9. Aaron
9
AARON
I’ve played hockey for most of my life, and played it professionally for the best part of a decade, and it still amazes me that every single game can be so different.
Sometimes, you’re out on the ice and it’s the most fun you’ve ever had. You’re amped up, full of adrenaline, and everything—from the acrid smell of rubber and frozen water, to the feel of the ice gliding below your skates, to the bone-rattling sensation of being smashed into the boards—makes you feel invincible. Ready to take on the world.
Other times, it’s a grind. No matter how much crocheting you did before the game, you’re stressed about what went down with the media and what this might mean for your career. As much as you try to get your head squarely on the ice, your mind is wandering, preoccupied with what you could have said or done differently. Your hair is stuck to your forehead, wet with sweat, your ribs ache from that hit you took last game, and your entire body throbs with the lactic acid circulating in your muscles.
You’re not playing for pleasure. You’re playing to survive.
Today’s Thanksgiving special is one of those games.
Well, it is up until the last few moments, when I catch Olivia Griswold on her feet and cheering after I score. I almost fall off my skates, I’m so shocked.
Her hair’s mussed, her arms are in the air, and even from all the way down here on the ice I can see that her eyes are shining… for me.
Correction: for the Cyclones. But that’s just a technicality, because as per usual when it comes to Liv, I’ll take what I can get. And this? This is a world away from the dirty looks and pursed lips I normally get from her.
I’m not sure which I love more.
And I need this motivation right now. Guess that stupid cockroach story got under my skin more than I’d like to admit.
When the game concludes, I skate off the ice reminding myself that at least the stupid cockroach story didn’t stop us from getting the W today. I’m glad I didn’t let anything going on in my head affect my performance on the ice.
No matter how I feel, playing at my best is a non-negotiable.
I’ve barely unlaced when there’s a sharp rap on the locker room door.
“Everyone decent?” a female voice calls. I’m not surprised that she’s here.
I glance around quickly to check that there are no rogue penises on display. “Come in, Reagan.”
The Cyclones social media manager peeks her head around the door. “Hey guys. Great game tonight,” she says as she carefully averts her eyes from Triple J’s currently shirtless chest. Which is kind of funny. For once, our brash social media manager is out of her element—mostly consisting of coercing us into posing for shirtless calendars and dressing up as elves for charity events and the like. Her eyes dart up long enough to meet mine. “Um, got a minute, Aaron?”
I already know what’s coming, can feel the prickle of anxiety work its way back into my belly. Reagan is always on top of things, and I’m sure she was doing damage control the entire time we were on the ice. When Brandi’s first “jilted ex lover” story hit the internet a while back, Reagan was quick to respond with extra positive social media content about me on the Cyclones account. She’s good at her job, and I appreciate all she does.
“Sure.” I follow her out the door and into the hallway.
Reagan shifts from foot to foot. Opens her mouth. Closes it. Smiles tightly.
“Spit it out, Reagan,” I tell her.
She pauses for another moment before swallowing. “I’m assuming you’ve seen it?”
“I did, and it’s fine,” I say as convincingly as I can. Because we just won the game. Because I have an otherwise good reputation. “This is just a case of a fan who’s gone rogue. There’s no real story here. Probably just a slow news day or something. It’ll blow over.”
“Have you looked at the news since coming off the ice?”
I raise a brow. “No.”
She shakes her purple-tipped hair then bites her lip nervously. “Well, you’re both right and wrong. The cockroach thing is just a stupid non-starter…”
“I sense a ‘but’ coming,” I say drily.
“ But all the major news outlets have picked up on Sadie Lincoln’s question regarding your captaincy. It’s being discussed at length on all the sports networks right now, so I’m sure you’ll be getting a barrage of questions about it at the press conference.”
Lincoln. That was her last name.
The thought is senseless, insignificant in the face of the information Reagan has just relayed to me. But committing the fact to memory helps me focus on something other than my spiking heart rate.
