Page 48 of Hot for the Hockey Player
“You okay?”Laurel asked, scooping rice into her bowl.
I met Maverick’s gaze across the table.“We will live.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Maverick
Gabrielledefinitelydidn’twantme there.
That was plain to see.But why?
Was she upset over me going to Damon’s school?Did I do something?Was I over too much?
We ate dinner in awkward silence.Relying on the children to fill the air with chatter, but Damon wasn’t chatty, and Laurel was shy by nature.So it was just a lot of clanking utensils and Gabrielle deliberately avoiding making eye contact with me.
When Honor showed up, I could see Gabrielle sigh in relief that I was taking my leave of her.
I thought about asking Laurel if her mother was upset with me, but immediately decided against it.She was just a kid.It wasn’t her place, or her job, to help me sort out the mystery that was her mother.
I did manage to have a chat with Damon as we played video games, and managed to get out of him that he wasn’t actually friends with any of the boys that joined him in the parking lot that day.In fact, he didn’t like any of the boys in his grade or the grade above.He said they were all like Brad Vasser.They all listened to some alpha male podcaster named Germaine Pratt who touted “advice” about how to make women submissive to men, what a “high value” male was, and how wokeness was ruining traditional gender roles.
“You don’t listen to him, do you?”I asked, glancing over at Damon as we sat on the couch.
“I tried once,” he confessed.“Guy was a massive tool.The way he spoke about women …” He shook his head.“Even if I did like it, Mom wouldneverlet me listen to that kind of thing.”
“Because your mom is a badass feminist and knows bullshit when she hears it.”
Damon nodded.“I hate those guys, but they’re all there is.”
My chat with Damon gave me a lot to think about.This was the first time I’d heard of Germaine Pratt, but some of the guys on my team listened to other douchebags like him.The “Lonely Man” epidemic was a continued topic of discussion among some of my teammates.While none of them said they were lonely, because they had women throwing themselves at them, they could see how “unsuccessful” men, and mid-level athletes might be lonely because of all these “woke” women.
I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that being “woke” was a bad thing.How was love, acceptance, understanding, and compassion bad?I saw a lot of similarities between where I grew up in West Virginia and the conservative, divisive mentality there, and the boys in Damon’s class and the podcast they worshipped.It made me uncomfortable to be a white male of privilege, because honestly, my kindwasthe problem.
I pushed those thoughts from my mind for the time being and drove Laurel and Honor to our watercolor class.Just like the cheesemaking workshop, Hugh Tapper’s, the metalwork, and the woodwork, the art studio was located on a residential property.Unlike the others though, the studio wasn’t in a converted barn or Quonset hut, it was in a very modern carriage house behind a more dated two-story A-frame with shake siding.
Two old classic Ford pickups sat in the double carport under the carriage house, and I followed the girls up the stairs on the left to the second level.They didn’t bother knocking and just opened the door.Bright, overhead recessed lighting greeted us.Not white LED though, which I appreciated, but more of a warm, almost mood lighting.What I could only describe as tribal music, with a heavy single drumbeat, played softly in the background.There were three long tables with bench seating on either side, and three “stations,” one on each side.A paint pallet, jar of water, array of brushes, and several pieces of thick, textured paper sat at each spot.About half of the spots were full.
I followed the girls and sat against the wall beside Laurel.
“Hello again, friend,” greeted Sage, the owner and instructor of Seastar Studio.She reached for my hand and cupped it with both of hers.Every single one of her long, paint-splattered fingers had a ring—or two—on it.Her nearly two-foot-long blonde dreadlocks with wooden beads on some of the strands, were piled high on top of her head today, unlike the other day when I first met her and they hung nearly down to her butt.She was exactly what you would expect when someone said “hippy.”She even smelled of patchouli and cannabis.But looking around the room at her finished pieces, there was no denying the woman had talent.
I nodded at her.“I’m well, Sage.Thank you.How are you?”
Her smile was serene.Almost like she’d already been into the ganja.“Every day I wake up is a good day.”
“That’s one way to look at it,” I said with a closed-mouth smile.
Her plethora of wooden bangles clacked when she released my hand, and her flowy green and khaki skirts reminded me of hanging moss as she seemed to float away from me to the front of the room.More people filtered into the studio until all the stations were full.
“Welcome, everyone,” Sage greeted in her breathy voice.“Thank you so much for choosing to spend your time and energy here with me—with each other, with your creativity—this evening.”
I glanced at Laurel who smirked.
Honor giggled beside her.
“This session’s theme is movement through nature.But don’t be afraid to get creative and put your own interpretation on howyouview movement in nature.”
I gently elbowed Laurel.“How doyouview movement in nature?”
