Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

It’s been zero days since I’ve been spared the doomsday call into Coach’s office for some infraction, penalty, or pep talk—that last one comes from me, assuring Badaszek that he didn’t make the wrong decision, putting me on the defensive line.

I’m starting to think he secretly wants to be friends rather than ream me out.

Today, when I enter the head coach’s office, overlooking our training arena with a big window on what may as well be the center of the world, he’s on the phone and signals me with the one-minute finger.

I drop into the leather upholstered office chair. As my mind begins to wander to last night’s flirtations and shenanigans, something Tommy Badaszek says to the caller draws my attention.

“Well, of course you can, but I don’t understand what that has to do with the law.”

My stomach clenches because whatever it is, I didn’t do it. Well, there was the karaoke incident, but I swear, it wasn’t indecent. However, the wedding reception in Cabo was depending on who you ask. The mile-high dare most recently was all in good fun. It involved skydiving, so get your head out of the gutter.

“It’s my job to take these things seriously and I assure you that I am,” Badaszek says in a grim tone into the phone.

I fear he’s speaking with the commissioner, and this means I’m off the team. Time to put on the charm and assure him I’m an asset to the Nebraska Knights and that whatever I do off the ice doesn’t impact my play on it.

While he continues the phone conversation, I come up with examples of guys who’ve been in way worse trouble than me and still got to wear the jersey.

Plus, it’s not like I get into real trouble. Unless you count Cecilia breaking into my condo and throwing all my worldly belongings off the balcony. Then there was Leilani, who spray-painted my Land Cruiser with a word that I won’t repeat in the coach’s office. Oh, and Arya, who wasn’t pleased I was out to dinner with Catalina when I made it clear that we weren’t exclusive. It was a big public blowout caught on camera by no less than fifteen fellow patrons and employees at the restaurant.

It wouldn’t be accurate to call me a bad boy, and I despise the connotations of the term player to refer to a guy who plays the romance field because I save that for the glorious game of hockey. My reputation is less of a merit situation that I earned and more of something that happened by accident. One that I’ve taken full advantage of, but I can’t seem to escape it or say no.

Like it or not, my nickname from the female fans is the “Frenchman.” More accurately, I’m French Canadian, but they don’t care about that detail.

“Safe travels. See you soon.” Coach pauses, then says, “I love you too, Badaszek.”

My head involuntarily shakes from side to side. I must have misheard. Tommy Badaszek loves nothing and no one other than the very game he coaches. He still wears a wedding ring, and rumors abound that his wife walked out on him because hockey came first. I’m not sure I believe that, though. Despite our “meetings,” Badaszek is an upstanding guy. He kind of reminds me of my dad.

After hanging up, Coach lets out a long breath before leveling me with his penetrating, all-knowing, paternal stare.

Anticipating what he’s going to say, I blurt, “It’s not my fault women flock to me.”

He tilts his head as if the words don’t readily compute before rubbing his temples.

“Coach, I assure you that even though I haven’t committed to a relationship, I am committed to this team.”

The man gets out of his commanding leather office chair and paces in front of the windows.

From time to time, he gets on the ice with us. There is no denying he was formidable in his day. Still is. He’s one of those people who demands respect and age has gifted him with wisdom, making him more dangerous than anyone on the rink side of the arena with our blades and sticks.

He gazes at the ceiling and mutters, “Kathleen, why was I fated to deal with adult children?”

At least, that’s what I think he says. Surreptitiously looking from side to side, then up and down, I’m not at all sure who he’s talking to.

“Arsenault. How old are you?” Badaszek asks.

“Twenty-six, sir.”

“When are you going to grow up?”

I fight the urge to look around, hoping someone has an answer, but it’s just this brute of a man and me.

“Could you please define ‘Grow up?’”

“You might say two out of three isn’t bad. Maybe she gets it from me. But instead of being a workaholic, she’s a study-a-holic. I just don’t know, Arsenault. I just don’t know.”

