Chapter 33

CHAPTER 33

CAULDER

We're playing New York Lights. Thankfully. I enjoy playing this team much more than the Gulls. They're not nearly as aggressive and, well, assholes. I don't hate aggressive teams, but there's something toxically aggressive about the Gulls' plays and their overall demeanor on and off the ice.

I'm sitting on the bench when there's eight minutes left in the second period, and we're tied, 1-1. I scowl when New York's Franz Bauer steals the puck from Ethan and heads down to our defensive zone. Thankfully, Astor is already hovering around Phalyn in the net. Ready.

He shoots it through Three's legs as he comes up between him and Owen Vincent. And this motherfucker bats the puck out of the air, and it just barely sails over Phalyn's shoulder and lands in the net.

"What the fuck was that?" Meddy asks, laughing.

"Wrong sport, Vinny!" Lucas calls.

Owen looks in our direction and winks, a big grin on his face.

Yes, the goal sucks, but I think we actually like the Lights, so there's definitely more teasing banter than there is anything with heat behind it. That's not to say that fights don't break out. In the next puck drop, Sacha and Pen Dickson end up in a scuffle that results in Sacha taking a two-minute penalty.

I groan as I trade places with Astor. My blades touch the ice and I join the play, chasing it toward the offensive zone. I'm pretty sure I'm playing defense tonight. Considering Astor is defense, I remember that's my job tonight but when the puck is passed to me, I obviously take possession.

We play a game of back and forth until I get the puck again and send it through Linden Rhodes' legs where Ethan is waiting. His stick is already back, ready to take the shot. It sinks in the lower left corner and the horn blares to life, signaling our score.

"Fuck's sake," Linden cheers, slapping me on the shoulder on the way by.

"Keep your legs closed, Rhodes," Ethan teases, hitting his stick to Linden's.

Linden laughs. "There's no fun in that."

We end the second period tied 2-2. I'm not unhappy about that outcome as we head for the locker room. I need a drink.

Maybe it's wrong of me, but I don't look at the fans anymore. I don't stop for pictures or autographs. I remember all too clearly how readily they turned on me. How easily they blindly supported some chick insisting that I was a deadbeat who refused to take responsibility for something that I didn't do.

I keep my attention straight ahead, even when a teammate pauses. Regardless of whether or not I hear my name.

Lo told me the other day that people have noticed this change in me. Ironically, he told me an hour before the PR asshole, Robert, stopped me in the hall on my way to practice and asked me if I realized I was doing this.

"Yes," was my answer.

He looked at me shocked. "Why?"

I shrugged and didn't bother responding. I'm not about fair-weather people. I get it; without the fans, we wouldn't be playing. Be that as it may, I'm entirely put off by them and how disgusting it felt.

Lo and I have discussed it several times and I understand I shouldn't let it bother me. Honestly, I don't let it bother me. I rarely think about it. But I sure as fuck won't be thankful for their attention only now I've proven myself to be honest.

You can't expect us to believe you over someone claiming you got her pregnant.

Because women can't lie, apparently. I get it. I truly do. I've seen some ugly shit and I know women live in a man's world where they're often mistreated and misused by men. But that doesn't mean that women can't lie.

I even understand what Meddy was explaining the other day at my house. She truly believed what she was saying. I haven't watched the videos. Besides the handful I saw in Coach's office, I haven't seen another, and I have no interest in changing that. The fact of the matter is, when I said it wasn't me, instead of backing off and handling it privately, she turned into an entitled drama queen.

Alexandra sends me updates often on the defamation case—yes, I agreed because my friends are right. There needs to be consequences in the real world. You want to be a shitty person and insist on proving an innocent person guilty, you should face consequences.

I said it wasn't me. I told my truth. My friends solidified my alibi that I don't go out and I didn't go out with them that night. Still, she insisted on pursuing it. Even after the test results, which, according to Alexandra's reports, she's insisting are false.

That was probably the tipping point that made me decide to pursue the case when I wouldn't necessarily otherwise. I want her to go away. But she's still refusing to.

I still hear the random comment as I head into the chute about it. Like now, as I refuse to sign something for a fan, she calls, "You can get me pregnant, Caulder! I won't post about it online."

"That disgusting and inappropriate," Sacha tells her. "Go. You not getting autographs from Skidmoss."

A smile touches my lips as I duck my head and keep walking. As soon as we're in the locker room and everyone's gathered, Sacha says, "Fan in orange hat, red plaid shirt, female, wearing garish red lipstick—we won't sign shit for her. She's gross to Caulder."

It's not the first time an announcement like this has been made. We now have a Karen board that we carry around, snapping pictures of the assholes who come to the game and say something disgusting like that. They're on a fan ban list.

I drop to the bench and tip my head back to spray water in my mouth from the water bottle beside me. Hydration is key to life.

"I really want to win this," Astor grumbles. "We're not playing baseball. There's no batting of pucks in this game."

Meddy laughs. "Just appreciate it for the beauty, Astor. It was a fun shot."

Astor huffs.

Creed sits beside me, flashing me a smile. "That was a sweet assist."

"Linden's always fun to get one up on."

He laughs. "He's a good egg. I always enjoy talking to him at events."

Coach comes in a few minutes before the next period for a pep talk. We're playing a good game but so is New York. We need to play a better game.

I enjoy playing at home; though in New York, there's always a good mix at all arenas of fans from both teams when any two of the three New York teams play each other. Since we're home today, more than half of the seats are a bright mix of yellow and grass green. The rest are black and honey bee yellow.

I'm on the ice for the puck drop and we spend the first seven minutes chasing the puck from one end to the other. I collide with Menlo Dexter, slamming my body into his against the boards with a bam . The puck remains lodged between us as he tries to keep it in possession. I'm not sure whose stick slips in and scoops it away, but we break apart when the puck disappears.

