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"Maybe what you need is a night out," Dakota suggests, always quick to prescribe fun as the cure-all.
"Or maybe I need someone waiting for me after the third period ends," I admit. It's not just about sex or companionship. This is about finding someone who won't flinch at my shadows.
"Let's focus on breaking this dry spell on the ice first, yeah?" Kaleb chimes in.
"Right," I say.
"Damn straight," Kaleb agrees, clapping me on the shoulder.
If I can't untangle the mess of my personal life, at least I can lead my team to victory. That's one thing I still have control over.
The gym door swings shut behind us to my own doubts, or to the damn superstition that's been gnawing at the edges of my confidence. It's ludicrous, but the thought nags at me: My stick is cursed. Every shot, every pass—it's like it’s mocking me, whispering failure with each slap against the ice.
The thought haunts me the entire drive to Love Beach and into the parking lot of Sand Dunes Bar and Grill.
I shake my head and get out of my Jeep, trying to dislodge the absurd idea. But what if? What if some twisted strand of fate has entangled itself around my gear, waiting for something—someone—to break its hold? The notion dances a fucked-up tango with my rational mind. Love as the antidote. A partner who might understand me.
"With that look on your face, Wolf, I’d say it’s going to be a big tab with a ugly hangover tomorrow," Dakota's voice pulls me back from the brink of my musings, as we push through the doors of Sand Dunes Bar & Grill.
"Boos or Boobs? Which one is it going to be tonight?" Kaleb teases with a sly grin.
"Shut the fuck up," I respond, stepping inside and heading straight to our usual spot of the booth with a view of the neon-lit bar and the flat-screens above to one side, and an ocean view out the window on our other side.
Dakota chuckles, sliding into the seat across from me and shaking his head.
"Whatever you say," Kaleb adds, taking the seat beside him.
"Let's just order, okay?" I deflect and my impatient fingers tap on the table. That cursed stick... If love could snap itsstranglehold on my game, then I’d be damned for not finding it yet.
"Fine by me," Dakota says, raising his hand to signal a server. "I'm starving."
I slump into the booth at Sand Dunes as my friends rehash last night's game, including every missed shot and every fumbled pass.
"Fuck, that was rough," Kaleb says, nursing a beer with a grimace. "That breakaway you had in the third, Wolf… You usually bury those."
I nod, feeling the weight of the puck that might as well have been a boulder. "Yeah, I don't know what happened. Puck just rolled off my stick at the last second." My fingers trace the condensation on my glass.
"Shit happens," Dakota chimes in, trying to lighten the mood.
"Hmph," I mutter, not convinced. The curse of my stick looms over me like a dark cloud, threatening rain.
The vibration against my thigh pulls my attention from these knuckleheads. I fish my phone from my pocket and glance at the screen—unknown number. With a sigh, I push back from the table.
"Excuse me," I mutter, barely audible over Dakota's recount of a play gone wrong.
Outside on the mostly vacant patio, the air is crisp from the ocean breeze. I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear as the dull throb of music fades behind the closing door.
"Hello."
"Ah, Mr. Raines! This is Jimmy from Match Me Bunny," a chipper voice spills through the speaker. "We're hosting a soiree for our esteemed clientele this weekend and thought you'd appreciate an invitation."
My chest tightens at the prospect. I lean against the cool metal railing, trying to ground myself.
"Sounds... interesting." I say. "What's the catch? Will I be paired up with my dating match there."
"No, no pairings will happen. Absolutely no catch, Mr. Raines. Just an opportunity to mingle with those who share your... sophisticated tastes. However, if more comes of the night, there will be preparations for that," Jimmy assures.
"Fine," I agree. "Send me the details."
