Page 3 of Pickled
My garage door whirred, and I parked next to my Escalade. Shivering, I walked into the empty, very air-conditioned house. The car keys clanked as I tossed them into a bowl next to the door. Overhead lights lit up my massive kitchen as I filled up the kettle.
My phone buzzed. Out of irritation, I almost ignored it but smiled when I saw the name on the display.
Acer.
My brother. We were making up for lost time. A year ago, I would have punched anyone who suggested we’d be on speaking terms again.
Before I answered, I clicked on the kettle and popped a chamomile tea bag into a Miami Barracuda cup—a gift from Mom. She sent one every time I was traded to a new team, and my cupboards were filled with mismatched mugs.
“Go for Bailey,” I barked into the phone with a smile on my face. Throughout our Junior careers, we’d fought for the right to be called “Bailey.” I’d gotten it while we played for Toronto, and he’d had to settle for Acer.
I wasn’t going to tell him that I was home from the club and making tea. He already teased me about being an eighty-year-old woman trapped in a hockey player’s body.
“Ha. Ha. I’m Bailey now.” I could practically hear his smile. “Sweet goal tonight, bro. Looks like you’re back on your game.”
“Thanks. The defense is pretty green, but they’re talented.”
“Turn on the TV. They’re giving all the attention to that Owens guy’s goal, even though yours was better. They are predicting that with you on the team, the ’cuda could go all the way this year.”
I turned on the sports channel while we continued talking. “I saw your game yesterday. The media loves that stupid helmet-kissing thing.” Ace had instituted the team’s new ritual, planting a kiss on the goalie’s helmet. He didn’t invent it, but for some reason, when the Toronto Tigers puckered up, the fans went wild.
“What do you guys do?” he asked.
“We shake a string of barracuda teeth.”
“That’s super lame, dude.”
“And kissing your goalie’s helmet isn’t?” Shaking teeth seemed more symbolically powerful than planting a smooch on a tiger logo.
I settled into Old Faithful, my ratty recliner. The crank needed oil and squeaked loudly as I kicked out my feet.
Ace’s laugh filled the air. “I can smell that old chair through the phone. Let me guess. Your team won their preseason opener and went out to celebrate. You stayed for one drink, which you didn’t finish, and are home early, your ass planted in that recliner that’s probably home to a family of raccoons.”
“I don’t know if there are raccoons in Florida.” The armrest and various holes had been patched with duct tape, and a family of stowaway Toronto trash pandas could easily be living inside.
“Well, then watch your balls, big b-b-b-rother.” Ace struggled to get his words out through fits of laughter. “If it’s not raccoons, there’s probably gators in there.”
“You’re just jealous I got to keep Dad’s chair.”
The light from the TV flickered in my dark living room.
“I got his truck.”
I got a comfortable chair that would forever remind me of Dad; he got a truck that needed a new transmission, brake lines, and had more rust than the stripes in the 1970s brown, gold, and yellow chair. This recliner had been with me through the toughest times in my life and was like a silent confidante, supporting me, literally, all these years. “I think I got a better deal.”
Ace’s teasing about the recliner was annoying, but an unfamiliar pang hit me. Maybe I missed his ridiculous helmet-kissing ritual a little. Just a little.
“In your dreams,” Ace said. “That truck is—” The doorbell interrupted our conversation. “Was that your doorbell at midnight?”
I was just as surprised as Ace. I un-reclined the chair, tucked the remote into its duct tape pocket, and padded across the cool marble floor to the entryway.
“Did you order food or something?”
“No.” I wasn’t concerned but was definitely curious about the midnight visitor.
“Don’t answer it. Or at least go get your nine iron,” Ace hissed.
Through the peephole, I was able to see the top of a person’s head and their long ponytail. Whoever was out there was short and blond. An unlikely bandit. I turned the dead bolt and opened the door, all while keeping the phone crooked between my shoulder and my ear. “Can I help you?”