Confused but certain a woman got the wrong idea about me, I say, “Sir, I know I get a lot of attention from female fans, but I’ve never intentionally misled them. I don’t know if it’s my personality—Lemon says I’m charming. Savage claims I make the ladies feel like they’re the only person in the room. Powell says I’m too friendly. Redd thinks I need to take a break. Beau, well, you know how he is.”

“Beau?”

Remembering that Badaszek only refers to people by their last name, I clarify, “Beaumont Hammer, the goalie.”

Coach drops his fists onto the desk and leans forward, reminding me of a gorilla—the kind you don’t want to face off with in the jungle. “Arsenault, did it ever occur to you that not everything is about you?”

Clearing my throat, I reply, “You did call me into your office, sir.”

He remains silent, leaving me with an awkwardly long time to try to figure out why I’m here as hot sweat travels along my hairline.

Scrambling like this is a game show, and I’ll win if I figure out the right answer, a jumble of thoughts form fictional words and tumble from my mouth, “It’s true. I’ve gone through a lot of women. Kimmy, Catie, Karly, but I’ve found the one, and the shame of it is she doesn’t feel the same way, so I’ve been trying to compensate. It’s all wrong. I know. If only she felt the same way as I do. I’m sorry, Coach.”

There are two lies and one truth embedded in the rambling statement I made up on the spot.

His left eyebrow shoots up like a steeple piercing the sky.

Don’t hate me, but Badaszek lays on the heat. Being under pressure in his presence is no joke .

The first part of what I blurted is verifiable. The puck bunnies have plenty to say about me. The last two are patently false. But I am from Canada, home to Niagara Falls, so I can fall back on the “imaginary girl I met while vacationing” story for now. But this also means I may have to find someone to pose as my unrequited love.

Game on . . . because there’s no backing out now.

With an appraising look, Badaszek drops back into his office chair and drums his fingers on the desk.

Leaning forward, I add, “I assure you, nothing that goes on in my personal life affects my play on the team.”

He’s lectured me about how the Nebraska Knights are a family organization. We’re tough on the ice, but off, we keep our noses clean, our shoulders back, and give to the community.

Also, there are weekly game nights, pizza parties, and an assortment of family-friendly activities on the regular. Not all the guys are married with kids, but that’s the goal, according to Badaszek.

Personally, I think he has a master plan for us pros to spawn in order to fill the future ranks of the team, but what do I know? Apparently, not a lot because I cannot figure out what he’s thinking or his angle as his silence continues.

Resting on his elbows, Coach says, “Arsenault, I was going to ask you to be our Santa Claus at the annual party, but I think I’ll ask Hammer instead.” He wears a conniving smile I’ve never before seen.

My stomach does a roller coaster drop, flop, loop-the-loop.

Sure, he, assistant coach Vohn Brant, and the team captain figure out the plays, but right now, I can’t help but feel like a pawn. Like he’s orchestrating a strategy that’s bigger than the game played on the ice.

The quiet in the room pushes against whatever oxygen remains because I don’t think the question of me dressing up as Santa is the entire story.

My focus is typically elsewhere, hockey and women, if I’m being completely honest, so I’m not sure whether this man has kids, but I’d hate to be on the receiving end of a lecture because his long silence is brutal.

I shift uncomfortably in the chair and then brace myself for what’s sure to be coming when he purses his lips.

“Arsenault, the new year is just around the corner. It’s time to get your act together,” he says at last.

That wasn’t the hard blow I expected. “But I’m doing great on the ice.”

“Agreed. I’m talking about your reputation.”

I double down on telling him what I think he wants to hear. “As I said, I’ve been, um, there’s someone. She seemed interested, then broke things off. It’s dumb, but I’ve been trying to make her jealous.” I wring my sweaty hands because I’m lying, but it all just came out of my mouth like slush from the Zamboni.

I spotted Nolan, our ice resurfacing operator, talking to a gorgeous woman earlier who was well out of his league. And there I go. I shouldn’t be thinking about attractive females at the moment. Not during this conversation. I want to ask Badaszek why this matters. I’m on a winning streak on the ice, and my personal life should be private.

Only, it isn’t. Thanks to social media and gossip, it’s very public.

Badaszek doesn’t stare at me so much as he penetrates my ever-living soul.

