Page 38 of Cheap Shot
Her cheeks pink slightly as she flashes me a shy smile. “Yes. Hello, Mr. Hendrix.”
“Cole. Please call me Cole.”
“Hello, Cole. My name is Alycia Torres, and I’m the public relations intern working for the Timberwolves this season. It’s a pleasure to meet you,” she whispers softly, her eyes locking on the center of my chest.
“The pleasure is all mine,” I respond, bending down slightly so I can look into her eyes, causing her to take a step back. “Do you have a badge for me?”
“Yes,” she responds breathlessly, her cheeks pinking even more. “Elena instructed me to take you directly to the locker room so you can get situated. You won’t be practicing today, but you have a meeting with the head athletic trainer and your physiotherapist.”
“Bummer. I would’ve loved to see you on the ice, Mr—I mean Cole,” the security guard responds, his disappointment written all over his face.
“Maybe next time,” I grumble, unable to hide my disappointment. Remy warned me I’d need something more than my therapist and surgeon to sign off on my return to play. The Timberwolves take their players' health seriously. If I were still in Boise, I’d be back on the ice like nothing happened, maybe with a few steroid doses, just to make sure I was able to get the job done.
“If you’ll follow me, I’ll take you to the locker room.” Alycia flashes me a blinding smile, running her badge in front of the sensor to unlock the turnstile.
“Are you sure you can find your way back?” The security guard chuckles as I push my way through.
“Yes,” Alycia responds in a clipped tone, as she spins on her heels and heads back the way she came.
I don’t say a word as I follow behind her. There isn’t much of a difference between the home team’s and the visiting team’s entrance, other than some team memorabilia and a trophy case with different plaques and awards lining the wall. The Stanley Cup from last year is there front and center, a soft white halo surrounding it, stopping me in my tracks.
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Alycia’s soft voice sounds from beside me.
I don’t say a word, my eyes remaining focused on the cup and all its glory. I can’t believe that I almost had a chance to hold this above my head. Skating around the entire arena with it raised high after bringing the win home for my team.
“I always stop and look at it whenever I pass by.” She bumps her shoulder against mine, bringing my mind back to the present.
“You must pass by it a lot, with getting lost down here all the time and all.” I look down at her and smile.
“Touché.” She giggles before heading to the end of the hall and coming to a stop, her head swiveling back and forth.
Covering my laugh with a cough, I come to a stop beside her. “Lost again?”
This poor girl seriously has no sense of direction, but I doubt she is going to admit it, so I decide to throw her a bone.
“I think the locker room is that way.” I motion over my shoulder with my thumb, the complete opposite direction the lady was headed.
“How do you know?” She spins around, her eyes flicking up to mine for a few moments before focusing on the floor.
“Because of the sign.” I knock my knuckle against the green-and-white metal sign on the corner.
“Right. The sign,” she whispers, her eyes remaining focused on the floor, and we head down the hall and come to a stop in front of the locker room door. “Here we are.”
“Thanks for the escort. You are much better than the security guard, Joe.”
“His name is Terrance,” she quips, her lip pulling up into a slight smile. “Here is my card. If you need anything at all, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
“Thanks, Alycia. It was nice to meet you.” I hold out my hand for her to shake, and she takes it quickly.
“It’s my job.” She winks playfully at me before continuing down the hall and disappearing around a corner.
“Hope she doesn’t get lost again,” I mumble to myself before taking a deep breath and pushing through the locker room door.
The familiar scent of sweat and rubber hits me like a wave as I step inside. The only thing missing is the metallic smell of blood that commonly fills the air after a game or a rough practice. The air is usually heavy with it, like it's been exhaled by every player that’s entered the space.
This area is clean. Too perfect. Not a towel or jersey out of place, signalling the start of the season. Each player has their own "stall"—not quite a locker, not quite a cubby. It looks more like a personal shrine: nameplate above, hooks for gear below, shelves stacked with everything from visors and gloves to tape and water bottles. In some lockers. green jerseys hang like flags, ripped off a knight. And the skates, looking viciously sharp, hang from hooks inside each locker.
I make my way toward the back row of lockers tucked in the corner near the showers.C. Hendrixis written in bold letters above one of the cubbies, but instead of the team's green jerseys hanging in a place of honor in every locker, there is a white one hanging from one of the hooks.
