Page 3 of The Best Kind of Forever
Shit. I can’t get traded. I can’t imagine the rest of my NHL career—if I even have one—without my teammates. Not only would I have to move, but I’d have to somehow seamlessly weave my way into already-lasting relationships.
“And Sienna? Do you think she’ll talk?” he asks.
“I’ll take care of it. Plus, she knows the game.” Right? Sure I’d offered to get her tickets to the next game, which she clearly doesn’t need, but we parted with a hug. We both knew the deal going into the night.
“I—it won’t happen again.”
How have I fucked up…fucking? I’m great at fucking. If I wasn’t a professional hockey player, I could probably make it as a porn star.
“It better not. And I better see you working your ass off at practice tomorrow.”
I nod, trying to keep my nerves from catapulting themselves up my throat.
“Look, Hollings. I want to give you a piece of advice. And I’m only saying this because I truly want you to succeed, okay?”
That doesn’t sound good.
The redness in his face has started to fade. “You need to start cleaning up your act. All of these headlines are shining a negative light on the team. The bar fights, the constant partying, the waves of women, your hostility with the paparazzi. You’re not likeable. I can’t be babysitting you all the time. You’re not a rookie anymore. You need to start setting a good example for first-time players. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say, my voice hiking a pitch louder than intended. Anxiety batters at my chest like exploding shrapnel, and I fear that my knees are going to give out despite my back being against the wall.
Coach knits his furry eyebrows together, deepening that wrinkle on his forehead. “I expect you to be a strait-laced hockey player for the rest of the season,” he explains, and just like that, my world full of carefree living and endless drinks has just been turned on its axis.
“Anddo not, under any circumstances, repeat what happened here tonight.”
THE FOOLPROOF PLAN
HAYES
Inever signed up for a Dr. Phil session with my teammates, but everyone thought I would benefit from a nice, cold, hard intervention about my current antics.
“My life is over,” I groan, plopping onto the couch.
Me and some of my teammates live in a multimillion-dollar, Victorian-style home. The sun peeks in the eastern window at exactly eleven in the morning, and it bathes the inside in a wreath of warm colors—like the yellow of the ginkgo trees growing outside our home rink, or the brilliant orange of the honeysuckles nestled down by the riverbank, or even the crimson burning bushes peppered along the I-80.
The interior is arguably more beautiful than the exterior. The leather couch is big enough to seat the entire team, and its vermillion backside matches the intricately designed curtains sandwiching the floor-to-ceiling window in the middle of the room.
Rosewood chairs line the massive dining table, complementing a cedar fireplace that’s always running since the weather’s changed. And as if the ginormous flat-screen television isn’t enough, a crystal chandelier hanging from the vaulted ceiling ties everything together.
“Your life’s not over,” Bristol, our captain, says, bringing me a cup of what looks to be tea.
He’s been going through a weird grandma phase lately.
NOT LIKE THAT.
What I meant is that he has this strange fascination with chamomile tea, gluten-free cookie recipes, and crocheting.
Our group consists of Bristol Brenner, center; me, right-winger; Fulton Cazzarelli, left-winger; Casen Strader, right defenseman; Kit Langley, left defenseman; and Gage Arlington, our goalie.
Bristol Brenner is my best friend, my wingman, and most importantly, the guy who usually ends up cleaning up my messes. (Not that I ask him to; he’s just that good of a guy.)
He’s my emergency contact whenever I need a quick getaway from a one-night stand gone wrong, or for when I get shit-faced and need a ride at two in the morning because I got into a scuffle at a local watering hole. Oh, and if I end up breaking my leg trying to turn my mattress into a stair-friendly sled. Which only happened once.
Bristol is way more put together than I am. He’s a year older than me, and one of the best forwards the Riverside Reapers has ever seen. We’ve actually been friends since third grade, and it was just luck that we got drafted to the same team.
I remember the first time I met him. It was my first day of third grade, and during snack time, he came up to me and stole one of my peanut butter crackers. With no warning or anything. Then just ate it in front of me with this look like,Yeah, bitch, and I’d do it again.
The next day, I decided to get back at him by uncapping all his Crayola markers so he couldn’t participate in arts and crafts. He didn’t seem to think I was very funny, considering he spent the entire afternoon insulting me in extremely colorful expletives. Expletives that were at least sixth grade level.
