Game days are my favorite days ever. The excitement that hums through me from the moment I open my eyes is unlike any other high. I mean, I’ve never actually been high, but I assume it’s better. It has to be. I’m getting paid to play hockey—how fucking incredible is that? How could anything get better?
It can’t. It’s impossible.
“You really shouldn’t frown like that. Your face is going to get stuck.”
I glance over at the idiot who has just flopped down on the bench next to me. “Go away, Hayes.”
“What? I’m just saying, keep scowling, and you’re screwed. You’re going to be as wrinkly as Coach before you’re even thirty.”
“Wrinkly or not, I’ll still be a better hockey player than you.”
He scoffs. “Please. You wish.”
“Why are you here?”
“Uh, because we have a game?”
“I mean here, talking to me. You know—”
“You hate being talked to before a game.” He rolls his eyes. “I know. I just thought…”
“Ah, see, there’s your first mistake, rookie—thinking.”
He glares at me. “The guys are right. You are a dick.”
I grin, wearing that badge with pride. “Thank you.” I let my smile fade. “Now fuck off. I need to get ready.”
The kid saunters away, leaving me on my own, just how I like it.
Every guy has their own pregame routine, and shutting out the world is mine. I don’t like talking to people, not even my teammates. I don’t want music or television or any sort of distraction. The only thing I want to do is sit here and just be.
It helps me get into the right headspace. It’s what’s helped me win eight games in a row, and it’s what’s going to help us lift that Cup this season. I can feel it in my bones. I’m definitely not going to let the fucking rookie trip me up.
Not tonight.
I let my eyes fall closed as I rest my back against my cubby. The all-too-familiar sounds in the room wash over me, and I take slow, deep breaths. It’s kind of like meditation, only there are about ten other dudes in here, it smells like a disgusting locker room, and they have no fucking idea how to shut up.
But…I love it. It’s all part of playing the greatest game ever to exist.
Someone plops down next to me, and I know in an instant who it is.
“You have to stop being mean to the rookie. He’s going to think you don’t like him.”
“I don’t like him. Or you, for that matter.”
“That’s a lie.”
“It’s truly not, Miller. Please fuck off.”
He laughs, then slaps my thigh. “And miss an opportunity to annoy you? Not a chance.”
I peel my eyes open, turning a heated glare his way. “Why are you bothering me?”
“Because I like doing it.”
“How does Scout not smother you with a pillow?”
“Because it turns out I’m really good with my tongue.” He sticks said tongue out, licking the air.
It’s annoying…just like he is. I want him to go away, and I think I know just how to make that happen.
“I heard a rumor…”
His brows rise. “About me?” He rubs his hands together. “I hope it’s an exciting one.”
“I think it is.” I cup my hands around my mouth. “Hey, Wright!”
The defenseman lifts his head across the room. “What’s up?”
There’s hesitation in his voice, and I get it. When I say I don’t usually talk to anyone before a game, that’s not an exaggeration. I like the quiet, the solitude, because I want to win, and that’s why getting Miller far, far away from me is so important.
“Did you know Miller made a list ranking all the guys on the team by who’s hottest, and you’re number five?”
“Five?!”
“Oh crap,” Miller mutters, shrinking as Wright rises from his cubby, stalking toward us.
“What the hell do you mean five, Miller? I am way hotter than the other guys!”
“Hey! I take great offense to that,” Lowell chimes in.
I point to the captain. “He said you’re hot because you’re a daddy.”
“Like a daddy or a Daddy?” He bounces his brows up and down.
We all look to Miller for the answer. He doesn’t respond. He can’t. He’s too busy holding his breath and squeezing his eyes shut, pretending he doesn’t exist right now.
“He definitely meant Daddy. It’s Miller. For the record, I’d like to be left out of this list.”
“Too bad. You’re number two.”
“Two?” Rhodes growls, sounding very much like he doesn’t want to be left out at all. “Then who is number one?”
“That would be me.” I smile proudly. “I’m number one, then Rhodes, Fitz, Lowell, Wright.”
“Fitz is before me?” Lowell’s mouth opens in shock. “What the hell for?”
“Because of his missing tooth.” Miller shrugs. “It’s cute.”
Fitz grins, poking his tongue through the hole. “I knew this would win me some points.”
“Miller is right,” says Surkov, another forward. “My husband and I made a list too. Just swap out Lowell for Wright and it’s spot-on.”
