Page 39 of Pickled
Dawn creptthrough my bedroom as I woke up one minute before my alarm went off. I shut it off, and regret from the night before hit me like a body check. How did I let Goldie convince me to leave those tickets? Now I’d spend the day wondering if Piper would show up. The thought of those empty seats across from the players’ bench made my stomach churn.
C.C. stretched beside me, then head-butted my chin. “Alright, I get it.” I pulled back the covers, and he darted downstairs to his food dish.
In the bathroom mirror, I pulled a white cat hair from my scruff. Was I turning into a crazy cat lady? Adopting a stray, going nuts over the neighbor—I was definitely not myself. I needed to get my feet into my skates and get to the one place in the world where all the noise disappeared.
Rubbing my hands together, I met my gaze in the mirror. The man looking back at me was serious. It was time to start my game-day routine. Number one on the list was shaving. I wouldn’t let the scruff grow into a beard until we made it into the playoffs.
I got dressed and left C.C. with a full bowl of food. I had the Porsche keys in my hand, but paused at the door and exchanged them for the set to the Escalade. The last time I was in my car, I swore the smell of Piper lingered; vanilla managed to hang in the air, even with the top down. It had to be a placebo effect, or Iwastruly going crazy over the girl next door. The scent had to be gone by now, but I wasn’t going to risk it. The Escalade was free from any real or hallucinated reminder of Piper.
The night with Ace had been fun, but I wouldn’t talk to him today. Until the buzzer sounded at the end of the game, he was the enemy, the opposition. That started the second he and Goldie left. Which reminded me of the ticket mistake. Goldie was the one who convinced me to walk to Piper’s house. She came along for the walk, and I think she was almost as nervous as me.
I pulled the Escalade out of the garage. This was new territory for me. I wasn’t used to being distracted by a woman, and definitely wasn’t used to a woman having the upper hand. I was the one who didn’t call back. Not them.
The phone rang through the speakers. There were some benefits to owning a modern car. I tapped the screen to answer it. “Jameson. What’s up.”
Reggie opened the gate and waved as I passed through. I returned the gesture and headed to the interstate.
“Dude, where are you?” Jameson’s voice barked through the speakers.
“What do you mean?” A glance at the dashboard screen confirmed I was perfectly on time to arrive at the fishbowl at8:00. That would give me an hour to get ready for the 9:00 a.m. pre-game skate.
“The skate is at eight, Gideon.”
Blinking, I wondered if I’d heard right. “Eight? I could’ve sworn it was nine.”
“Me too. Owens called me this morning to tell me to check the schedule. He didn’t call you?”
“No.” My tone was flat.
“I’m sure he meant to.”
Had Owens tried to sabotage me on purpose? To what end? Me being late for the pre-game skate? It didn’t make any sense. “I’m sure he did.” I played along. Old Gideon would not have been so diplomatic. That asshole was still alive and well inside of me though, and he whispered,Fuck camaraderie. What was camaraderie if the comrades deliberately undermined each other? The V8 engine growled as I pushed the accelerator to the floor. “I’ll be there on time.”
After aGrand Theft Auto–style drive through Miami, I found myself dressed and on the ice at 7:59. My nerves were in shambles, and I was already breathing hard, but the second my blades hit the ice, everything disappeared. Piper. Owens’ immature games. My to-do list for the rest of the day. It all evaporated into the refrigerated air of the rink.
Shoving everything else aside, I made it through the skate without thinking about Piper in pink or whether or not she was going to show up at the game. But the second I wiped the snow off the blades in the dressing room, it all came back.
The mood in the dressing room was upbeat, but I was still pissed. Why hadn’t Owens called to let me know I had the time wrong?
The Fridge toweled off his hair, and the bench heaved as he sat down in front of his cubby. The guy had to weigh at least two-eighty.
“Yo, Giddy. We were wondering if you were going to ghost us.”
I would never miss a skate. Anger percolated in my guts, but I forced it to simmer down. “I’ve never missed a pre-game skate in my life. I wasn’t going to start today.” I glared at Owens.
Owens looked genuinely confused, his thick eyebrows knitting together. He’d been trying to fit in since his trade from Vancouver. The guy actually reminded me of a golden retriever—a little clumsy and eager to please. Gideon, the jerk, was slipping out, proving he couldn’t be contained. I slammed the door to my equipment locker, balled up my wet towel, whipped it into the basket in the center of the room, then stormed out, like an immature idiot.
Just as the dressing room door clanged shut behind me, I heard Owens grumble, “What’s up with the grouch?”
A round of laughter filtered through the door. While I didn’t hear what was said next, I knew it had to be a joke at my expense. If I had to guess, my new nickname was now Gideon the grouch, or Grouchman, or Grouchster.
My role as the team black sheep settled in like an old friend, the comfortable, toxic friend that you couldn’t quite get out of your life. I didn’t like it, but there is some comfort in the familiar. I had a choice: turn around and step back into the old me, burst into the dressing room in a hulking fit of rage, or… move on.
Just play hockey, idiot. Focus.
“And win,” I replied to myself, leaving the dressing room door behind me. Let them call me whatever they wanted. I wasn’t going to stir up any shit. We were going to get on the ice and annihilate the Tigers tonight. I was going to take the rage that was coursing through my body out on the opposition, not my own team.
Was I growing up? Or was that just misdirecting the anger? Whatever it was, I didn’t care. I was a hockey player. One that wins. If I wasn’t that, I wasn’t anything.
