Page 4 of The One Night Dash
“Sorry, kid, my fault,” Paul says, stepping into the kitchen with the kind of gravitas that makes even the Killer and the Mother F’er straighten. “Wanted to do my part, so I warmed up some food for your boys. Two others are in the microwave—for you and the Italian.”
The Italian, of course, being Deacon Moretti. One of our goalies.
“No problem, Mr. Bron?—”
“It’s Paul,” he corrects, like he always does. Then his gaze sweeps the room. “Where is he, anyway?”
“Didn’t come home last night,” Killer says, stuffing another oversized forkful ofmyperfectly proportioned eggs, turkey sausage, sweet potato, spinach, and avocado into his mouth. He grins around it, the bastard, knowing I can’t tear him a new one in front of a legend.
Jaw tight, I grab the steaming bowls from the microwave and set them on the island with a little more force than necessary. “Eat up, Mr.—I mean,Paul.”
“Arewe waiting on the others today?” Joel asks as I hop in and shut the door to the SUV behind me.
“Nope.” I glance over as the door to the townhouse starts to open. “Let’s roll.”
He sees them coming out, but does as I ask and doesn’t question me.
Dick move? Sure is. Okay, yeah, I got nothing else except, right now, I’m pissed that they made me look like a douche in front of Paul Bronski. So, they can get their own ride.
I pay for a car service and the peace of mind it gives me. I use it during the season when I have days like today that are scheduled so damn tight that driving myself, public transportation, or waiting for an Uber, only to have them cancel for another person needing a ride, doesn’t make sense. Found them after I was stuck in traffic once when I was supposed to be at a shoot that would have paid for a whole year of Briar’s college at the beginning of my career. Got there when they were tearing down, and they no longer needed me. Wasn’t in high demandafter that. Who am I kidding? I wasn’t in demand at all. I was labeled unreliable by ad agencies all over the city.
With the team doing well, and me having this face, body, and my best season on the ice yet, my agent, Drew, got me in with Apex Wear for a commercial shoot.
The scene? A locker room, me in compression shorts that didn’t hide the fact that I’m packing or that I’ve gone hard on squats and leg day. The angle was perfect for the commercial, and the still pictures they blew up on for a billboard hanging in Times Square. Three words: “Dominate every layer.”
A few hours, two days in a row, they worked around my schedule, and I made two hundred Gs. And because it was successful, I have a contract next year for a cool mill for four shoots. My agent Drew is working out the details.
“Another underwear shoot today?” Joel asks with a chuckle.
“Ironwood Reserve,” I answer. “It’s a one-off that could lead to a contract if all goes well.”
“You a bourbon guy?” he asks as he speeds through the light.
“When the occasion calls for it. But I’d drink Yak milk with a smile for a contract with them.”
“That good?” he asks.
I nod.
“Guess I should get my kid into skates now.” He chuckles.
“We’ll schedule a time if you want me to show him some basics.”
“You serious?” he asks.
I nod. “Hockey’s the only thing I’ve really ever been serious about.”
The SUV rollsto a stop at the players’ entrance, engine humming low as he rolls to a stop.
“Thanks, man, see you at?—”
“I’ll be here at two fifty.”
I could let him open the door for me, but that’s not me. Never has been. I shoulder my duffle, push the handle down, and step out into late-November air that’s sharp enough to sting the lungs for most people, but I love this shit.
The arena stands in front of me—steel and glass. The players’ entrance isn’t like making a grand entrance on game day through the front. No reporters or fans stacked three rows deep behind barricades. Not that I don’t love to get dressed up, show respect to the game and the fans, but I love walking in back here, knowing today, it’s just me, the team, and the ice.
I’m typically one of the first guys in, but today, I hear sticks and a puck. Before I head into the locker room to lace up, I head toward the ice to see who beat me here.
