7. Aaron

7

AARON

“That was… weird,” Seb mutters when we finally escape the media circus and are walking the hallway that leads to the locker room.

“That’s one word for it,” I reply with a chuckle, feeling lighter now that I’m not standing in front of a bunch of cameras with my mouth gaping open like a lizard catching flies.

Or cockroaches, apparently.

“Any idea what they were talking about?” my teammate asks, a bemused expression on his face that exactly mirrors how I feel.

“Nope.” I shake my head. “But whatever it was, it sounds made up.”

Now that I’m away from the barrage of questions, my head feels clearer. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still entirely baffled, but I know for a fact that I haven’t done anything “extracurricular” lately that might call my character into question, either on or off the ice.

I’m sure it’s nothing.

Although that interim captain question was a little rattling.

Seb puts a hand on the locker room door, then shrugs at me. “Let’s just forget about it for now and focus on the game.”

I nod firmly. “Absolutely.”

He pushes open the door and?—

“ROACH BOY’S HERE!”

Dallas is currently whooping in delight. Meanwhile, Triple J holds his hands towards Colton and the two men attempt a salsa dance that’s both terrible and terrifying as Perez belts out “La cucaracha! La cucaracha!” which makes the rest of the guys collapse in hopeless, side-splitting laughter.

Even the Swedish giant Lars—who might be the most stoic man in the universe—scuttles his fingers in a particularly roachy fashion.

It’s a total locker-room looney bin.

Seb sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles. “SHUT UP, EVERYONE!” he bellows, and a stunned silence falls over the place. Seb is the most Canadian person on the team—in that he’s always polite and never yells. At anyone.

I’m actually impressed.

“What Slater means is: can someone please tell us what the hell is going on?” I demand, looking around the room.

“And why Marino’s captaincy just got called into question by the media?” Seb adds. He seems almost as riled up about this as I am.

All eyes in the room grow wide as they slide from Seb to me, and I nod. “Whatever Cockroachgate is about, it’s got lips wagging.”

“Wait, what?” Jake’s head jerks up. “It’s just some stupid internet story. Your captaincy has nothing to do with it.”

“Try telling that to that bloodthirsty Sadie chick out there.” I jerk a thumb over my shoulder.

Dallas shudders. “Ooh, yeah. She can be cold as ice.”

Jake smirks at him. “Sounds like you know this from experience.”

“Oh, I do.” Dallas’s rueful tone makes me think that Sadie’s behavior might have something to do with my teammate.

“Unsurprising.” Jake rolls his eyes, then passes me his phone with an article open on the screen.

I scan the story—predictably, a write-up on a trashy news outlet—and my mouth slides into a grimace. “People are… naming cockroaches after their exes?”

“They’ve been doing it at zoos all over the country,” Dallas nods sagely, because of course Dallas would know all about this. “Started as a Valentine’s Day revenge thing. Atlanta Zoo picked it up this year as a holiday publicity gig.”

I read the tagline from the zoo’s website aloud. “ Name a cockroach after a particularly awful ex and gift it to a lizard of your choice this holiday season .” I shake my head. “Sounds idiotic.”

“Agreed.” Dallas shrugs. “But a few minutes before your pre-game interview, that ex-fiancée of yours live-streamed herself getting to the Atlanta zoo, naming a cockroach after you, and sacrificing it to a lizard. It’s clearly getting a ton of shares.”

“Super good publicity for the zoo,” Triple J adds oh-so-helpfully, which earns him a whack across the arm from Perez.

Meanwhile, I’m totally confused, scrolling further down the article. “Huh? What do you mean, my ex-fiancée?”

As I say the words, everything suddenly clicks into place. I stare at the familiar auburn-haired woman on Jake’s phone screen, and realize exactly which detail I missed.

AaronMarinosMistress.

Brandi.

Who was definitely never my fiancée, as Dallas damn well knows.

I really should have seen this coming. After the texts last week got borderline creepy, I changed my number again without replying to her.

This is what she must have meant by “getting my attention.”

