8. A Send-Off Gift

8

A SEND-OFF GIFT

Asher

I’m lacing up my skates in the locker room before practice Friday morning when Wesley clears his throat from the stall next to mine.

“Callahan,” he says, his tone serious.

I grab my helmet. “What’s up, Bryant?”

His dark eyes are unreadable. “We have something for your trip to Sin City.”

I’m heading to the airport right after practice, which is no secret…obviously.

From across the room, Miles chimes in as he tugs on his jersey. “We figured you could use a…getaway gift.”

Their tag-teaming is making me suspicious. “Why am I getting the feeling this is going to be like the fake tooth kit we got Hugo last year?”

I glance at the defenseman. Hugo Bergstrand is known for both his solid defending and occasional stints in the penalty box. The bearded brute just smiles. “It’s better than fake teeth.”

From across the room, Max reaches into his stall and pulls out…an erasable marker? What the hell?

“Guys, appreciate the send-off,” I say, “but Coach will have our heads if we’re late hitting the ice.” I’m antsy to get out there. If we’re tardy, he’ll make us practice longer.

“We’ll be fast, Callahan,” Max says. “Something you should be familiar with…in bed?”

I flip him the bird as he goes to the whiteboard hanging in the corner of the locker room. Technically, it’s for last-minute strategy discussions before practice. Mostly we use it to draw stick figures with dick noses because we’re mature like that.

Curious but wary, I follow Max to the DickNose board, then stop and groan as I get a look at what’s waiting for me. There are no rudimentary sketches of phallic noses—it’s a list titled Top Five Times Asher Has Said Something Cute About Maeve.

Using a hockey stick as a pointer, Wesley adopts a lawyerly voice, tapping the board. “Exhibit A. The time you mentioned her love of the night market and said we should all go there and buy her lamps and mirrors and stuff.”

I cross my arms. “Which you did because she’s fucking talented.”

“True, but not the point,” Wesley says, handing the stick to Max.

The goalie points to the next item. “The time you said how fucking cute it was that she watches time-lapse videos of people painting.”

I did say that, and I stand by it. Hell, she even got me hooked on those videos. They’re relaxing .

I gesture for them to hurry this along. Clearly, they’re not going to let up until they review the whole list, which only has four items, despite the title. I’d roast them back for their inability to count, but I want to get this over with.

Miles grabs the stick, tapping the third item on the whiteboard. “The time you wanted to check on her after a game because she’d been under the weather.”

“That’s just being nice, you fuckheads,” I say, grumbling.

Hugo claps me on the back. “Nothing to be ashamed of, man. I do that for Melissa all the time. After she stayed up late baking jersey cookies for the cart five nights in a row, I rubbed her neck when I got home after a game.” His wife is a cookie-baking and decorating maven who sells her goodies here at the arena. But instead of regaling us with tales of her cookie artistry—as he often does—he taps the board. “Back to you, