Page 12 of Home for the Hockey-Days

CHAPTER 5

August

Ifucking hate parties.

Especially fancy-as-fuck Christmas parties.

I survived the ugly sweater party Mom dragged me to at the neighbor’s house, but this? Penguin suits?

I also fucking hate tuxedos.

Who the fuck are these rich kids who thought it was a good idea to have a party, invite the whole team, and make us dress up in glad rags I don’t even own? Couldn’t they do something more meaningful with their money? Something less... lavish?

I’m grateful to them for paying Rowan for my tutoring. But this... this level of opulence, of grandeur... ofwaste.

I bet as soon as I walk into the fanciest hotel in Cedar Rapids, everyone is going to know this tux is borrowed from my cousin. I’ll stick out like a sore thumb, a giant sore fucking thumb at that.

These de la Peña kids have more money than sense. It grinds my fucking gears. Has no one in their lives taught them about the value of a dollar? About how some people barely make ends meet? Ugh. The entitlement.

I haven’t known them all that long, since the college hockey season started in October. They seem like nice guys, from the little time I’ve spent with them, and I know life isn't fair, that just because someone was born into money doesn't make them raging assholes, but it all feels a bit… in-your-face flashy.

They’re paying for my tutor, which is far from a dickish thing to do, so I need to give them some grace and tuck my own hang-ups about the wealthy aside. And as captain, I can’tnotshow up to their holiday party for the team, even if I’d rather stay in my dorm room, eat ramen noodles, watch porn, and pass out in my underwear.

I do look hot as fuck though. I can carry off a tux with the best of them. I’m lucky that my one and only cousin who has made something of himself is an inch taller than I am and owns a penguin suit.

These hotshot sons of a billionaire have even comped hotel rooms for each member of the team for the night. Not shared rooms, either. We get a room of our own. I half expected matching jammies like we got at Halloween, or group activities in the morning. Or even matching smoothie makers for everyone on the team. But I guess that’s a step too far for the Princes of Prosperity.

Fuck.

I heave out a sigh. I know I’m being a petty bitch, I know I’m being judgmental and ungrateful and normally, I can keep myself to a mild snark.

It’s definitely worse than usual. I guess there’s something about being forced into needing help that’s rankling me.

I’m trying not to be bitter, to not resist participating in the group activity even if it stinks of Benjamins. It’s not their fault they were born into money and I wasn’t. And underneath all the dollar bills they’re actually decent guys, they really are. Ineed to focus on that more, it’s just hard when it’s almost brandished in my face at every turn.

If they weren’t good guys, they would never have offered to help me out of a tough spot by paying for my tutoring with Rowan. I mean, theycouldjust stand by, stay quiet, and keep their money in their very deep pockets. They could let me lose my place on the team, and in university, and one of them could even take my ‘C,’ if they were the cut-throat, competitive, jackasses I’m making them out to be.

It’s just sometimes it’s hard to see past everything they have that I don’t.

Fine. All the damn time.

If they knew I was struggling as much as I have been, both financially and academically, they’d wave their money wands and make it go away. They didn’t hesitate to find Rowan for me, before I’d even opened my mouth to ask for help.

But I guess I’m just too fucking proud to ask forrealhelp, or let them even if they tried. Taking that gift card from Artemis in Bitches Brew physically hurt my insides.

Coach wants me to work harder at strengthening my bond withallthe guys on the team and stop being so much of a lone wolf. Some days I think he regrets giving me my “C,” because I don’t like people. I’m not a good leader. He says I’m wrong but I don’t see it. He says it’s his job to see things in us that we can’t.

And for some unknown reason,peopletend to tell me personal shit like they think I can help them fix it. To be fair, sometimes I can. But that’s beside the point.

I don’t mind hanging out with my boys, but this... this is... extreme. It’s such an unnecessary fucking waste.

The hotel in downtown Cedar Rapids looks pretty fly under thousands of soft twinkly Christmas lights. A huge, black Christmas tree, adorned with silver and gold decorations, stands in the lobby, an electric toy train chuggingaround the tracks surrounding giant piles of beautifully wrapped empty boxes at its base.

“Are you here for the hockey team party?” A guy behind the desk asks with a warm smile.

Isn’t it obvious? Is there another penguin fancy dress party in the building? I’m glad he referred to it as the team party and not the de la Show Off’s party. I might have snapped.

“Yeah.” I tug at my collar. As soon as it is socially acceptable, I’m yanking off this stupid dickie bow.

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