Chapter 4

4

BEN

I’ve never seen Mabel look like this – her brown eyes are big and shadowy, like she’s in pain, and her mouth is soft, the bottom lip extra full as if she’s super sad. Since she woke up and came into the kitchen, I tried to ignore her bare thighs in the long T-shirt she was wearing. I resolutely refused to look at her chest, and I only let myself eyeball the backs of her legs as her shirt rode higher when she bent over for one second. Maybe two. When she squeezed past me, I steeled myself against the brush of her arm against mine and didn’t even breathe until she was gone, but the warm, flowery scent of her lingered in the air.

But now I forget the hot feelings she stirred in me and I’m kind of worried.

She gazes back at me for a long moment, then smiles. Her eyes crinkle up at the corners appealingly and that smile has always been magnetic, even when she was a teenager.

Yeah, I’d rather not remember those days.

Being around Mabel back then was excruciating. When she looked at me, I got even more tongue-tied and awkward than I normally was. She was pretty and fun and on fire, and I was a doofster who played hockey. Sure, the girls liked the guys who played hockey, but after a couple of hours with me painfully trying to make conversation, I was usually curbed pretty quick. So I focused my time and attention on hockey, not girls.

I’m pretty sure Mabel had a crush on me back then. She persisted more than other girls in trying to get to know me, but like I said, I was even more awkweird than usual with her so I tried to avoid her. Then there was that incident at school when she accidentally pantsed me. Jesus. I still break out in a hot sweat remembering that.

“I’m fine.” She beams up at me. “All good.”

But I can see the cheerfulness is forced. I search her face until the silence becomes excruciating.

“Okay.” I nod. “Good.”

“I need more coffee!” She holds up her mug and moves around me to the kitchen.

Now she’s fully dressed in a pair of black leggings and a loose fuzzy white sweater, but I still can’t stop myself from watching her.

“Okay, ready Freddy?” Smitty calls, emerging from his room with phone and wallet in hand. “Who’s driving?”

“Freddy?” Leaning on the counter, Mabel turns an amused glance on me.

I shake my head. “He has all sorts of weird expressions.” I start toward the door. “I’m ready.”

Smitty grins. “See you later, alligator.”

Mabel groans. “That’s so old. You need to do better than that.”

“Gotta go, buffalo.”

She rolls her eyes and I follow Smitty out of the apartment.

“Crusher said he’s driving today,” I tell my teammate, pushing the button for the fifteenth floor in the elevator.

We make a quick stop to pick up Crusher and Dilly, then continue down to the underground parking.

On the way to the arena, we stop for coffees. We have our game day meeting at nine-thirty and talk about what we need to focus on tonight playing against the Charleston Cyclones. After that we hit the ice for about an hour. Reporters in the stands watch as we do our line rushes.

Today I’m thinking about what Coach and Marc Miller said to me yesterday. It makes me more aware of what I’m doing on the ice, more conscious of the fact that they’re probably watching me, more mindful of how I participate and interact with the other guys.

They really think I could be captain.

It adds a little speed to my feet and a little power to my shot. I observe the other guys a bit more critically than I usually do, although I’m always paying attention to what everyone else is doing. I don’t always do anything about it, but today when I see Noah Lawson, one of our young D-men, really dialed in, I skate over to him as we wind up. “Good focus,” I tell him. “You look ready for tonight.”

He doesn’t smile. He never smiles. It’s a running joke. “Thanks.”

Well. I tried.

I’m pretty set in my game-day routine. After the morning skate, I go stretch and spend some quality time with a foam roller. I fucking hate it but also kind of love it. I’ve never been very flexible and lately I’ve been feeling really tight in my shoulders and upper back. I work my way down to my hamstrings and quads. When I find a painful spot, I pause there. “Fuuuuuuck,” I breathe out as the pain rises to a peak. “Jesus.”

It feels so good when I stop.

Then I eat lunch with the guys in the player lounge, today taking chicken, broccoli, and quinoa, and head home for my nap. As Crusher drives us home, I remember Mabel being there. Shit. It’s bad enough I’m staying with someone else and not in my own place, now we have a chatty roommate sleeping on our couch. Which makes me feel guilty, because I should be the one sleeping on the couch. Or staying in a hotel. Maybe I should do that. Hotels suck, though.

So, when I follow Smitty into his place, I mumble a greeting to Mabel and head straight to my room. I can’t mess with the routine. I always lie down at one-thirty, scroll through TikTok for twenty minutes, then sleep until three-thirty. Although, it does take a little longer to get to sleep than usual, with the faint voices floating down the hall from the living room as Smitty and his sister talk. Smitty’s not locked into a nap on game days. He sleeps if he feels like it, sometimes an hour, sometimes two if he’s tired, or not at all. We’ve always been different that way.

When the apartment goes quiet and my eyes are closed in the dim room I can pretend I’m alone and go to sleep. I love my game-day naps.

I also love my post-nap snack – beef jerky, pretzels, and an apple.

This all might sound anal, but I used to be even stricter about my routines. I didn’t like how messed up I felt when something went wrong, though. Because shit does go wrong – like one day they didn’t have Cool Blue Gatorade – and you have to be able to roll with it.

