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“Are these wolves rabid? The Orlando-based Timberwolves, poised to be one of the wild-card contenders in this year’s NHL playoffs, seem to be in need of some house-breaking first. Star forward Damon Mathers is pictured below, engaging in a little after-game grudge match with one of the League’s top-rated defenders. Mathers may be a veteran player, but his unsportsmanlike behavior is less like a Timberwolf and more like an untrained puppy.
Speaking of rookies, the Timberwolves recently signed a new forward to train under Mathers. Coincidence? Or careful planning by their team’s staff? Either way, Gunnar Sinclair, 22, is now contracted to the Orlando hockey team for the next three years. Which may be a problem for their veteran star, whose contract is set to expire at the end of the season.”
Fucking media vultures.
Perpetually trying to make petty drama where none exists. I swear to God, they stand around the hallways after games and listen in. Or one of them is sleeping with someone on our staff.
With the way the rest of the team is managed? It wouldn’t surprise me.
Not much does, anymore.
I’d probably be more pissed if I were actually worried. Maybe it’s the apathy that colors everything around me in shades of gray, but I can’t find it in myself to get it up for this, either.
For one thing, Damon is one of the best players in the League. Our pack is the only reason he’s on the Timberwolves instead of being off with a more elite squad. He wanted to go where we could both get contracts. At the time, he was a better player than me. Selling us as a pair was more like selling him, but with an added goalie bonus.
My stats are some of the best around, now. And as the years have gone by, Damon’s gotten more reckless. Less professional. His penalties alone are ridiculous.
But he scores when it counts. He wins games.
And, more importantly? People love him.
If this comes down to some sort of popularity contest between him and, well, anyone? Damon would win.
We probably have nothing to worry about. And the more I scroll through the articles, the more I think they’re all flash, no substance. Just social media proving, once again, that it’s the scourge of society.
Turning away from my mirror’s foggy reflection, I tug on the first T-shirt and pair of sweats I find, picking them out of a pile of laundry I’m fairly sure is clean. Smith would have a fucking coronary if he knew I don’t put any of my clothes away, but I don’t think I can remember a time he’s ever come in here.
We each have our own rooms, which is a luxury I’m still not used to after years of sharing rooms and sleeping on cots. Maybe that’s why I chose the smallest one.
The house has six. The largest is huge and attached to a nest—clearly meant as an omega suite. None of us have dared to touch it with a ten-foot pole.
Which means, if we get an omega, he or she will have some serious work to do.
Smith took the primary bedroom, situated on the opposite end of the long upstairs hallway. He has the most space and the least amount of stuff. So, basically, an empty, serial-killer-clean room three times the size of mine.
Damon took the bedroom just at the top of the stairs, in the center of the hallway.
Right in the middle of everything. Of course.
It also happens to have the largest attached bathroom, apart from the omega’s—plenty of space for all his skincare and manscaping needs.
I picked the one between him and Smith, though their locations didn’t really factor much into the decision. Truth is, I wanted the bookshelves built into the walls and the small balcony across from the entrance.
The room is probably meant to be a study of some sort, because it has two whole walls of shelving, complete with creaky sliding ladders I won’t ever need, being well over six feet tall.
I suppose, if we actually finished renovating the house, we would eventually refinish everything in here. As it is, the wooden built-ins are as faded and scuffed as the oak floor. The balcony doors stick, tacky from a dozen coats of gloppy white paint over half a dozen decades. And the ceiling is a craggy off-white that collects sinister shadows in low lighting.
The room is tired and neglected, with just enough potential to make it sad.
Perfect for me, actually.
And this house? It’s a collection of torn-up, hollowed-out spaces that don’t really fit together.
Which might just be perfect for all of us.
chapter
seven