“What!” Lowell explodes at the same time Wright yells out, “Ha! Suck it!”
“I’m still hotter than both of you.” Rhodes grins, awfully proud of himself.
“What are you smiling about?” I say to him. “I’m number one.”
“Yeah, number one pain in my ass.”
“He took my spot?” Miller presses a hand to his chest and juts his bottom lip out. “I’m hurt. Truly.”
“You’re an idiot. Truly,” Rhodes mocks.
“Nah. You love me.”
“I really, really don’t.”
“Lies!” Miller says, rising from the bench to follow the defenseman, who is now retreating from the room. He glances back at me, then peeks around before holding his hand to the side of his mouth. “Also, your vibrator is on,” he whispers.
What the…
“Did you just say what I think you did?”
“Hey, no judgment!” He holds his hands up. “But maybe turn it off so you don’t burn out the battery?”
“What the fuck are you on about? I—”
“There it is again.”
I’m about to tell him he’s a complete idiot, but this time, I hear it.
“That’s not my vibrator—which I don’t even have—it’s my phone.”
“Sure. Right.”
“Miller…” I growl, and that’s all it takes for him to scramble away, off to annoy someone else.
I pluck my phone from my bag, surprised I completely forgot to shut it off. I’m two seconds from doing so, but it buzzes again.
It’s my mother.
I should ignore it. I know I should. I have a game to focus on. I’m ready to take our win streak to nine.
But if she’s called me this many times, something has to be wrong, right?
I slide my finger across the green button.
“Mom?”
“Oh, thank gosh! You finally answered!”
The way she rushes out the words in complete panic has me sitting forward, now on high alert.
“What’s wrong? Is everything okay?”
“No! Nothing is okay. The cake company I wanted to use says they’re booked for that weekend, and I had my heart set on their vanilla and raspberry three-tier cake. It’s the one I had when I married Archie, and I want it again, not to mention my seamstress is a complete pain to nail down. We’re down to just one month. I need things done, Jacob.”
My jaw drops. “You called me about the wedding?”
“Of course I did.” She huffs. “I need to know your date’s name for the place cards.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know who is sitting next to you! I’m trying to do this one right.”
She wanted to do her other wedding “right,” too. And the one before that. It’s obvious how well those events turned out.
“Well?” my mother prompts when I don’t answer.
“I don’t have a date yet, Loretta.”
She sighs. “You’re not distracting me with that.”
I chuckle because she knows me so well. If I ever want to change the subject, I call her by her first name. She hates it when I do it and always goes off on a tangent about how I shouldn’t call her anything but Mom.
Guess I’ve used that strategy too many times, and she’s onto me.
“And what do you mean you don’t have a date yet? We have one month until the wedding. One month!”
“Oh, really? I hadn’t heard.” I roll my eyes even though she can’t see me, and it’s a good thing, too, because that would definitely earn me a smack to the back of my head.
“Don’t roll your eyes at me, Jacob Greer.”
How the hell did she…
“Mom sense,” she answers, like that explains everything. “Please let me know your date’s name by Friday, or you’re off the guest list.”
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me, son.”
“And do you mean it?”
She hesitates for a moment. “I mean it.”
“But I’m your dude of honor.”
It feels like tradition at this point. While my mother has plenty of friends—being a hairdresser means she’s a people person—I’ve still always been the one to stand beside her. I refuse to let this wedding be any different.
“I’ll have a date by Friday.”
“You promise?”
“I promise, Loretta.”
“Jacob.” She sighs. “You’re lucky you’re my favorite kid. You know that, right?”
“I’m your only kid, Mom.”
“That you know of. Your father, on the other hand, is obsessed with procreating, so who knows if you’re his favorite or not.”
I laugh because she’s not wrong. My parents never married—a shocker for them both—but they still went on to have several other long-term relationships. While my mother prefers to marry her partners, my dad likes to have kids with his. My mom may be going into her fourth marriage, but my dad has her beat—he’s on kid number six.
“Lucas is killing it on points this season. He’s probably the favorite.”
My half brother plays hockey too. He’s a forward for St. Louis, and I love playing him because as hard as he tries, he can’t crack me.
“Don’t be like that, Jacob. Your father loves all his kids equally.”
