5. ARAN

CHAPTER 5

ARAN

S hit, Coach drove us too hard today. Even I'm eyeing the infamous puke barrel. Assistant Coach Thomas brings it out every time practice is going to be more medieval torture than hockey training. At least half of the team has left their own offering to the barrel today, but I can't let myself join their ranks. As the captain of this team and as a senior, I have a reputation to uphold. I swallow down the rising bile and focus on breathing through my mask.

"If you think this is hard, wait until you make it to the championship," Coach Green says from the center ice, frowning as another of the freshman guys dashes for the barrel and empties his guts there. "You'll be facing gradually stronger teams that will be trying to crush you. One mistake, and you'll wish you hadn't skated like an absolute ninny today."

"Anyone else need the barrel?" Assistant Coach Thomas asks, knocking his knuckles against the metal frame of the nightmare vessel.

A chorus of groans answers him.

Coach Green shakes his head. "Fine, get some rest now, you tender little babies. I'll see you tomorrow bright and early for dryland." Coach Green blows the final whistle, and the staff are first to file out of the rink.

I rip my mask away and draw in a big gulp of air. I blink hard under the steady stream of sweat trickling down my forehead. Unbidden, the image of a massive, juicy burger pops into my mind. It's what propels me to slide my ass away from the ice, even when my gear feels ten pounds heavier while sopping wet.

"Is this what death feels like?" Archie asks while we trod slowly down the hallway to the locker room.

"Bro," Jamal says while panting. "Pretty sure death feels like nothing. But this? This feels like too much."

I grunt in agreement.

Slowly, I lower myself to my bench and just breathe for a while. Anyone would think goalies have it easier because we don't have to skate around the ice all game long. But the coaches still make us join skating practice—while wearing bigger, heavier pads. I can't be faulted for needing a moment.

Glad to report Edwards visited the barrel today. Twice. But I don't even have the energy to heckle him. I wish a crane could remove my jersey for me.

I grit my teeth and push through as I always do. Not a peep comes out of my mouth even though everything hurts like hell. My jersey makes a wet slapping sound as it hits the floor. I remove my pads at a snail's pace, one by one. The hardest part is peeling off the undershirt that has fused to my skin. It takes me several tries and a growl before I'm able to tear it off.

"Mierda." I grunt when I look down at myself and no further layers have magically removed themselves.

"C'mon, the faster we get naked, the faster we can get a cold shower," Archie says to the room, immediately bringing people's motivation through the roof. They should've made him the captain instead. I couldn't motivate a mosquito to bite me right now.

Eventually, I manage to haul my bare ass to the showers. I don't even have enough energy to jump when the freezing spray of water hits my feverish skin. I wipe my face with my hands. This time a basket of steaming salt-sprinkled rustic French fries pops into my mind. And you know what? After this puke-inducing practice, a burger and fries sound perfect. Maybe with a shake.

Wait, no. A beer. Stout. With frost on the glass. And there's only one place nearby that sells this exact combo.

"Who's up for O'Malley's?" I ask.

A roaring chorus of yeses bounces off the bathroom walls.

My muscles ease under the freezing shower. By the time I'm dressed up and out the door, I start feeling almost normal. Except for the fierce growling in my gut.

"You read my mind, Rodriguez. O'Malley's is exactly what the doctor ordered," my roommate says as he falls in step beside me. "In fact, this girl from class texted that she and some friends will be there."

I cut a glance at him and almost blurt out that I'm only going for the food, but that would be too big a bone to throw at this gossip hound. In a second, he would zero in on the only and turn it on its head.

We toss our bags full of rank pads into the trunk of my car and join a few guys from the team for the walk over to the only bar on campus. There are many others downtown, but that's too much effort. And that's why O'Malley's is packed every day and night of the week.

Tonight is no exception. There isn't a single free table in this damn place, but I will eat my burger standing in a corner if I must. I break off from the group and head to the bar to place my order, starting with the stout.

"ID?" the bartender asks, even though I'm here practically every other day.

Sighing, I fish for my wallet and open it before him. He appears as bored as me as he checks my birth date and nods. I turn, leaning my elbows on the bar to scope out the situation. If anyone looks remotely like they'll be done with their meal or drinks, I will hover over them like a storm cloud until they scamper off.

Waving catches my attention. Archie motions me over to a table with three girls and a handful of Bolts. Moreover, the surface space is pretty clear.

"Here," the dude behind the bar says, slamming a tall glass of stout onto the bar.

I grab it, enjoying how my fingers stick to the icy surface, and make my way through the crowd to the table.

"Here he is, the infamous Bolts captain in the flesh." Archie makes a grand sweep of his arm toward me that actually helps clear up space. I slide up to the tall table and finally take a swig of my drink.

"Oh my goodness. It's such an honor to meet you, Aran," a girl says, extending a slim hand with very long nails. "I'm Lori Schmitt, and these are my friends, Tiffany Peterson and Rebecca Newman. They go by Tiff and Rebs."