I pick out a suit and get dressed. I only have a few suits and they’re all pretty old. The social media team is always taking “walk in” photos of us before games and posting them online, and things have gotten competitive between some of the guys. Crusher spends a fortune on custom suits, and Dilly has a selection of hats he always wears. Archie dresses as outlandishly as usual. They never take pictures of me, but I’m totally fine with that.

I pause at the door of my room, bracing myself to encounter Mabel, then stride out to the living room. Which is empty.

Okay.

That’s fine. Good. I find my beef jerky. But when I look for my pretzels, they’re gone. What the hell?

Marek emerges from his room, also dressed in a suit and tie.

“Did you eat my pretzels?” I ask him, peering into a cupboard.

“No.”

“I can’t find them.”

He makes a face. “I hope Mabel didn’t eat them.”

“Oh hell, no.” I whip my head around to stare at him. “She wouldn’t do that. Would she?”

“It’s possible.” He grabs a protein bar.

“Didn’t you ever teach her not to touch your snacks? Especially on game day.”

He laughs. “I don’t care about my snacks as much as you do. And the last time she and I lived together, we were seventeen.”

Well. This is why I try to relax about my routine. Shit happens.

The door of the condo opens and Mabel bursts in, arms laden with shopping bags. “Hi!” She heads straight toward us and deposits her load on the counter. “Whew!” She shoves her long hair back and smiles at us. “I went shopping.”

Smitty nods, one eyebrow lifted. “Yeah, you did. Hey, did you eat Benny’s pretzels?”

I frown. I was just going to let it go.

“I did!” She throws her hands up. “But I bought you more!” She rummages through reusable bags and pulls out a bag of the exact kind I like. “Here you go!”

“Thanks.” I take them, annoyed about how relieved I feel.

“I’m sorry.” She gives me a contrite look that’s fucking adorable. My annoyance fades. “I was desperate for junk food. I need crunchy things to relieve my stress.” She snaps her teeth together.

I blink.

“Your stress,” Smitty repeats.

“Actually, I was bored.” She shrugs. “I don’t really like pretzels.” She begins unpacking things and I take note of Cheez-Its, rice crackers, and popcorn. “I mean, I like them, but they’re not my favorite. I’m glad you have an air fryer, because I can make my carrot chips.” She pulls out a big bag of carrots, then a huge jar of almonds, followed by taco chips.

I don’t know what to make of all this.

“Time to go.” Smitty opens the dishwasher to deposit his glass. “Are you sure you don’t want to come to the game tonight?”

Mabel purses her lips and sighs. “Maybe the next one? I kind of want to hole up here with my Cheez-Its.”

I meet Smitty’s eyes. That is not like Mabel. She loved coming to our games when we were kids. She also hated staying home alone. A feeling of unease pulses in my gut.

Smitty hesitates, then shrugs. “Okay. Maybe the next one.”

“Yeah.”

We head out and I’m glad I’m driving tonight since it takes my mind off Mabel and her abundance of junk food and sad eyes.

Back at the arena, I go in the cold tub, cut a stick, change my skate laces, and listen to music. I have a game-day playlist I always listen to – but I do change it every season. Having the playlist makes it easy so I can focus on the game. Right now, it’s upbeat stuff like Daft Punk, Kygo, and the Weeknd.

I don’t talk much, but now I wonder if I should. The captain of the team should be more involved. The idea makes me tired. I’m trying to conserve my energy for the game. How the fuck can I ever be captain of this team? I shake my head as I tape a stick.

But now I’m noticing I’m not the only one who doesn’t talk much. I glance around the room as everyone does their own thing. Shit. I remember what it was like playing for the Chicago Aces. With coach Brad Wendell and captain Marc Dupuis, the team was a unit. Brad was a great communicator who knew how to get the best out of all his players. Marc “Super Duper” Dupuis was a role model for everyone. They developed a culture that valued collaboration, accountability, respect, and rewarded effort before results. And they got results, winning three Stanley Cups in a row.

Tonight’s game against the Cyclones is a big game. We have a history. Last season they beat us out for the last wildcard playoff spot, eliminating our playoff hopes. This is the first time we’ve played them this season and I think we’re all remembering our humiliation at their hands.

And they’re in our division, so every game against them is a four-point game in the race to the playoffs. Both teams have been playing less than great. Right now, we’re ahead of them in the standings, but a win for them could jump them above us.

“We need to redeem ourselves,” Dilly says in the room after the warmup. “We can’t let them do that to us again.”

We all nod. I feel like I should say something, too. But I don’t know what.

Coach reminds us not to let our emotions get the better of us. Yeah, we hate this team, but we need to stick to our game.

He’s right, too.

It’s time to hit the ice. Our goalie, Archie, is always first on, and he’s dialed in, with the weird feral look in his eyes he has when he’s in the zone. He’s an odd guy – bizarre habits, strong opinions, doesn’t give a fuck what people think – but he’s a good goalie and this year he’s been playing fantastic.

I jump onto the ice. The lights are flashing, the crowd is cheering, and I do a few quick laps around our own end. Energy flows through me, making me feel big and powerful. Fuck, yeah. I love this game.

Now we just have to win.