Letting out a long sigh, whatever Coach transmits without words—and the get-your-act-together missive—finally sinks in, and the truth bobs to the surface.

Yeah, I’m a winning defenseman for an exceptional team and have everything I could possibly want within reach. But lately, it feels like I’m losing when it comes to real, substantial, lasting relationships. The lie I just told about there being someone special in my life is the worst of them all.

Underneath my cocky bravado and charm, I’ve had that hungry ache that comes from missing more than just a meal. This isn’t a topic for Nat, the team nutritionist.

A hunch about my emos—not to be confused with my macros—nudges me. This is hard to admit.

Even surrounded by all this success and what comes with it—a cush condo, a revolving door of women who lavish me with attention, and the high of being a key player on a popular hockey team—my cabinets and closets, drawers, and storage spaces are empty. Not to mention, I’m lacking a relationship that makes life meaningful.

And not because of Cecilia’s balcony stunt.

However, I refuse to think about the L-word because the solution to it can lead to the other L-word. Loneliness and love, respectively.

As I try to bury my thoughts down deep, the door behind me flies open, and Vohn Brandt enters, clipboard in hand. The Knights are old school and keep track of all our plays on paper that get placed in a secure vault or incinerated. The coaches don’t trust technology and fear our secrets could be hacked or transmitted to the opposing teams.

Vohn launches into a defensive overload strategy he’s been working through, then goes quiet when he sees me.

Badaszek remains silent, and I’m starting to wonder if, when you become a coach, you obtain special telepathic powers because they seem to reach some kind of agreement.

Then Vohn says, “Claus?”

“No. He’s on the naughty list.”

Vohn grunts .

With a disappointed wave of his hand, Coach says, “You’re dismissed.”

I rise to my feet. Despite the long, cold silence from Badaszek, I can’t help but feel as if I’m getting away with something. The meeting could’ve been a lot worse.

When I reach the door, the coach calls me by my last name, as he does every human on the planet. Except Kathleen, who I’m guessing was his wife.

“Arsenault, I look forward to meeting that special someone at our team Christmas party. Make it happen, or else I’m putting Penguin back in.”

I swallow thickly, assuring myself that he can’t replace me with our slackline player. He wouldn’t. This also means I’d better book a ticket to Niagara Falls and find that special someone.

In the locker room to gear up for drills practice, Micah Lemon, our center and team captain, sits on a bench with Hayden Savage, the Knight’s left winger, on his left and James Reddford, the right winger, on his right. Meanwhile, Liam, hockey royalty who calls the famed Hendrix Ellis his brother, looks on with wry interest.

The others huddle over something before Ted barks, “Let me try.”

“Your fingers are too fat,” Hayden says.

Hayden studies his hands. “Not too fat to block that deke Egerton tried to slip past you.”

As usual, our goalie, Hammer, remains quiet.

I peer over Redd’s shoulder and see they’re assembling a plastic toy with little colored pegs .

“Is this a game of how many hockey players does it take to change a lightbulb?” I ask.

“It’s a LiteBrite,” Ted explains.

“A Christmas gift for Macy,” Micah says, referring to his daughter.

“Blue has one, too,” Redd says.

It takes me a moment to piece this together. While I’m one hundred percent in when it comes to the game and the team, I’ll admit that I don’t pay too much attention to their personal lives.

Micah and his wife Meg have a daughter—maybe another one on the way. Redd came to fatherhood recently, but I can’t quite remember how. Well, I know how that works, but I think he adopted his kid sister when their father went to prison.

Guilt flicks me on the ear because I should know more about these guys’ lives. Hockey is a brotherhood. On every previous team I played for, most of the guys were more interested in exploiting their bachelorhood, myself included.

My story isn’t that I came from a broken family and am compensating due to neglect or ignorance and don’t know how to have functional relationships. Okay, I could use some coaching in that department. I’m a work in progress.

The Pierre Ardor Arsenault biography goes like this: my parents have been happily married for thirty-two years. I was born on a blueberry farm in Quebec. Life was as idyllic as they come. When I left my small town and got to college, I let loose . . . and haven’t stopped.

