28. Renee
He’s an asshole.
He’s an asshole.
He’s an arrogant, infuriating, crazy-making, hot-and-cold, sweet-and-sour, bipolar, goddamned, godforsaken asshole.
I’d tell him that to his face—but a full day after the laundry room encounter, my legs are still shaking from the heaven-sent orgasm he gave me.
Truth be told, I should’ve told him off before I even left the room. But I wasn’t brave enough for that. Instead, I slunk back to Sutton’s apartment with my head in the clouds and my tail between my legs and laid in bed replaying the moment until the wee hours of the next morning.
The only reason he did it is because he was jealous over Hunter. I mean, look at the facts: he kicked me out of his place because I dared mention his friend’s addiction, and he doesn’t want to face up to it.
I don’t blame him—addiction is hard to deal with. I of all people understand.
But this is his lifelong best friend. He should do something to help him. Instead, he’s happy to swim around in his big blue pool of denial.
Like I said—asshole.
So where does that leave me? I don’t want to take a chance of running into Weston in the elevator or the hallway, but I can’t just sit here in this apartment. I’ll just have to time my escape so I dodge him.
I grab my camera. It’s a nice day and there’s a park nearby. I can take some photos, use the camera lens to shield me from the part of life that sucks.
I would call Sutton, but I can’t ever keep the time difference straight. She’s either nine hours ahead, which would make it about eight p.m. there, or she’s nine hours behind which would make it two a.m. I don’t want to bother her with this shit anyway.
I made this mess myself, so I can clean it up myself.
I hope.
But she’ll be calling soon. She usually gives me a once- or twice-a-week ring. I can wait until then to report to her what I’m sure she already knows: that Weston Scott is an asshole.
I peek out of the peephole and count to one hundred to be sure the coast is clear before I dash out down the stairs. I make it to the side alley next to The Palais and into the great outdoors without a single Weston sighting.
As I walk to the park, there are people out and about. It’s Saturday and the sun is shining without it being too hot. It’s a nice change. And photographing strangers, conjuring up imaginary stories to pair with the photo, keeps my mind clear of all things Weston.
The park is full. There is a couple playing Frisbee, some kids wrestling with a big, shaggy dog over a chew toy, picnickers aplenty. In the playground area, I see kids on swings being pushed by a couple dads, a few more kids climbing the ladder to the slide, some little gremlins chowing down on chicken fingers at the tables.
It’s a very all-American scene and I snap shot after shot as I walk around the park. It’s easy to lose myself in the flow. Frame, snap, repeat. Frame, snap, repeat. The rest of my troubles fade away. The world when seen through my viewfinder is so much simpler than it is when I look with my own two eyes.
And then I see them. The boys—teenagers, really; they have the wispy, mid-pubescent mustaches that signals they’d absolutely loathe being called “boys”—playing street hockey in a concrete part of the park.
Their “net” is a fifty-gallon drum turned on its side. When the ball they’re using as a puck smacks the inside of the drum, it echoes like thunder even over the cheers of the players.
I watch for a while. I can’t help but smile as I do. They’re all mostly serious while they play, but when someone whiffs badly and laughter ripples through them, it’s of a carefree sort I haven’t heard in a long time.
I take about two hundred pictures. The way they move, the determination, the passes, the wind-up, the shot… it’s all very compelling.
And then the idea strikes.
Every year, the Firebirds put out a calendar. It has all of the next year”s games annotated, which is handy and all, but the selling point is the pictures of the players. Normally, the team’s superstars are posed with their sticks, their equipment. But I want to go next-level. I want to go on the ice, take the action shots.
That’s not exactly ground-breaking. But maybe my spin on it will be: instead of showing all the glitz and the glam of the National Hockey League, I want to take the guys back to their roots. Back to when they were just like these kids—smacking a rubber ball into an empty oil drum and dreaming of the day they’d become stars.
I wonder what Weston was like then. Cocky as he is now, I’m sure. I wonder if he was handsome as a teen or if he grew into it. If he was lonely or popular. If he was shy or proud. It makes me wonder what happened along the way that hardened him so much, to the point where, even when I could taste his kiss on my lips in the heated intensity of that laundry room, all it did was make him bare his fangs.
I take some more of the kinds of shots of the kids that I want to emulate with the Firebirds so I can decide how best to proceed and which angles I need to get the shots I want. When I have an adequate number of shots, I pull out my phone to text Michelle and Danni and ask if they can go for lunch. This idea isn’t going to wait until Monday.
We meet at a diner downtown. I arrive first and wait for a booth to empty.
Michelle arrives next and it takes everything I have not to blurt out my idea. But I don’t want to repeat it twice, so I wait, twirling the straw in my tea and trying not to wriggle in place too much.
Danni finally arrives and orders and I wait until the waitress is gone to speak. “Alright. So my idea for the calendar this year is to go old school.”
“Use the retro uniforms?” Danni looks at Michelle and they each shrug. “Okay. It’s been a few years since we did that. Should be fine.”
“No, I mean, farther back. To when they were kids and played hockey in the street, at the local parks, when they were just the guys who had to roll their goals out of the way so a car could pass.”
