4. Aaron

4

AARON

Practice runs late and I stay behind for a while, practicing my slap shot into an empty net, over and over and over until my wrist aches. And as I do so, I replay every moment of this morning’s breakfast in my head.

Particularly the moments featuring a certain fiery redhead.

Once upon a time, on nights before a big game when I was too keyed up to sleep, I’d lie in bed wide awake and find myself wondering where in the world she was. A part of me still can’t believe that she’s here in Atlanta after so many years of not even catching a glimpse of her face.

Still can’t believe that, though she has clearly changed and grown up in some ways, she’s exactly the same as she always was in every way that counts.

And her barbed insults and sassy glare still give me life.

Case in point: fueled by our earlier sparring, my shots are like rockets today. One after another after another are hitting the back of the net.

By the time I skate off the ice, I’m absolutely spent from giving one hundred and ten percent. But the “good job, son, way to put in the extra effort!” call from Coach Torres makes it all worth it.

Lead by example.

Those were the words of wisdom said to me by my old captain, Malachi Holmes, who retired at the end of last season. It happened to be a very good season, allowing him to retire on a high. We made it to the conference finals, getting beaten out in game seven after a rowdy match-up with New York. They went on to win it all, beating Denver in the finals for the title of Stanley Cup Champions.

“Win it for me next year, Marino,” Malachi told me, clapping a hand on my shoulder after our head coach, Tony Torres, revealed the results of the team vote and officially named me the new captain. “Take home the whole damn thing.”

The logical part of me knows that his comment wasn’t a literal ask. But I feel the pressure squeezing me daily—I really do want to win it for him this year. Malachi was a great mentor to me, and I want to do him proud now that he’s retired.

And not just him.

My dad’s dying wish was to see me become captain of this team.

It’s all he ever wanted for my career. All I ever wanted for my own career. Everything we worked towards. And I want to prove to everyone —the Cyclones coaches and management, the fans, my family, the media—that it was the right decision to entrust me with this role.

I want to prove it to myself, too. Silence that little voice inside me that keeps telling me I can’t. That my teammates would have been better off voting for Slater, instead.

I grab my phone, check the screen, and immediately regret it. The unknown number has texted again.

There’s no upper limit on what I’ll spend by the way! Either way, I’ll have you…

And as if that wasn’t weird enough, there’s another message time-stamped twenty minutes later.

Answer me, Aaron, or I’m going to have to do something big to get you to pay attention.

What the actual hell? This is just getting creepy.

I click my phone screen off and head to the locker room. It’s empty, but I’m surprised to hear multiple voices carrying from the showers. I figured everyone would be gone by now—we leave tomorrow for two back-to-back away games. When we get back next week, it’s our annual Thanksgiving Day face-off against Vegas, which means extra practices in the days running up to the holiday tradition game. I assumed the guys would be making the most of their downtime.

“What’re you all still doing here?” I ask as I walk into the shower room, towel wrapped around my waist.

“Captain!” Jimmy Jones-Johnstone cries from beneath a stream of water. “Just the man we’ve been waiting for.”

“Took a hot second,” Dallas Cooper mutters.

I snort, stepping into a stall and turning on the water. “Hang on, don’t tell me you were all hanging out in the showers together, waiting for me to get here.”

Our shower set up features waist-high half-stalls, which means that we can chat while we’re showering without a full-frontal nudity fest. But it’s not like any of us make a habit of having heart-to-hearts while we’re butt-naked.

Jake, who’s in the shower stall next to mine, rolls his eyes. “Unfortunately, that is the case.”

I have to laugh as I test the water, find it hot enough, and then throw my towel over the wall of my stall before ducking under the stream. I savor the heat on my skin for a moment.

“We have an idea,” Triple J says excitedly as he rubs a veritable mountain of foamy shampoo into his hair.

I cast a worried glance in Sebastian Slater’s direction. Jimmy’s “ideas” are usually the harebrained ramblings of a maniac, and I trust Seb, the team’s new alternate captain, to be the voice of reason.

