Page 15 of Slapshot
“Same difference.”
Fair enough.
Our waitress approaches. She’s not nearly as smiley now that Lex is gone. “Are you two doing okay?”
“Another round,” Vivian tells her. When I groan, she says, “Admit it, you’re not ready to leave either.”
“I can’t let them run me off.” I need to show them I can hold my own.
“Oh, looks like he’s leaving. Guess he isn’t going to sit there with a wet crotch all night. Too bad. He was fun to look at.”
I snort-laugh and turn slightly to see Lex walking toward the door. He’s staring at me with a cocky tilt of his lips. As soon as our eyes meet, I turn back around.
“Good riddance.”
Our waitress returns with our drinks and two shots.
“We didn’t order those,” Vivian says as the server sets each one on the table.
“The guy that was sitting with you earlier ordered them. He said to let you know there’s a party at the hockey house tonight.”
Vivian’s eyes light up. She’s a funny one. The second a hockey player hits on her, she scares them off, but now she wants to follow them around to look at them. They’re notTHAThot. Most of them anyway.
“We’re not going.”
“Boo, you’re no fun.” She holds up a shot glass. “To your new job.”
* * *
The next afternoon, I head over to the rink to organize the equipment closet and finish the laundry from last night. I’m nursing a headache and my stomach is queasy. I haven’t been this hungover in a long time.
The more Vivian drank, the more I learned about her hatred for hockey players. More specifically THE ONE who broke her adolescent heart. The more she told me, the more shots she ordered, and well, I couldn’t make her drink them alone.
The locker room and adjoining offices are empty. Once the first load of laundry is going, I take a seat on the edge of the small desk in the equipment manager’s closet to look through the tablet and see if I can figure out the organization system Alec was using. My phone vibrates in my pocket. I expect it to be Vivian calling to hang out. Lately, our typical Sunday has consisted of grabbing coffee and then hanging out at her apartment. It gives me a short reprieve from the dorms and Vivian and I watch TV, gossip, paint our nails… all the usual girl stuff that gets pushed during the week while we have classes.
Instead of Vivian, though, it’s my dad. I stare at his name on the screen until it goes to voicemail. Then, I bring up our last text exchange.
The man is an NHL Hall of Famer and runs a multi-million-dollar company, but his texts are a rambling of run-on sentences and misspellings as if he couldn’t be bothered to use his precious time to double-check them before sending.Checking in. How’s VT? Classes goin okay? Be looking forward to seeing your grades at semester. See you at thankssgvng.
That was a month ago and I replied with the standard,I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I left off the eye roll emoji, but I definitely rolled my eyes while I tapped out the message.
I haven’t told him about my job, so I send a quick,Can’t talk now. I’ll call later.
I keep staring, waiting for a follow-up or some acknowledgment that doesn’t come. Figures. Everything is on his schedule. He probably crossed me off his to-do list as soon as he hit voicemail and then moved on to his next task. He does call every week and attempt to check in—I’ll give him that. Though he also sent me to freaking Vermont so I’m a little salty.
Voices carry from the locker room, but I can’t make them out. Last night was a real wake-up call. I’m going to have to interact with these guys. They’re going to expect it. So is Coach Keller. I’m here to wait on them. Ugh.
Shoving my phone in my pocket, I get back to work.
I allow myself to admire the Dalager equipment. When I was little, I knew each design, the model number, how much it sold for, and had talking pieces for each one. My dad said I was a born marketer, but back then I was just so proud of what he’d created I memorized every fact sheet for talking points to sound like I knew what I was talking about.
Since then, the company has evolved and grown. It’s still impressive, though. I pick up a stick and hold it out. It’s too heavy for me, but I still admire its strength and elegance. Goose bumps dot my arm as I place it back on the wall. Alec has them organized in numerical order for the players—or well, he did.
I recapture his organization of the sticks and then move on to skates and helmets, then pads. My stomach growls and I’ve lost all track of time when I’m finally pleased with the small equipment room.
“Hey, Kaitlyn,” Coach Keller scares the bejesus out of me as he says my name in the doorway.
“Hey.” I place a hand over my heart. “Sorry, I guess I was in deep concentration.”