“The OK Thunder’s forwards are more like backward. Were they even trying?” Ted asks, pulling my attention back.

“What are you talking about? Hammer shut them out nine times,” Redd says, referring to our goalie, who’d never comment on how well he played. He’s humble to the tenth degree. Then again, Beau never says much of anything .

“They were sloppy. It’s like they showed up having forgotten they had a game.” Micah shrugs.

“Clemmons was on me the whole time. The guy is like a tractor beam,” Hayden counters.

“It was a gimme game,” I say because the Oklahoma Thunder are just that, an okay team.

The guys exchange a meaningful look. I can’t help but feel like I’m on the outside looking in.

Redd laughs. “By the way, you’re wearing the ugly Christmas sweater for the rest of the month.”

“What ugly Christmas sweater?” We have team jerseys, but some guys call them sweaters, though I’m not sure that’s what he means.

Micah pulls a red, green, and gold monstrosity from a nearby locker and sizes it against me. “Yep, it’ll fit nicely.”

My lips pucker and I point. “What is that?”

He shoves it into my hands. “It’s all yours until December twenty-sixth. Then it goes back into cold storage.”

I squint, certain I’m missing something. First, Badaszek called me into his office and gave me the silent treatment, then demanded I bring my non-existent date to the team holiday party. Fine. That was my fault.

Now, these guys are talking about a bet that I don’t remember agreeing to and somehow lost.

That’s just it. I’m totally lost.

A sinking feeling accompanies this thought because while Micah gets a gift ready for his daughter, Redd talks to his wife on the phone about dinner plans, and Hayden tells Ted about the Christmas lights cruise he’s taking Delaney on, me—the guy who never lacks a lady—doesn’t have someone real, a meaningful romance, a person to share life with.

Whatever.

At least, that’s what I’ve been telling myself .

Teddy says, “There’s Lady Luck and then there’s the Ugly Christmas Sweater.”

I snort through my nose. “Meaning it’s going to ward them off.”

Teddy waggles his eyebrows. “Some would argue the opposite.”

Now, he’s just being ridiculous.

Micah breezes through and claps his hand on my shoulder. “Pierre, this is your chance to be the man you want to be and not who the fans or puck bunnies think you are.”

My eyes bulge. Not him, too.

“Trust the sweater,” Micah says with a twinkle in his eye before leaving the locker room.

Something about that felt slightly like a bro-to-heart. Like a heart-to-heart between dudes, which is different than the usual locker room banter, but I can’t be sure of anything other than that I do not trust the ugliest sweater south of the North Pole.

Hammer groans. “Looks like I’ll be Santa.”

“Guys, I know this is my first season with the team, but what is going on?” The front line and my fellow defenseman ignores me, so I turn to Liam, who’s expression is pure grump as if passing off an explanation to our even grumpier goalie.

“Each year, Coach selects one of us to dress as Santa Claus for the Christmas party. It’s an honor and means he respects and trusts you to put on the red suit. You made the improvements he suggested. That kind of thing.”

“Where does the bet fit into this?” I ask Hammer.

His expression doesn’t change in the slightest. There’s none of the typical locker room teasing from this guy. “They wagered. You lost, meaning you have to wear the sweater of shame.”

I ball it up in my hand, ready to toss it into the corner, but then realize that also means I let the team down. That I haven’t lived up to expectations. That’s not who I want to be. Not the game I want to play.

“We’re heading to the Fish Bowl for a few rounds of darts. Everyone in?” Ted asks. Then he grins at me. “Everyone in, especially Pierre in the sweater.”

“I hear Badaszek’s daughters are home for the holidays,” Hayden says.

“That means he’s going to be in a good mood for the rest of the month,” Micah adds.

Ted chuckles. “Especially when he sees Pierre in the sweater.”

“Two of them are married,” Redd says, filling everyone in with the details about how one of them used his wife’s tea brand and handmade ceramic cups as favors at the reception.

“That means the one visiting from Los Angeles is officially the only one who’s now off-limits.” Ted levels me with a glare.

“Off limits,” they all repeat, as if I’d dare try anything with the coach’s daughter.