She called me Aaron. Normally, I'd consider giving her a pass because she's hot and potentially interested. Today, I don't give her a pass for precisely those reasons.

When it's clear I'm not going to shake her hand, Archie chimes in. "Tiff and I have class together, and I figured her friends are our friends, you know?" He gives me a look, the kind that means be nice or else .

"Double cheeseburger and fries?" a waiter asks, and I raise my hand.

The vultures lean in while I set the basket of food on the table, and I give them a warning look. Except the Lori chick must be worse at reading cues than me, or she maybe does it on purpose. She grabs a fry and pops it into her mouth with a smile.

It's official. She's on my blacklist.

Her smile falters under the force of my glare. "It's just a fry!" She titters a high-pitched laugh.

But it's never just a fry. It starts with one. Then it's half of the ration. And then it's why don't you tell me you love me?

I know her type. It's the same kind that got me slapped in front of the entire team a few days ago. The exact type that got me in trouble with Coach. And that I always gravitate to because they seem easy-going at first. We do a little fooling around, and then they want to screw me over.

"First rule of Bolts club is," Archie starts in a serious tone, "never mess with anyone's food. Unless that's their preference."

People laugh. I eye the bar for any empty spaces.

Fortunately, I don't have to make the effort. The conversation picks back up to what it was before I arrived, and no other fries are nicked by manicured hands. Even though I keep my attention on the meal, I note from my periphery that Lori keeps eyeing me. Not my plate, but me.

"Dude," Archie says, digging his elbow in my side once the girls have gone to the bathroom as a unit. "What the hell is your deal? Lori's totally into you, and you're acting crankier than usual."

"Yeah, I'd say you're like an eight right now," Mark Webber, one of the defensemen, says from across the table, referring to my infamous bad mood scale.

"I just wanted to grab a meal in peace, that's all," I say while wiping my fingertips off with a napkin.

"Well, great. You grabbed one meal, and you can have a different one if you stop being so prissy." Archie runs a hand through his red hair. "Or at least dial it down and let us have the meal this time."

"What the hell are you talking about, Archibald?"

"What he's trying to say," adds Jamal from my other side, jerking his head toward the other assistant captain. "Is that the rest of us don't have that je ne sais quoi that attracts women like flies?—"

Archie nods. "Exactly. That ye nay whatever."

"So if you could just bring it down to like a four or something, you might not scare these girls away for us."

I frown. "Why do I need to work for you to get girls?"

Jamal gasps and puts his hand on his chest. "There is no I in team, captain."

"Whatever. I'm going home."

"No!" the three of them scream at me. Half the bar turns in our direction.

"Don't you dare move from this table, Aran Jose Rodriguez." Archie narrows his eyes as if he's getting ready to tackle me. Mark goes as far as spreading his arms wide and blocking my exit.

As a creature of math, I do the numbers. Three girls. Four guys. One openly uninterested guy. This is an ideal scenario for the guys. The second these chicks get their undivided attention, they'll forget about me. After all, every girl who has dumped me in the past has said I'm more boring than watching paint dry.

"Fine," I grumble.

"Okay, great." Archie turns to the others. "Just so you all know, I'm into Tiff."

"Rebs seems nice, so dibs, I guess," says Jamal.

"I mean, Lori's super hot, but she hasn't looked at me once." Mark winces.

"You'll have to work—And here they come." Archie clears his throat and plasters on a blinding smile. "Hi, there. Are you ready to order?"

"Oh, yeah. Totally!" The girl called Tiff sidles up to Archie, her own expression mirroring his.

My roommate's a dork. He thinks he has no game, but this girl is already putty in his hand.

I pull out my phone and check the time. It's pretty early, and my stomach is still open for business. Maybe I'll order a salad this time.

"Wow, you're so tall."

A waft of perfume hits me from behind right after that line. I don't even need to look up to confirm that it's coming from the newest addition to my blacklist. Jamal, the polite fool that he is, makes way for her to squeeze between. I sweep my eyes around her and catch the attention of the same waiter from before.

"Great, I'm starving," she says, grinning up at me as if I flagged the waiter for her.

"Guys, do you have plans after this?" the Tiff chick asks.

"Not really," Archie responds too eagerly.

"Cool, because we have a Play Station at home, if you wanna join us."

"Wait," the third girl cuts in. "I thought we were staying out all night."

"I mean, we could." Mark winks.

I give him a look. We have practice early in the a.m.

"It's honestly too loud in here," the girls' head honcho says, wrinkling her nose. "It would be better if we could get to know each other in a quieter place, right?"

"Yeah, that would be great!" Archie says a second before the waiter arrives to take everyone's orders.

I consider peacing out early, but going home and making my own salad would take much longer at this rate. So I stay for the food and end up getting dragged to some strange apartment just so my friends can try to score. Along the way, I grumble that there is an I in captain, but they ignore me.