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The team’s in the locker room, where I’m immersed in my thoughts when Nick tosses a wad of used tape at my head. I’m in the midst of pulling off my practice gear, and he jars me from my reverie. I reach up to catch the sticky mess but miss. Harper sits next to me undoing his skate laces, and it smacks him in the side of the head.
Does he glare at Nick? Nope. He turns laser beams of annoyance on me. I shrug. After all, I’m not the guy who threw it. I’m just the one who didn’t catch it, but I’m sure “Harps” thinks I missed on purpose. Yeah, things are still just as chummy between us.
Asshole.
I lift my chin at Nick. “What’s up?”
He scoffs. “I was about to ask you the same thing. You’ve been zoned out a lot lately. How come?”
I scour my brain for excuses and come up empty. After Harper leaves to hit the shower, Nick answers his own question—incorrectly—when he sidles up beside me and drops his voice. “I get it. It sucks not knowing where you’re headed or when.”
“Who says I’m headed anywhere?” I snap.
Nick ignores my testy retort. “Heard anything new about a trade?”
It’s a touchy subject because management’s not talking, and Herb’s getting more calls about me. That’s a sign that the grapevine is buzzing with news I’ll be available when the season’s over. The limbo I’m in makes me feel like I’m tracking toward the rotating blades of a buzz saw.
The Jackie factor only adds to the mess. I’m constantly trying to puzzle out what this is between us and where it’s going—if it’s even going. It feels as though we’re in some kind of stalemate. If I could get back to the Gail and clear my head, I might get a better grip on the situation, but there hasn’t been a spare minute. Meanwhile, restlessness has taken up residence in my gut, and I bring it to the ice and release it there. Not the best way to handle the instability, but it’s been effective. I don’t think I’ve ever played better in my life.
I shake my head and answer my buddy. “Nothing from management. At all. A few more teams have called him asking about my status. My agent says that walking in free agency might be the best thing for me. He thinks it’ll mean a big contract, maybe even with decent term.” The possibility should excite me—this is probably my last shot at the big payday—but my enthusiasm is on life support. That state of mind probably has everything to do with the green-eyed beauty who haunts every minute of my waking—and sleeping—hours. I can smell a shift in the weather patterns, and I’m sensing a brewing storm ahead but have no idea what’s coming or how to avoid it.
It’s time to re-prioritize and laser my focus on the next eleven days—that’s what’s left of the regular season, and the team’s in the fight of its life for that last wild card spot. How sweet would it be to go from the cellar halfway through the season to the playoffs?
Pretty fucking sweet.
After I clean up, I return to my stall. Most of the guys are gone, except Harper, who’s dicking around with his gear. His presence motivates me to stuff my backpack and get ready to go a little faster than usual.
One of the new girls from PR pokes her head in, all perky and super cute. “Everybody decent?”
“No, but come on in,” one of my teammates hollers. He’s standing on the opposite side of the locker room in nothing but a towel and his shit-eating grin. She blushes from her chin to her hair follicles before slipping back out. Harper and I both react at the same time, pushing our way into the hall, where she seems to be debating how far she wants to take whatever mission she’s on.
Harper cuts me a sharp side-eye, and I ignore him. “What do you need?” I ask Cute Girl.
She lifts her head and tilts it to the side. A grin spreads across her face. “My boss is in kind of a bind, and if I could get you both to do a skit for this week’s ‘Behind the Player’ segment, I’d score a lot of points with her.”
Harper and I exchange dubious glances. So far, both of us have avoided being tapped for the PR department’s attempt at humanizing us.
“What kind of skit?” he asks.
“When?” I add.
She puts on a shy smile and slides her big eyes between us. “Now?” she squeaks. “And I can tell you all about it on the way there.”
I shrug. “Why not?”
Harper shoots me another glare, as if I’ve just challenged him. “Count me in,” he growls to Cute Girl while still eyeballing me.
She exhales a giant breath. “Thank you so much!” She pivots, curls her fingers over her shoulder, and scurries down the hallway. “Follow me.”
Twenty minutes later, Harper and I are in our jerseys, seated at a table in front of some kind of screen they use for shooting these segments. In front of us are Amanda, aka Cute Girl, and a camerawoman. On the table sits a humongous clear bowl filled with marshmallows—the big ones.
Harper drops his head and furrows his brow at Amanda. “You’re serious?”
“Yes!” she enthuses. Her bubbly personality is infectious, and it wins me over. Harper is obviously not there yet. “It’ll be fun!” she adds. “Besides, you get to have s-u-g-a-r.” She drags the word out, as if we aren’t familiar with it—which we kind of aren’t since we’re following our strict in-season diets.
“I’m just going to spit them out when we’re done,” Harper grumps.
The remark seems to roll off Amanda’s shoulders, and she claps. “Great! Then we’re ready.” Her smile brightens because she’s just won, and she knows it.