I have to hand it to my mother. No matter how often my father has moved on with a different woman or a different family, she has never said a bad word about him. In fact, it’s the opposite—she praises him for being such a good father, and she’s not wrong. He’s attentive to us and always wants to make sure none of us feel left out, which I don’t. I know my dad is proud of me. I also know he’s a huge fan of competition, and even though the Comets are on a hot streak right now, my brother had a four-point night two games ago. He’s definitely Dad’s favorite at the moment.
“Oh!” my mother exclaims. “Your game! You’re playing tonight. Why am I bothering you? Oh gosh, I’m the worst mother ever.”
“You’re not. You’re just excited about the wedding.”
She sighs wistfully. “I really am. Is that silly? I’ve done this so many times. I should be over it by now.”
“Nah, Mom. It’s not silly.”
“I just…I love him so much. He makes me happy. I really feel like this could be the one, you know?”
This is the same speech she’s given me multiple times over the years, so it’s a little hard to muster up the same enthusiasm she has. I’m glad my mother is happy, but I’m not really excited about the inevitable heartbreak that’s going to follow when this marriage fails just like the others. It’s hard to watch over and over again.
Do I hope this one actually is the one? Sure, but do I have much hope that it is? Well, no. I’m sure that makes me an awful son to some, but to me, it’s just being realistic. When you’ve grown up seeing it constantly happen, hope is something that goes out the window rather quickly.
“I’m glad, Mom.”
Another soft sigh. “I’m sorry I haven’t been able to make it stick for you. It wasn’t fair to ask you to grow up with so many men in and out of your life.”
I don’t say anything because I’m not sure what to say. It’s no big deal? I learned to keep myself distant from everyone? I don’t believe in love at all?
I can’t break her heart like that.
“Oh my gosh! I’m a terrible mother. Here I am bothering you about all this stuff when you have a game tonight.”
That’s right, bring it back around to hockey. Keep feelings and shit out of it.
“It’s fine, but I really should be going. We have to hit warmups soon.”
“Of course, of course. Thanks for making time for your old mom. Go kick some ass, son.”
“I’ll try. Love you.”
“But never as much as I love you.”
I grin. It’s the same thing she’s always said to me, and it always brings me that same warmness no matter how many times I hear it.
“Friday,” she says once again as a reminder.
“Friday,” I echo.
I hit the red button, then relax against my cubby.
So much for no distractions before the game.
“I have no damn clue how we pulled that out of our asses, but we’ll take the two points. Eight AM ice time tomorrow.”
It’s all Coach Heller says before he walks out of the room. He’s disappointed, and I don’t blame him.
I’m disappointed, too, especially in myself. I played like shit out there. My focus was completely gone, which resulted in me giving up sloppy goals. Sure, we got two points, and yeah, it might have been fun for fans to watch the back and forth, but it was a terrible performance by our entire club.
“Fuck, that sucked.” Our team captain sinks down next to me. “Like really, really sucked.”
“It was my fault.”
“Not true,” Rhodes says to me. “That was on me.”
“I let so many pucks skip over my blade.” Wright shakes his head. “Played like complete shit.”
“I was amazing. I got two goals and an assist,” Miller says, clearly proud of himself. He should be; he did play well.
“Quit with the fucking pity party,” a loud voice booms through the room.
Every head in the room snaps toward Smith, who is standing with his hands on his hips, looking like a dad ready to tell his kids he’s not mad, just disappointed.
“You all could have been better.”
“I—”
“Missed two practically empty nets.” Smith interrupts Miller, who was just about to pat himself on the back again. “Every single one of you skated slow. You didn’t finish your checks, and you battled the boards like it was your first damn game. You sucked, plain and simple, but it’s not the first time and won’t be the last. Take the two points and get the fuck over it. Get your shit ready because we have another game on Tuesday against the top defense in the league. We need the points more than they do, so whatever made you all play like shit tonight, figure it out and leave it in the damn locker room next time.”
He spins on his heel and disappears out the door.
“Damn, I miss playing with that old grump,” Miller comments.
The rest of us are quiet because we know he’s right. It was a team effort—or lack thereof—tonight. We just have to figure it out.
Me especially.
Mom: Sorry about the game. I can’t help but think it might have been my phone call that threw you off.
I scoff. I can’t say it’s definitely my mom’s fault, but she didn’t help.
Mom: But please remember…Friday.
Mom: Love you!
With a groan, I toss my phone back into the cubby, the same feeling of dread that filled my stomach before the game hitting me again. I have to get this date thing figured out.
Tomorrow. I’ll fix it tomorrow.