I can see the shots I want to take in my head. I’m prepared for a hard sell to convince them my idea is pure gold, but I pause and let them think on it before I start to apply pressure.
I don’t have to wait long—Danni lights up instantly. “I love it. ‘Love’ is not a strong enough word for how much I love it.”
“Me, too!” Michelle claps her hands excitedly.
I’m beaming. “And we can do a side-by-side. Like a before and after. Back to the roots, then now, on the ice, with all the glitz and the glam.”
“They have an afternoon game tomorrow, but then Monday is an off day. We could try to schedule it for then. Can you be ready?”
“I’ll be ready,” I promise. “But will they?”
I’m thinking of one potential squeaky wheel in particular.
Michelle checks the calendar on her smart watch. “They have a late skate tonight because of the day game tomorrow, so we could go talk to them at the arena after practice.”
We work out the details. I have so many ideas and they all come tumbling out during our meeting, so many that we’re scribbling them on napkins now. I’ve never been so excited about a job until this one. It feels good to be in my element.
By the time we get to the arena, I’m vibrating with energy and excitement. I can’t wait to get started.
After their practice, Coach Hud has the players assemble in their conference room. It isn’t much more than a whiteboard and some folding chairs from which they watch game tape, but there are twenty-three guys waiting to hear what we have to say.
Michelle starts our makeshift presentation and tells them about the calendars and then it all shifts to me.
I clear my throat, suddenly nervous, as I step up in front of them. “This year, instead of only using the posed photos from the player photo shoot, I want to incorporate some candid stuff. A back-to-our-roots, street hockey kind of thing. I’ve found the perfect park, even a street where we can set up. I want you guys to take it back to how you first learned the game, all the skinned knees and makeshift goals and?—”
“They don’t pay to watch us play street hockey.”
Goddammit. I should’ve known he’d ruin this.
I swallow again. Picking a fight with Weston is nothing new. But doing it in front of all these guys is a little more exposure than I’m used to. “Well, that’s because they’ve never seen it. But that’s not even the point. The point to this is, that you guys all started somewhere. You are the guys that kids out there dream of being. Show them what it takes to get here.”
“I’m not going to be a poser just for you to put a cutesy little calendar together.”
Danni chimes in with a subtle wince on my behalf. “The more personal we make it, the more you connect with the crowd. And connection promotes ticket sales, which is what we’re all after, here.”
“I’m after a Cup. Not a fucking photo shoot. Count me out.” Then he storms out of the room without so much as a backwards glance.
I’m left standing there with my cheeks burning in shame. Decker comes up and pats me on the shoulder. “I’ll talk to him, don’t worry. It’s a good idea; everyone’s just tired from a hard practice. Let’s revisit this on Monday.”
He gives me one more nod before he departs. Most of the rest of the team dissipates in his wake.
Orion comes waltzing up with an apologetic smile. “Ignore the grump. You did a nice job, Renee. I love this idea.” He grins. “I grew up playing street hockey ‘til the lamps went out. I would’ve loved something like this, knowing that the guys in the big leagues did the exact same thing.”
“Well,” I say, grateful for his kindness, “you’re a star now.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “A star? I wouldn’t go that far. Weston is a star. I’m just… support staff.”
“Character off the ice counts as much as production on it,” I tell him. “Maybe more, in my eyes.”
Orion smiles. “I see our friendship still survives despite the Big Bad Wolf looming in the—Ah. Hey, West. I’ll just be going.”
I know without having to turn around that Weston is standing just behind me. I can feel the heat of his body seeping into mine.
“See you around, Renee.” Orion sighs and shakes his head as he walks away.
“You’re an asshole,” I tell Weston as I wheel to face him. His hair is still wet from his after-practice shower, and he smells fresh and clean and delicious. I have a quick memory flash to the laundry room and a bolt of heat flashes between my legs before I scrub it from my mind, no pun intended.
“How original. Did you come up with that vicious zinger all by yourself?”
“I don’t have to be original to tell the truth.” I try to storm away, but he puts a hand on my shoulder to pin me in place.
“I don’t like the idea.”
“I don’t care what you like. Be a part of it or not. It isn’t me you’re letting down; it’s your fans.” I knock his hand off of me, then resume my march to the exit. “So whatever. Be there or not. If not, you won’t be missed.”
Not my most biting parting shot, but I don’t care. He has his own choices to make.
I walk away and out of the conference room. I’m finished here and it’s actually a day off, so I want to zip straight home. But before I make it to the parking lot, Michelle and Danni corner me.
“What happened with Weston?” Michelle asks in concern.
“He was just telling me what a stupid idea it is. Which, whatever. I don’t care what he says.”
That’s a lie—I do care. I just don’t want to.
I wish I could shut this shit down. All of it. All the thoughts of him and his freshly showered, clean-scented body. Of how his lips felt brushing against my inner thigh.
But it lingers. All of it.
Danni giggles. “I think he has the hots for you.”
“‘The hots’? Are we in tenth grade?” I pretend to laugh, but in truth, my skin is on fire.
“Girl, if you could’ve seen his face when he saw you talking to Orion… he was green. Literally. Either he was going to steal all the Christmas presents from Whoville or he was jealous as hell. My money is on the latter.”