I earned this captaincy , I tell myself. I’ve played on this team for my entire career and I’ve been fully dedicated to the Cyclones. I was the alternate captain before this, and the natural pick to be Mal’s successor. People are aware of this. It’s just a fact.
“Thanks for the heads up, Reags.”
She’s picking at her fingernails, looking uncertain. “Tony will likely want to speak with you about this.”
“It’ll be fine. I appreciate the concern, though,” I reassure her with a small smile.
I believe it, too. Because there’s no way Coach is gonna buy this.
My teammates have had their fair share of media attention. Dallas has been linked to several famous models. Jake got in an off-ice brawl with the Cincinnati goalie after a game one night. Seb got drunkenly married in Vegas last Thanksgiving.
Coach Torres wasn’t the least bit interested in any of it. He’s here for hockey. And as long as nobody’s had a huge moral failure or done something illegal—and as long as it doesn’t affect our performance on the ice—he doesn’t give a damn what the tabloids say.
Reagan bounces from foot to foot, still seeming distracted and concerned.
I raise a brow at her. “Is there something else you’re not telling me?”
“Well, the gala is in ten days.”
Of course. Reagan is worried about the upcoming charity gala. And I get it—this is pretty unfortunate timing.
Every year, the Cyclones have a big Christmas charity event, such as our appearance at the children’s hospital two years ago that prompted my regular visits since. Reagan always organizes the whole thing, and puts in months of hard work to make it special. Last year, we were Santa’s elves at a toy drive, and this year, she wanted to do something even bigger and better.
And what could be bigger and better than a “star-studded Winter Wonderland event with a huge charity auction,” as it’s being advertised everywhere on social media?
Last I heard, it’s set to raise more money than any of our past team Christmas events. And all proceeds will go to a nonprofit that gives underprivileged kids opportunities to play sports.
Yeah. Reagan really outdid herself this time.
The best part (according to her) will be the auction itself, where they’ll be auctioning off… us .
Like you’re big ol’ slabs of meat, were Reagan’s exact gleeful words, if I recall.
Which was charming.
And possibly not all together inaccurate.
She still won’t tell us what the auction will have us do exactly—if we’re being auctioned as dates or manual labor or what—but the wicked smile on her face every time the subject gets brought up tells me that she’s got something up her sleeve.
Now, though, Reagan’s face is lined with worry, and so I put a hand on her shoulder, hoping to reassure her. “If you’re thinking that this whole cockroach-captaincy crap could overshadow the gala, it won’t,” I promise. “I know how hard you’ve worked on this, Reags, and it will get the recognition it deserves. And if this whole thing doesn’t blow over, I just won’t attend. I’ll match the donations privately to make up financially for my not being there.” I nod firmly. “Either way, I’ll make sure that nothing takes away from this event and the cause it’s for.”
She shakes her head. “As the new captain, you’re the main attraction this year. You need to be there.”
“That would certainly be for the best.”
The gravelly voice behind us has us both spinning around.
Tony Torres stands a few paces away down the hallway, his tanned, deeply lined face even more deeply lined than usual.
“Coach,” I start, and he holds up a hand to silence me.
“What a joke,” he says in his trademark rumble. His face tells me that he’s not happy. Not one bit. “I’d never consider replacing you with Slater because of one stupid media story. I trust you and your character, and I assume that whatever went down between you and that woman has been at least somewhat embellished online.”
Entirely embellished, I want to correct. But I keep my mouth shut because I’m not a big enough idiot to backtalk Torres right now.
“But the fact is that Sadie Lincoln’s ridiculous question has got people talking. And not in a good way. It’s like the woman has a vendetta.” I remember Dallas’s comment earlier and try not to cringe, but Coach wasn’t born yesterday. “Something tells me it has to do with damn Cooper not being able to keep it in his pants, as per usual.”
I keep my expression neutral, neither confirming nor denying.
