Page 20 of Facing Off
And that’s how I’m huddled around my rookies at one in the morning, in the middle of a noisy club, yelling at them.
“What’s consent?” I point to Ahmed.
“Ongoing!” he rushes out.
I point to Nick next.
He yells, “Enthusiastic!”
Then I point to Kevin. He stammers, “O-Only a yes means yes. A coerced yes isn’t a yes!”
“Awesome, and if any party has drank beyond their limit, then?—”
“They can’t give consent,” everyone shouts together.
I clap my players on their shoulders. Because this might be obvious and the absolute fucking minimum, but it’s my duty to reinforce what the Wings represent, and it’s our duty as men to hold each other accountable. It’s why, as captain, I’ve promised to take every rookie out myself when they turn nineteen, the legal drinking age in Vancouver. It’s why I’m here, instead of watching more game tape at home tonight like I’ve been doing for weeks now.
“But how do you get women totalkto you?” The tops of Kevin’s cheeks are turning red. ”I would love some tips.”
“Be a professional hockey player,” Nick answers quickly. “That helps.”
“Buy them gifts,” adds Ahmed.
“Nope.” I crook my finger and wait for the rookies to crowd in. “The quickest way to a woman’s heart,” I say, watching them lean forward, “is to treat them like they’re also human beings, and to make them laugh.” I smirk. “But what Nick and Ahmed said also doesn’t hurt.”
“It also doesn’t hurt to look like you, right?” Ahmed points out.
“True,” I say, grinning while running a hand through my gorgeous hair. “But everyone is handsome as fuck in their own way, so go out there and be brave!”
Our VIP booth is on the second floor of an open-pit warehouse. You can look over the railing and scope out thedance floor, but you have to go downstairs to be in the middle of the action.
I nudge them towards the stairs, like a proud mama bird knocking her babies off a cliff, so they can learn how to fly on their own. It’s the weekend, so the place is packed. Conversations won’t be easy, but they can bring any guests back up to our booth where it’s a bit quieter and more secluded.
Ahmed lingers behind, while the others leave. “You’re not coming down with us?”
“Naw, I’ll wait here.”
“Why?”
“Just…‘cause.”
“Oh. You must have someone you’re already taking home, right?”
“Yup,” I lie.
“Is it those two women who were asking you for a threesome?”
Before I can answer his question, my phone vibrates in my pocket. Without checking the caller ID, I persuade Ahmed to join the others. When he’s gone, I’m ducking towards the exit. On the way out, I quietly slip a bouncer some money, so he can watch over my guys while I’ve stepped outside.
In the alleyway, the blaring music from the club is replaced by the infrequent honks of city traffic. The air is humid and smells like the shawarma place down the street. Delicious spices and grilled meat. I take a deep breath before pulling out my phone.
I assumed it was my PR agent calling again, insisting I release a statement to the press, telling the world why I’m not playing for Team Canada at the World Hockey Championship, putting to rest all the absurd rumors flying around.
Or a call from one of my sisters. All six of them have different things going on, from a house sink being backed up (I sent a plumber last night) to needing a co-signer for a condo (I signed the paperwork a few days ago) to wanting opinions on a new boyfriend (I’m arranging a lunch to meet him). It could also be my niece, wanting to tell me all about the science camp she just came back from.
But it’s a video call from Quinn.
My head drops, muscles shaking with excitement because even though he’s only been gone a few weeks, I’ve fucking missed him…until I remember he hates video calls.
