, hesitated, then withdrew it, a blush rising up her cheeks. “Um, I just moved in.”
I scowled back at her. How can she be here when she should have been at the game making sure I won?
Folding my arms in front of my chest, it was hard to keep the irritation out of my voice. “I know who you are. Why weren’t you at the game?”
She shuffled from foot to foot, her hands ringing the bottom of an over-sized T-shirt. “I was unpacking and lost track of time. Is everything okay?”
“No, Nora, everything is not fucking okay.” I walked back to my bag and heaved it over my shoulder. How the hell could she do this? “We lost,” I spat out.
Nora frowned back at me. “What? But Angie texted me and said you won, six-four.”
That was technically true, but it didn’t feel like that to me. “Correction. I lost. The team won, but I was pulled.”
“Oh!” Her mouth widened as she formed the sound.
My focus immediately went to those rosebud lips, and I had a strong desire to find out how they tasted. But a second later, my rational side took control. “Don’t ever fucking get distracted and miss a game again. I need you there. Every. Fucking. Time.”
I stormed past her, ignoring her confused expression as I headed down the hallway and crashed into my room. The door slammed shut behind me, and the loud thud when it hit the frame was strangely satisfying, as I threw myself onto the bed and tried to forget the last three hours. This won’t happen again. I’ll see to it that Nora always goes to each game.
Six
Nora
José?” Okay, well, that was weird. What on earth did he mean? Why did he need me? Up until two minutes ago, I was pretty sure José didn’t even have a clue who I was. Now he needed me? Hmm, I should have asked him to define ‘need.’
My head was in the refrigerator when my phone vibrated, and Kai’s number came up on the screen. “Hi, how’s the party?
“So, so. You coming up?”
“Nah, still haven’t finished unpacking.”
“Ok. Have you seen José?”
“Yeah, he’s in his room.”
“Did he say if he was coming over?”
“I don’t know. Did you call him and ask?”
“His phone is switched off. Look, do me a favor, will you? Go check on him. Peterson pulled him after the second period, and he can get a bit intense about that stuff.”
“Sure. He seemed fine when I spoke to him, though he was a little weird.”
“In what way?”
“Um, hard to say. He made me promise not to miss any more games, and then headed off to his room.”
Kai laughed. “It’s probably his attempt at small talk. Like I said, I think he was cut up about being benched.”
Some rowdy behavior in the background made it suddenly hard to hear. Kai raised his voice. “Huh, I better go. Just get Estrada to turn his phone on, will you?”
Pulling a couple of beers out of the fridge,
I headed back to my room. Outside of José’s door, I paused, knocked, and waited. After a couple of minutes, there was still no answer. Should I leave him be, or do what Kai asked? The last thing I wanted was to get on the wrong side of José before I’d even finished unpacking. Still in a quandary, I almost jumped out of my skin when the door opened in front of me and José appeared wearing plaid PJ bottoms that hung off his slender hips.
“Sorry, I was in the bathroom.”
Jesus Christ! My eyes landed on the dark trail of hair that trickled from the waistband of the bottoms and stopped just below his bellybutton. Tight muscles ringed the guy’s abdomen, and as my gaze drifted higher, I come across defined pecs and dark nipples with a light smattering of chest hair between them. Immediately, heat surged through my body. José Estrada was built like one of those perfect male anatomy diagrams. All symmetrical proportions with not an ounce of fat on him, and every single damn muscle was visible in his physique.
“Did you want something?”
I pulled my eyes from his chest and forced myself to look at his face. He was leaning against the door jamb and was obviously finding my distractedness amusing. Way to go, Nora! The only way it could look any worse was if I was drooling. My fingers went to my mouth, and I was relieved to find I wasn’t.
“Um, yeah, Kai…” But seriously, how did any guy look this good? Surely, it should be illegal for him to take off his shirt and prance around like this! Oh, God, if he did this all the time, I was going to be a wreck before the end of the week.
“Nora?”
Okay, look at his face, stop with the perving. “Y-yes?”
“You had something to tell me?”
“Oh, sorry. Kai called. He has been trying to get a hold of you. Wanted to know if you were going to the party. Maybe you can text him and let him know.”
José pulled his phone from his pocket and while I was rooted to the spot, my eyes unable to stray from the perfection of his V-shaped body, he tapped something out. After thrusting the phone back in his pocket, he reached out and put his finger under my chin, lifting it so I was forced to stop ogling his chest.
Shut Out: Contemporary Sport Romance (Hockey Boyz Book 3) Page 4