Page 7 of Body Check
“I threw it away. You’re welcome,” I snap, cutting him off before he can finish.
“Dude, you need to apologize to Liza,” Mickey insists, looking at Blue and still contributing like this conversation has anything to do with him. “Do whatever you have to because we can’t lose her. One of the conditions of us living there is that we have a house manager.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” I quip. I think every team on the east coast heard about the fire Mickey started that nearly burned the whole damn house down. I don’t know what caused it to collapse totally, but I’m sure he was part of the chaos.
He shoots me a glare, and I send one right back. I’m not the least bit intimidated by this asshole. I don’t respect guys who fail to take shit seriously. And yeah, my best friend isn’t exactly the picture of responsibility, but he puts the work in when it counts. Mickey lacks focus and direction. Spending ten minutes with him is like hanging out with a sixth grader on a sugar high. It’s annoying as fuck. It’s not even that he’s a bad guy, just an immature, irritating one. And I’m not known for my patience.
“Just make it right. And clean up your mess,” Mickey says, giving Blue a pointed look as he hops off the lat press and heads to the next row of machines.
I should let it go, but this guy gets under my skin like no one else. “Wipe down the fucking machine, Mouse,” I yell, deliberately calling him a name I know will piss him off. It always did the trick when we played against him. He nearly got ejected from a game last spring, all thanks to that one little word.
As expected, he shoots daggers in my direction, but I don’t even bother looking at him. I just hit the shower and move on with my day.
I need a goddamn drink, and while this coffee is good, it's not doing anything to erase the tension building at my temples. I’m not even much of a drinker. It makes me feel sluggish, but the way my day is going, I’d down a shot of Jack right now just to ease the pressure this damn day keeps piling on.
Between Mickey irritating the shit out of me at the gym this morning and the meeting I just had with my academic advisor, I’m in a foul fucking mood.
The business program at Woodcock was easy as shit. I coasted through classes, which is the whole damn reason I chose it as my major. I don’t ever intend to work in the business sector. If I did, there’d be a spot waiting for me at one of my family’s car dealerships, but management has never been my career path. If I were joining the family business, I’d have probably chosen to be a mechanic, like my dad. I spent a lot of time tinkering around in the garage with him while I was growing up, and even though those are some of my best memories, I’ve always known there’s only one future waiting for me.
Playing pro hockey isn’t the goal. It’s the plan. There’s simply no alternative. It’s what I love. It’s what I do. After being drafted after my freshman year, I decided to stay in college because it gives me a chance to work on my game and put up impressive numbers. And since Minnesota’s center is still a few years away from retirement. While I’m strengthening my game, I’m also attending classes and earning a degree. It’s one I’ll never need, but I can’t play college hockey without going to college. So, like in every other area of my life, I put in the work to get the results I want.
But that tried-and-true method might not cut it anymore, if today is anything to go by. These business classes are no joke. Dr. Collins, my adviser, just gave me a list of requirements as long as my damn arm. In addition to the five classes I’m taking, there’s also a seminar I need to attend twice a semester. And the first one is next week. And yes, I probably got a thousand notifications about it, but between my dad’s accident and transferring to a new school, these last few weeks have been hectic.
I’ve got a few hours before my final class of the day, so I’m heading back to make some lunch, figure my shit out, and make a schedule.
The house is quiet, which makes sense. Most of the guys are probably sitting in class or eating at the dining hall, and Liza’s probably at the Wolf’s Den. There’s still a month or so until our first game, but there’s a lot to do to get ready for the season, and she keeps us all in check.
Dropping my bag at the door, I head into the kitchen to grab my last protein bowl. Blue likes to tease me about my meal-prepping, but on a day like today, when I’m starving and grouchy, I’m damn glad I share a pastime with middle-aged suburban moms.
My curry chicken and sweet potato bowl is the treat I fucking deserve.
Especially when I see Mickey in the kitchen.
Dammit. Of course he’s home.
If I’m going to deal with his hyperactive ass, I need all the chill I can muster, and everyone knows that roasted sweet potatoes and baked chicken are famous for their calming properties.
This fucking guy never stops, stands still. I swear to god, it’s like he’s got springs in his sneakers or some shit. He’s got headphones on and he’s likely jamming out to shitty music, so maybe I’ll be lucky enough to grab my lunch, warm it in the microwave, and step out onto the patio before he decides to talk my ear off.
His music mustn’t be too loud, though, because he looks up as soon as I enter the room. He glares at me, and I glare right back. There’s no hiding the fact that he hates me just as much as I hate him, but we don’t have to play nice right now. It doesn’t sound like anyone else is home. I can feel his eyes on me as I scan the fridge for my glass container, so I flip him the bird over my shoulder, just to piss him off.
“Real fucking mature,” he mutters.
I should let that go because he sounds like a goddamn middle-schooler, but where this guy is concerned, I can’t let anything go. He’s so damn annoying that I can’t resist any opportunity to return the favor and irritate him. But when I turn around to face him, I see red. Or rather, orange.
“That’s my fucking lunch,” I bellow.
“It was in the fridge,” he says, shrugging and scooping up another bite.
“You're damn right it was in the fridge, because that’s where people keep food, you dumbass.”
“It’s fair game if it’s in the fridge. Besides, there wasn’t a label on it.”
This motherfucker is testing my patience. And if sweet potato theft isn’t a felony in your book, then we have very different moral codes. Slapping my palm on the plastic lid that’s sitting on the counter, I seethe, “Yes, there was. See?” I run my finger along the masking tape label with my name on it.
“Sorry. My bad,” he replies, taking another bite. He doesn’t even have the decency to stop shoveling food in his mouth. “I’ve got a box of blueberry waffles in the freezer. You can take those as a tradeoff if you want.”
“What I want is my lunch.”
