Page 27 of Bad Wolf

“I just can’t get enough,” Jack throws over his shoulder while he plays with Biscuit the dog, who followed Coralie in.

“I could go for some Mexican,” I tell her, and she rolls her eyes.

“What was your other choice this evening?”

“Chicken skewer things, but I’m feeling fish.”

“You wanna stay tonight as well?”

“Yeah, practice is at eight. Right, Gunn?”

“Right.”

“Cool. Let’s go look in the trash,” Jack says as he pulls me towards the garage, and I thank the lord he means rifling through the recycling they have yet to break down.

* * *

During dinner, I’m given the third degree about how I’ve been feeling since our long week in Miami. I lie through my teeth and say that it shook me at first, but that I’m fine now. Totally focused and ready for our next road trip, which is exactly the right thing to say because Gunner gets all mopey about leaving her and Jack for such a long time—three days—and she just makes moony eyes at him.

I can live with it though, because it completely changed the subject.

My phone chirps with an email notification and like the good little NHL player I am, I check it to see if it’s from someone in the organization. It’s not though, it’s from the dealer I’m buying the most badass car from, and finally,finally, he’s telling me I’ll have my Demon right after practice on Saturday.

The only snag is, it’s going to need to be driven up here as there’s some fuck up with shipping it. I’m in a bind because my game schedule is so tight, and the dude was on vacation when I was down that way only two weeks ago.

Pissed me off that I was in Miami and couldn’t get my hands on it, but classic car conventions wait for no man and our weekends clashed. At least in some ways, it shows how dedicated he is.

Jack keeps Gunner and me busy with setting up a replica of the beast of a hole that took him down earlier today. We make the crocodile out of various cardboard boxes and anything else we can find.

Later that night, I find myself sneaking around Gunner and Coralie’s kitchen, trying to find some bourbon…or melatonin…

“Fine my ass,” I hear grumbled from the other side of the counter.

“It’s just a nightcap, Gunner. No need to send up the bat signal.”

“So long as that’s all it is,” he sighs. “Top.”

Opening the cabinet furthest to the right, I find almost every drink you can imagine up here.

“You want?” I ask, motioning to him with the bottle.

“Nah, just came down for a water.” He fetches a bottle from the fridge and heads back upstairs.

I feel shitty that he busted me, but I can’t switch off and I can’t sleep. The next away stretch will help though. I’ll be too exhausted to worry about anything else and I’ll sleep like a log. A couple of nights on the road will be a good reset.

I pour heavy and then rest my elbows on the counter, thumbing through my phone. I’ve received twenty-six DMs in the last hour alone, and usually I’d take a little looky at what’s on offer, but I’m not feeling staying up any later than I already am.

I’ll just drink this and try and get some rest.

* * *

I’m sluggish at practice, but no one notices because Coach Ford seems to think he’s found the winning Stanley Cup formula.

We’re in good standing halfway through the season. He’s got three brothers who have been playing together practically their whole lives, and Korhonen—the left winger I was pulled up to replace—is back and at full strength.

He has two lines of first-string players, and three unstoppable D men, in the shape of Jason, Gunner, and Callan.

But back to me. I’m leading the league in goals, I’m slipping between starting and second line consistently, and Coach is working me to the bone—which is all good and well if you didn’t drink yourself to sleep the previous night.

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