“Anyway,” Coach goes on, “I just took a call from Dennis—he’s in St. Barts right now—and he’s requested that we do what we need to do to get this mess smoothed over promptly. He doesn’t want to see our new captain being dragged over the coals and the sports networks questioning his competency.” He raises a bushy brow at me. “I assume you don’t want that either, do you, Marino?”
“No, sir.”
Dennis Lieberman is the Cyclones GM–-and one of the only people who vocally vouched for Slater becoming captain over me. I’d bet my entire year’s salary that Coach is mincing a lot of words right now out of kindness, and Lieberman is actually seething while simultaneously crowing “I told you so!” at anyone who will listen.
“Be a good kid and clean up your mess. Get Lieberman off my back by getting the gossip columns off yours. Playing well on the ice ain’t gonna be enough to get you back into his good books, so I’m going to need you there at the gala representing our organization and looking every inch the respectable captain. Lieberman will be attending the gala so you better put your best foot forward. Deal?”
“Deal,” I say, my voice a lot firmer and stronger than I feel. Which is about four inches tall.
But what Torres is saying makes sense. We just won our game. I simply need to focus on presenting a good image and continuing to win. Then, this will all go away and we can get back to regularly scheduled programming.
Coach claps my shoulder. “Happy Thanksgiving, Marino.”
“Same to you, Coach.” I nod, my expression as composed as I can make it.
As Coach strides away, there’s a sudden a hiss behind my right shoulder. “Yiiiiiiikes.”
I turn, startled, to look at Reagan. Honestly, I forgot she was here. I attempt to crack a smile. “Come on. That wasn’t so bad, was it?”
But she’s not even looking at me, she’s staring at her phone screen. She swallows thickly. “Aaron. She has a ticket.”
My stomach swoops. “What?”
“To the gala. I checked the guest list and Brandi’s on there.”
“Can’t we get her removed? Have her barred?” The suggestion sounds a little extreme, but desperate times call for desperate measures. And I can’t take any chances, especially when Lieberman will be there.
Reagan considers this for a moment, tapping her sparkly fingernails against her chin, but she shakes her blond and purple hair. “I imagine that would make everything look worse. Add fuel to her fire. Give her even more reason—and ammunition—to make you look bad.”
“True.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to organize my thoughts. “Lieberman is going to lose it if this causes another stir.”
“I don’t think it will.” Reagan now looks thoughtful. “Brandi will likely want to be on her best behavior at the gala, too. She’s not going to do anything that might get her kicked out. My guess is that she’ll do what she can to get close to you, and that means?—”
“Bidding on me in the auction,” I finish Reagan’s sentence calmly, while internally cursing up a storm as I recall one of Brandi’s unhinged texts...
There’s no upper limit on what I’ll spend by the way! Either way, I’ll have you.
Judging by what transpired today, I doubt she’s bluffing.
“Yup.” Reagan nods. “My suggestion is that you find someone to outbid her, or you could end up on a very risqué date with Brandi.”
“Risqué how?!” I demand.
“Don’t worry about that part.” She waves a hand. “Worry about getting back in Lieberman’s good books. Now, I gotta bounce, have a family thing to attend. But I’ll see you at your place tomorrow, yeah?”
Oh, yeah. I momentarily forgot that a herd of people are coming over to my place tomorrow afternoon for a Thanksgiving meal l have not started prepping for in the least. I’m now beginning to wonder if I unknowingly broke a mirror and walked under a ladder on Friday the 13th, because luck does not seem to be in my favor right now.
Reagan bounds off towards the entrance of the players’ area where my teammates’ friends and family are starting to appear. I paste on a smile before returning to the locker room to get changed, trying to be positive.
I can fix this.
In fact, that’s what I’m going to do. Tomorrow morning, I’ll come here for an early skate to clear my head and work this out.
But now, I’m going home to eat an entire pumpkin pie while watching Charlie Brown’s Thanksgiving. And probably a pecan pie, too.
Bad luck, stalkers, and my captaincy being questioned aside… It’s a holiday, dammit.