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“We’re going out tonight, boys,” Cruz announces while standing in the middle of the locker room with a towel tied around his waist. “And that includes you two.” He points at Ollie and me.
I smirk. “I’ll be there. I don’t have anything better to do tonight, Cruz.”
“You will by the end of the night,” he declares with a cheeky grin, referring to all the puck bunnies who are likely to show up wherever we land.
“What, you haven’t heard, Cruz?” Abernathy says, raising his obnoxious voice to make sure he has everyone’s attention. He slaps a hand on my shoulder. “Anderson here is celibate. Clean eating, regular exercise, not drinking … and no women.”
The team knows that Emerson is around to keep me on the straight and narrow. They also know about the scandal that brought me here in the first place. It hasn’t gone unnoticed that I haven’t been drinking and partying like I used to. And I avoid the puck bunnies more than I welcome their attention these days.
“Seems to be working for him,” Beers says. He’s a forward, too, and the teammate I switch out with regularly during a game.
Ollie stops next to Abernathy and slaps his shoulder just like he slapped mine. “Maybe you should try it. Might improve your scoring average.”
“Probably not,” Cruz coughs behind a closed fist.
Abernathy scowls and flips off the room when everyone cackles and chimes in.
I sit on the bench and pull out my phone after I’m dressed. I find Emerson’s number.
Me: The team is going out to celebrate tonight. I might need you to keep me in line.
I’m joking but serious at the same time. There were times like this in the past where the celebration would tend to get out of hand. At the end of my days in Cali though, it didn’t matter whether I was drowning my sorrows after a loss or partying after a win. Both situations seemed to spell trouble. And I don’t fully trust myself yet to make the right decisions. Good decisions. I want to focus on my goals and not be so shortsighted that I make dumb choices that will cost me in the end, which is a first for me.
But mostly, I just want to see her. Emerson’s been scarce since our disastrous dinner, so this is a good excuse to contact her and break the ice.
She answers after a couple of minutes.
Emerson: Does this mean you’re no longer being an asshole? Because I’m not in the mood for it tonight.
Me: I promise to keep my inner asshole hidden away. Let me buy you a drink to apologize.
Emerson: Isn’t that what we’re supposed to be avoiding?
Me: A drink or two won’t hurt. It’s the bingeing that always gets me into trouble …
Emerson: Well, I don’t know how much help I’ll be tonight. I’m well on my way to being drunk already.
My eyes narrow when I read her last text. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Emerson intoxicated before, not even in college at the party where I first saw her.
Me: Now, you have to meet me out. I’ve never witnessed a drunk Doe.
Emerson: Stop calling me that.
Me: Were you downing beer or liquor at the game tonight?
Emerson: We didn’t make it to the game. Girls’ night.
Me: You missed my goal? Where are you?
Each time, it seems to take longer and longer for her to answer my texts. She doesn’t respond at all to the last one.
Ollie chuckles beside me while staring at his phone screen.
“What?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Mads is out with the girls tonight. She’s already lit.”
“Is Emerson with her?”
