Page 1 of Pickled
1
GIDEON
The puck slammedinto the net, and the cherry-red goal light spun to life. For a split second, everything from the past year—the trade, my brother, my fizzling career—faded into the roar of the crowd. I wasn’t a flashy player, so instead of raising my hands in celebration, I arced a turn and headed to the bench. Even with its state-of-the-art climate control, the ice in Miami’s “fishbowl” rink seemed soft, almost waxy.
By the time we skated off the ice with the win, beads of sweat dripped down my face, stinging my eyes.
Steam hung heavily in the dressing room as I got out of the shower and toweled off my hair. The atmosphere was upbeat, and laughter filled the room. It was my first official game as a center for the Barracudas, and it felt damn good to be on the ice. After a tough year playing for the Toronto Tigers, I was finally getting my game back.
My time with the Tigers had been tainted by the rivalry with my brother. Sure, at the end of the season, we reconciled, but it was too late. I had already been traded, and that’s how my grumpy-ass attitude and I found ourselves in a dressing room in Miami.
Drama aside, it had been the right move. I’d instantly found my stride with the Miami team during summer training camp.
I put on my silk boxers and tossed the towel into the bin.
“Loved that clapper from the blue line.” Jamie Owens, one of the defensemen, pulled a T-shirt over his head and smiled.
“Thanks,” I grumbled but forced myself to return his smile. I didn’t care about making friends, but I needed to put in an effort not to be hated. The bare minimum was what I was going for. I didn’tneedto be liked, but Toronto was a prime example of what happens when a team has toxic energy between its players.
As much as I hate to admit it, camaraderie is important, and even a lone wolf needs to be accepted by his pack.
That’s why I found myself putting on cologne and getting ready to go to a club when I’d rather be at home. Loud music, thousand-dollar bottles of booze, and picking up puck bunnies wasn’t really my thing anymore.
“Hey, Jameson, are you coming with us?” Owens shouted across the room to Mitch, the only married guy on the team.
“Only if I can bring my wife,” Mitch Jameson drawled. He was Texan, and even though he had played for Miami for three years, he still had a thick cowboy accent.
“You’re no fun.” Owens tossed a towel at him, which Jameson caught and hurled back to our side of the room.
“One day, you’ll get it.” Mitch shrugged and slid his wedding band onto his finger. “I’d rather go home and hang out with Bethenny than any of you idiots.”
I chuckled. Clearly, there was no room for the old me here anyway; the role of team grump had been taken. I didn’t know Jameson but already had mad respect for him. He wasn’t one of the top players in the league but was consistent. He loved the game, his wife, and seemed content.
Owens leaned into me. “Get what? Only having one pussy for the rest of my life? No, thank you.”
“I can hear you.” Jameson zipped up his Barracuda sweater and put on his hat. “My wife is the best person I know. I’m the luckiest man alive.”
He was gone before anyone could reply.
“What an idiot.” Owens rolled his eyes. “He’s going to snuggle with his wife. I’m taking home the hottest bunny at Riptide.” He leaned in and whispered, “I’ve got a goal for the year.”
It was the first interesting thing he’d said all night. I paused in getting dressed, my feet stuck in the legs of my jeans. “What’s your goal?” I had a couple of my own; I wanted to beat my record for shorthanded goals, and I wanted to bench at least twenty pounds more by the end of the season. Both were tall orders. I was number one in the league for power play goals, and I could already bench one and a half times my weight.
“You’re still doing that?” Landon Riley, the player who was sitting on the other side of me, didn’t move his eyes from his phone.
“It’s a new year, new start.” Owens rubbed his hands together. “I’m going to get a BJ for every goal that I score.”
Riley looked up from his phone, a wry grin on his face. “So what’s that for the year, two?”
Owens laughed. “Dude. At least I’m getting one tonight.”
We had won the season opener three-nothing. I scored one goal, Owens had tipped in another—a lucky shot, if you ask me—and Viktor, the young Russian phenomenon, had skated circles around Minnesota’s defense to score our third goal of the game in the last ten seconds.
The Barracuda’s organization had been around forever, but most of the players were new. It shouldn’t have surprised me that the players had the maturity level of a Junior A team. Hell, half of them could barely grow peach fuzz, let alone a full playoff beard.
“Grow up.” Riley slipped his phone into the pocket of his backpack.
“Easy, Riles.” Owens shrugged. “Maybe you should join my challenge, you know, have a little incentive to hustle out there.”
