Page 2 of Pickled
All eyes in the room turned to Riley. “I’ve got no problem scoring goals, and I’m definitely not going to hold myself back from getting as many hummers as I want. I’m not limiting it to a small number, like you.”
“Ooooh.” The room fell quiet with Riley’s burn.
They all needed to grow up, but I gulped down my criticism. Judging jerk Gideon was gone. Gideon the goal machine was back, and that’s what I was here to do. Score goals and win games.
Could I end the night with a model’s lips wrapped around my dick? Of course. But my no-strings-attached days were gone. The Groundhog Day of tanned blondes and vapid conversations reinforced my decision to forego forgettable one-night stands. Ididn’t have the energy for the marathon of a real relationship. My valuable time was budgeted for hockey and hockey alone.
The linefor Riptide snaked down the street and around the corner. Groaning, I wondered how much I was going to have to grease the bouncer to avoid standing in the dense humidity all night. It turned out I didn’t have to worry—I was a Barracuda.
The valet bounded to meet me as I pulled up in my 1974 Porsche 911.
“Nice goal tonight, Bailey.” He held up his hand for a high five.
“Thanks.” I obliged and handed him the keys.
“Head right in.” The bouncer pointed to his colleague, who unhooked the red velvet rope. As a small-town guy, I hated this kind of preferential treatment but hated waiting in line even more.
Riptide was exactly the hellscape I’d imagined. Pulsing lasers, deafening music, and wall-to-wall gyrating bodies. All I wanted was to be at home with my book. Sighing, I accepted my fate and slipped into the crowd to make my way to the VIP section. I found the guys and slid onto the turquoise vinyl bench seat next to Riley.
I poured one drink, tried to have a conversation, and didn’t dance. What was a grand total of fifteen minutes felt more like fifteen hours. “I’m going to head out,” I shouted to Riley as I finished my drink.
“What?” He pulled a bottle of vodka from the ice bucket and filled his glass.
Pounding bass vibrated our drinks. I pointed to the door. “I’m going to go.”
“Ah.” He nodded, putting it together. “Thanks for coming out, man.” He smiled and joined me as I stood. To my surprise, he grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a dude hug.
“No problem,” I grumbled. I pulled away and tossed a hundred-dollar bill on the table. Wishing I’d pulled an Irish exit, I waved at the rest of the guys.
“Nice goal tonight, Giddy,” Owens shouted from the far side of the table. He was already surrounded by two beautiful brunettes. The rest of the guys had disappeared into the smoke and neon lights of Riptide.
I stiffened.
Nicknames and hockey players go together like ice and pucks. It was only a matter of time before I was given one by my new team. It didn’t surprise me that Owen had chosen the unoriginal “Giddy”—we are hockey players, after all, not linguistics majors. Most nicknames are the player’s name with a -yor -steradded to the end of it.
Giddy.I thought I’d left that shitty nickname buried deep in the Toronto snowbanks. I hated it. It was the opposite of my personality. Surly would’ve been more apropos. Hell, I’d have accepted Gidster over Giddy any day of the week.
“Don’t call me Giddy,” I growled loud enough to be heard over the music. It came out harsh, but my first instinct had been togo full asshole and throw some fists, so it was better than that. I took a breath. “How about we go with Bailey?”
“Bailes, Bailster, Bailman. I can work with that.” He grinned. “See you at practice tomorrow, Bailman.”
I cringed. Bailman was bad too, but at this point, anything was better than Giddy. My ex had called me Giddy, and the name brought on some serious PTSD. “I’m just here to play hockey,” I whispered under my breath and gave Riley a send-off wave. I was trying my best, but the grump inside me was a wild man, one who was hard to keep contained.
Weaving through the sweaty crowd, I decidedI’m just here to play hockeywas going to be my mantra for the season. Shut up, give it my best, be happy—giddy even—and maybe I’d have the chance to hold the cup up over my head again.
The Stanley Cup is the pinnacle of this sport, and natural talent alone isn’t enough to get it. So many things have to come together, including a team that has synergy. Everything was falling into place with the Barracuda. I couldn’t fuck it up over a beef with a nickname.
The air outside didn’t provide much respite from the club. It was late September and a sultry ninety degrees at 11:30 p.m.
I’d left the top down on the Porsche. When the valet delivered it, the urge to hop over the doorframe reared up inside me. I’d always wanted to do it, but all eyes in the line were on me. It was an immature move, I justified, and the door existed for a reason.
Warm air swirled around me as I drove away from the chaos of downtown. I inhaled the salty air and turned up the radio. Life was good. Sweating in Miami was better than shivering in Toronto any day of the week. Driving a convertible twelvemonths of the year was one of the million things I liked about the city.
The breeze picked up as I followed the ocean to my neighborhood, Rosewood Estates. Mansions lined the side of the road, and palm fronds danced in aesthetic lighting. Living in a gated community, however, was one of the few things I didn’t like about my move south.
I grew up in the countryside of Northern Michigan, a place where we didn’t lock the door to our house. We knew all of our neighbors, and in the long, cold winter, my parents would help strangers push their cars out of the ditch.
I’d lived in Rosewood since May and had yet to meet a neighbor. Fancy cars came and went, but I had not seen a single person on the street. There were no gossipy old lady walking groups or hot soccer moms jogging with fancy strollers. Riley said it was too hot in the summer, that people worked out in the climate-controlled haven of the indoors. It was the exact opposite of Toronto, where everyone hibernated in the winter.
