Page 11 of Love of the Game
“Jolly,” Jon said, in a sing-song tone. “Green Giant.”
“Al it is,” I replied. That got me another soft smile from Alfie.
It felt good to connect to someone on the team. I glanced over at Jon, who was still beaming. Two someones. Desire—treacherous desire—tugged at me whenever I spent too long looking at Jon. He was something else, really. Beautiful, with his pale skin and dark hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to be black or brown. And those brown eyes that danced when he smiled. Alfie said something in—Swedish,I guess. To my surprise, Jon quipped back in the same language.
Jon had no accent. Or rather, he had a pretty typical North American hockey accent. Probably spent some time in Canada, but how he spoke was more US-oriented. The point being, he didn’t have the accent Alfie had. At least when speaking English. But whatever he’d said to Alfie came out as if he’d been speaking Swedish his whole life.
But there was no time to ask him about that, even if I had any idea how to broach “Hey, you speak another language?” without seeming like a complete jerk. I was already pretty far into that territory as it was, and we were getting ready to get back onto the ice.
I’d love to say that my game somehow miraculously improved, but all the shit that had gotten me here was still there. All my shots on net went wide. I even had a beautiful look at a big old gaping hole the goalie had left for me and couldn’t get the fucking puck into the net. For fuck’s sake, a five-year-old could’ve, but I flubbed the shot, and it flew right over the crossbar.
My passes weren’t crisp, which led to a couple odd-man rushes, and I collected two penalties, a high-stick in second period and tripping in the third. Luckily, both times, the Otters got the kill. And the Otters got goals, despite my shit play. Both Alfie and Jon collected assists, and I tried to memorize the names of the goal scorers. Especially since Coach had pretty much nailed me to the bench in the third after I returned from the penalty box.
I was still a fuckup, wow. No wonder no NAPH team had wanted me. Maybe those two years before this one had been a fluke, just like social media and some reporters speculated. Luck, not actual skill.
Unwanted.
At the end of the game, I went out for fist bumps and to thank the goalie, then headed into the room. There was enough chatter and good spirits (and oh God, was Jon loud and happy and perfect, all sweaty and bubbly) that I could get out of my gear, slip off to shower, dress, and get the hell out of there. There was a post-game meal in the team lounge, which semi-surprised me because I’d heard that a lot of PHL teams didn’t do that. I guess the Otters were serious about keeping their players in shape. The Lions owned the Otters, so maybe that had something to do with it, too.
I was in no mood for food, though. Figured I could pick something up on the way back to my hotel. Heck, there was a chain rib place right near the hotel.
God.
I was staying at a hotel on the edge of a strip mall, next to a bunch of big box stores and chain restaurants and playing in the PHL because I was a fuckup. So much so, that I suspected Coach Macintosh would be on the phone to JR soon, and he’d bust me down to the HLENA. I gripped the steering wheel and drove right past the entrance to said strip mall. My head was not in a good place and sometimes driving helped, so I just kept going. GPS would get me back, so I didn’t worry about getting lost.
Fifteen minutes later, I was driving down a back road with no idea where I was except that it was dark, late, and I still felt like shit. Then my phone pinged with a text. Fuck. No one texted me this late except my mom. I pulled over into what seemed to be a tiny parking lot next to a commercial building of some kind. It had aFor Salesign bolted to it. I picked up my phone.
The text came from an unknown but local number, judging by the area code. There was the message I’d ignoredbefore, the one welcoming me to the team. The new one said:
Meet me at the bar?
My heart ticked up a beat or three. At that moment, going to Jon’s gay biker bar seemed a better plan than driving aimlessly around the hills of Westmoreland County until my head settled. Especially since I wasn’t sure it would settle any time soon.
Okay.
After I texted my response, I pulled up my map app. The bar’s address was still in my recent history, so all it took was a tap on the screen, and then a voice was telling me to turn around. Ten minutes later, there was the bar, and my phone told me I’d arrived.
When I entered, I swear every head in the place turned. All those eyes on me, and something told me they all knew who I was. Probably had the night before too.
Shit. Oh God. Maybe I should leave.
“Hey, babyface,” Ella called out from the bar. “Grab that booth over there.”
I headed over to where she pointed, and took a seat. A moment later, Ella set a glass of water down in front of me.
“Everyone knew who I was, I guess.”
“Not everyone,” Ella said. “Bunch of folks here aren’t into hockey. They know Jon plays, but that’s about it. The rest of us? Yeah, we knew.”
I cradled my head in my hands. “I’m so fucking stupid.”
She snorted. “No more than anyone else, sweetie. You want a beer?”
I did, but not having anything to eat was catching up with me. “Water’s fine. Is there—do you serve food?”
“No,” came Jon’s distinctive voice. “Just nuts and pretzels and snack mix. Running a bar is hard enough without having a kitchen. Didn’t want the added complication. But I brought food because I thought you might be hungry. God knows I am.” He set down two large paper bags onto the table. “Hi!”
I stared at him, with his bright and cheerful expression and tousled wet hair. He was wearing his scrumptious leather jacket with an Otters hoodie peeking out beneath.