Creed has the puck and is flying down to the other side. As I watch him, I absently muse that maybe he should have been in the All-Star Games, not just a member of the audience. That man is fucking fast. I follow at a distance, keeping toward the back of the New York ice to attempt to keep the puck down this end.

It feels almost like I predicted it coming my way because Creed loses the puck as it's slid along the wall behind the goalie and toward me. I retrieve it, as five big guys skate toward me, and send it back to Creed who's positioned slightly behind me on our end.

As soon as we're down in New York's defensive zone, the puck gets picked away by Pen and tossed toward the wall. Creed retrieves it, but Pen and Linden are right on him, boxing him in against the boards.

Somehow, Creed shoots the puck away into empty ice. But then Jakub is right there where no one had been and shoots the puck. Their goalie blocks it, the puck bouncing off his stick. But Jakub is still in the zone and he makes the rebound, hitting it in mid-air back to the net, and this time, it gets by Daryn Sweetwater for the goal.

Creed laughs, sliding into Jakub's side for a brief hug before they break away. The rest of the team surrounds Jakub after, hugging him and tapping his helmet. Congratulating him.

This is the last goal of the game, and we win 3-2.

It doesn't always happen with every team, but Buffalo and New York meet on the ice to exchange parting salutations of ‘good game' and other shit. It's proof that our teams get along when there's a lot of smiles and teasing as we move down the line.

I head for the chute with half the team in front of me, once again, needing more water. I should have drunk more during the game, probably, but it's kind of a pain in the ass distraction when I suddenly have to piss.

There's a roadblock within the chute and I stop before I run into Three. My attention is focused ahead, as usual. Some of my teammates take this opportunity to sign things since we're stopped. I hear my name again, but I ignore it, choosing to concentrate on catching my breath.

Something moving down the wall on my right makes me turn my head and I'm facing a stuffed bear. It's probably three feet tall, fluffy gray. It has a #13 Skidmoss jersey on—my number—and a hockey helmet painted in pride rainbow colors. Between its paws is a banner that reads, "YOUR FANS SHOULD HAVE SUPPORTED YOU."

My shoulders fall as I look up. There's a young teenage girl there, also wearing my jersey. She gives me a smile. For some reason, I believe the sincerity in it. "I'm sorry," she says, her voice barely reaching me above the crowd. "You deserve better from your fans."

Tears sting my eyes. I'm afraid if I smile, I may cry. So I just nod and reach for the bear. She releases the cord she has it dangling on. I hug it to my chest and close my eyes for a minute. When I open them, she's giving me a teary smile in return. I reach up and hand her my stick.

"Thank you."

"I don't need anything in return," she says, shaking her head.

"Take it," I insist. "We all deserve fans like you."

She does, giving me a big smile. "Thank you!"

I nod, keeping the bear to my chest as I head down the chute. It cleared up while I was staring at the bear. I set it on top of my cubby and try to ignore it while I wrestle my way out of my pads and move toward the showers to wash the sweat and stink off me. While I do scrub, I almost never feel quite clean and end up taking a second shower when I get home. Not all the time, but often.

I'm not in a hurry to get home tonight, though. Arizona has a game tonight too, so I know he's not waiting for my call. When I'm dressed, I grab my new bear and hug him to my chest on the way out. It's a surprisingly touching gift that I didn't expect to appreciate quite as much as I do. But I keep it securely in my arms as I head for my car and amuse myself by buckling it in on the ride home.

I should name it. Obviously, Haines. It's printed on the back of its jersey.

The silence of my car is a welcomed transition time between work and home. I appreciate the short commute. Not too long to get irritating, but not so short that I feel like I have no time to get into or out of work mode.

My house is dark when I pull up, which is to be expected. It's almost too quiet now. Too empty. I'm far more aware of the silence and solitude in the days following Lo being here, though it's been almost a week. We have plans that I'll be flying to him tomorrow after my practice and he'll be arriving in Chicago sometime around noon. We'll spend twenty-four hours together, but that time will be interrupted by his game.

We debated whether I should attend the game. It's not often I get to actually attend a game. But in the end, I decided that I don't want to attract attention or be recognized. And as paranoid as it may sound, I also don't want anyone to have any reason to think they can claim we hooked up in the arena bathroom.

Yep, that's the reality of my current situation. I feel like I need to wear a camera all the time now, just to document who I'm around and when.

As I toss the bear on my bed, I see that there's something on the back of the banner. Flipping it over, it reads "JUST SO YOU KNOW, THERE ARE FANS WHO NEVER STOPPED SUPPORTING YOU. I NEVER DOUBTED YOU."

Now that I'm home, I let out the emotions this damned stuffed bear and the young girl who gave it to me stirred in me. A few hot tears trail down my face. I let them before taking a deep cleansing breath and wiping them away.

Maybe I'm more hurt by the outside world than I'm allowing myself to admit. My reaction to this kind gesture says as much. In a way, I did to them what I've been angry about them doing to me. We're both wrong.

But how do you tell who's a good person and who just wants a piece of you when you're on the top? When you've had to jump through hoops that shouldn't have existed to begin with to prove you're not the shitbag that you're accused of being? How do you look into the face of a stranger and determine which one of those people you're looking at?

Taking a breath, I turn away from the bear and head into my closet to get out of my suit. It's nearing eleven, but it's three hours earlier in Arizona. Lo's only an hour into his game. Probably just finishing up the second period.

I take a second shower as I often do and then fall into bed. My tablet is plugged in, propped against my nightstand where it always is. Bringing the bear next to me, I snap a selfie and send it to Lo, though I know he won't get it for a while. Then I settle in, turn on the Arizona-San Jose game via the app on my tablet, and settle in to wait for my boyfriend to call me.