Seb shrugs. “It’s actually a decent one this time.”

“Seconded,” Colton Perez adds from my other side.

“Okay. Hit me with it.”

“Teamsgiving!” Jimmy announces proudly.

I raise a brow. “Come again?”

“Teamsgiving,” he repeats, not bothering to elaborate.

I look to Seb for help translating.

“We thought we could do a team Thanksgiving dinner next week.” Seb explains. “We usually go out together when the game’s away, obviously, but it’s at home this year, and none of us really have family in town. So Triple J suggested that we start a new tradition.”

“Teamsgiving dinner,” I repeat slowly.

When Mal was captain and our Thanksgiving games were in Atlanta, he would spend the holiday with his wife Chantal’s family. Some of us other guys would hang out from time to time, seeing as most of us don’t have family living here, but we’ve never had an official team event for the holiday.

“Puck doesn’t drop til 5pm, though,” I muse. “Kinda late to do a big dinner afterwards, and I doubt we’ll wanna eat all that before a big game.”

I don’t mean to sound like a killjoy nor a party pooper, but I’m trying to think about what’s best for everyone. Team morale is important, but so is being in the right mindset to win an important game.

“What if we did it on Friday instead?” I suggest.

Jimmy nods eagerly. “You read my mind, Captain. That way, we have the full day to enjoy it.”

I look around at the mass of soaped-up, eager-faced men who are looking right back at me. “Is everyone into this idea?”

The guys all nod, except for Dallas, who grins wickedly. “I’m in as long as I can bring a date.”

My eyes land on Jake, who’s scowling, as per usual, beneath his beard. “Even you, Griz?”

He shrugs. “I’m always happy to go where food is involved.”

Fair. The guy’s as much a bottomless pit as I am. Might be the thing that first drew us together in high school.

“We’ll do it potluck-style,” adds Lars Anderssen, our goalie.

“Okay, I’m in,” I tell them. Anything that keeps up team morale is a win in my book. If they all like this idea, I like it too. But then a thought occurs to me. “Wait. Can anyone cook?”

“Yes,” Lars responds immediately. “I am a great cook. We do not have the Thanksgiving holiday in Sweden, so I will bring a Christmas tradition from my country.”

“Bring a couple of the women, too,” Dallas says cheekily, earning himself a slap upside the head from the behemoth goalie. “Ouch!” he yelps, but then adds, “I’ll bring dessert. I have a great chocolate chip cheesecake recipe.”

“You do?” I blink at him, trying and failing to imagine our team’s party-boy in the kitchen, baking up a storm.

“What?” He sounds almost defensive. “I love cheesecake.”

“I’m making mashed potatoes,” Jimmy says, which is a shockingly regular-sounding offering. “And my famous potato-chip-topped potato casserole with ketchup gravy.”

Ah, there it is.

Dallas raises his eyes heavenward. “Seriously, do you ever shut up about potatoes?”

“I’m going to be ordering my contribution from a restaurant,” Colton volunteers.

“Great idea.” I will definitely be doing the same. My nonna taught me how to make pasta from scratch and I can whip up a few Italian family recipes with ease (read: help), but I am totally clueless when it comes to all other cooking. “Who’s in charge of turkey?”

I’m shocked when Jake, of all people, throws up his hand, steam billowing off of his arm. “I am. I’m going to deep fry it in a bucket.”

“Good luck with that,” I say, deciding on the spot that I am going to have precisely zero participation in that activity. Except perhaps providing an extra fire extinguisher or two. Jake is known for a lot of things—he’s a stellar defenseman and has a wicked, dry sense of humor underneath his typically grouchy persona. But a good cook, he is not.

“In your backyard,” he adds.

“What now?”

Dallas smiles lazily. “Oh, didn’t we mention that, Cap? Teamsgiving dinner is at your place.”

Fanfrickingtastic .