Page 72 of Pickled
Owens knewthe code to my garage, and half the Miami Barracuda had invaded my house. They were outside by the pool, beers cracked, music blaring, the Fridge somehow managing to stay afloat on the alligator blow-up floatie. Owens and Jameson were sitting at the pool edge with their feet in the water, beers in hand. Stevens had claimed one of the lounge chairs and was working his way through what looked like an entire container of orange chicken.
“There he is.” Owens raised his beer. “We were starting to think you’d been kidnapped by some senior citizens.”
“Close,” I said, dropping into one of the lounge chairs.“What’s all this about?”
“We missed your bubbly personality,” The Fridge announced from his float, then let out a huge belch.
“And you have cold beer.” Riley held up his can.
“Buddy, it’s nowhere near noon yet.” I shook my head.
“There he is!” Owens shouted. “Grumpster.”
In response, I took a beer from the fridge, cracked it open, and took a seat next to Jameson. I’d never been so happy for testosterone. This was exactly what I needed: no gossip, no eye-watering perfume, no meddling neighbors, just guys being idiots by a pool.
“So how’s the recovery going?” Stevens asked between bites of the orange chicken. “You look calmer.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“No, seriously,” Owens said. “I meant that in a good way. You’ve got a tan, you’re smiling, you didn’t kick us out.”
“The time off has been good,” I admitted. “Different.”
“Different how?” The Fridge balanced a beer on his stomach while dropping noodles in his mouth with chopsticks. The man was skilled.
“I don’t know. I mean, I’ve been going to physio, golfing a bit, and playing pickleball. I miss hockey, but it’s been nice not worrying about stats and losses, and I definitely don’t miss those fucking press conferences.”
“Pickleball?” Morgan, one of the newer players, rested his elbows against the side of the pool and flutter kicked his feet in front of him like a kid.
“Yeah. The people are good. It’s fun. There’s a whole community at the club.”
“Sounds like retirement talk,” the Fridge joked, then yelped as Owens splashed him, saving his beer before it fell into the pool.
“Maybe. But I’m not ready to hang up the skates yet.”
“Good,” Stevens said. “We need you, but don’t rush your treatment, and listen to your doctor.” He gave me a look. He would downplay his symptoms to get back on the ice—I knew one of my kind.
We spent the next two hours by the pool, and it felt good. This was the team chemistry I’d been missing. They complained about the new assistant coach and speculated about upcoming trades.
As they were packing up to leave, Stevens pulled me aside.
“Whatever you’ve been doing, keep doing it,” he said. “This is the most relaxed I’ve seen you since…ever.”
“It’s just the time off.”
“It’s not just that.” He studied me. “You’re actually happy. Don’t lose that when you come back.”
After they left, I sat by the pool with C.C. in my lap, thinking about what Stevens had said. Was I happy? For the first time in years, the answer wasn’t automatically tied to hockey statistics.
I wasn’t completely happy. Something was missing, and for the first time, I admitted to myself what it was. I pulled out my phone and found Lisa’s number.
Me: Need to talk to Piper. Can you help?
The response came back immediately.
Lisa: About time. Meet me at the courts tomorrow at 7. And Gideon? Bring your A-game. She’s not going to make this easy.
24