Hell hath no fury like a woman ignored, it seems.

I scrub my hand over my face, then look around the room. I’m met with the confused, slightly concerned gazes of my teammates. So I straighten up, get my game face on, and channel my inner calm. Present the perfect picture of being totally unfazed.

“Well, guys, lucky for us, all publicity is good publicity. And the more distracted our opponents think we are with this story coming out, the more advantage we have to focus and get our heads in the game. So let’s go out there and wipe the ice with Vegas!”

The unusually serious atmosphere in the room breaks as the guys laugh and cheer, and morale is successfully restored. My teammates all get back to their pre-game preparations, and I flop down on the bench, still reeling.

I hardly notice when Jake sits down next to me.

“You okay, man?” he asks as he claps a hand on my shoulder.

“Fine, yeah. That was all just a bit insane.”

“I’ll say.” He frowns, squinting at the floor. “But we got your back.”

“I know. Thanks.” Jake is typically a man of few words, but the words he does say always matter, and I appreciate his support.

He quirks a smile. “It’ll be good. Now, I’ll leave you alone with your latest creation. What you working on now?”

I chuckle as I pull out my current crochet project: a little red fox with white paws and black whiskers.

“You weirdo,” Jake mutters, shaking his head with a grin, and I punch him in the arm jokily. He stands to get ready and leaves me to my task.

This is my pre-game prep. A ritual, if you will. I’ll crochet pretty much anything before I step out on the ice, but I mostly like to make stuffed animals. They make great gifts for when I visit the children’s hospital—my favorite volunteer work. The Cyclones made an appearance there for a charity event two Christmases ago, and I’ve been going back regularly since. Talking to those incredible kids is the most humbling experience, and I’ll be happy to visit them for as long as they’ll have me.

Everyone on the team thinks that my crocheting is just a superstition. After all, as well as being cocky, us hockey players are known for our ritualistic superstitions—which can include anything from taping our sticks a certain way, to carrying good luck charms, to, in my old teammate Thomas McNulty’s case, listening to “I’m a Slave 4 U” by Britney Spears five times in a row while clutching a rubber snake.

As far as the guys know, back in high school, I helped my nonna with one of her crochet projects the same day I had an important game… and then proceeded to have the game of my life.

While that is where this all started, my crochet habit is more than just a superstitious tradition. It’s actually a huge part of my mental game—the best way I know to stop any racing thoughts before I skate onto the ice of a packed arena. There’s something about my fingers moving on autopilot that helps my mind go blank so that I can focus on nothing but the game ahead.

And today—despite the unfortunate cockroach incident, and my leadership being questioned, and the Brandi situation—crocheting helps. As my fingers move, my thoughts melt like butter in a hot skillet, reducing in magnitude.

Just like the proposal story, this too will blow over. A cockroach stunt at the zoo does not a substantial threat to my captaincy make, and what really matters now is that I lead by example, like Mal encouraged me to.

Set the intention for us to win, and make it happen.

It’s Thanksgiving, for goodness sake, and I’m gonna give us all something to be thankful for.

By the time I’ve suited up, laced my skates, and stepped out onto the ice at the helm of my team, I’m not exactly feeling better, but I feel equilibrium again. I plaster on my best game face as I wave to the fans and blow a kiss towards the cluster of Aaron’s Army groupies in section 110, like I always do. I’m not gonna let one bad apple spoil the bunch, and I really am grateful for their love and support.

But before I turn away from the crowd, I see her.

There’s a sea of people in the arena, but I’d spot that copper hair and sassy expression a mile away.

Jake told me that she’d be here this afternoon. It’s the first time she’s in town for a home game, and my buddy was happy his sister could attend. And there she is, in the friends and family box, standing a few feet away from Seb’s wife Maddie, and our social media manager, Reagan.

Her expression darkens when she sees me looking at her, and this makes me smile. So much so that I can’t help but wink at her.

She looks back at me like she’d like to stab me with the sharpest skate she can find, and I chuckle to myself.

Suddenly, all is right with the world.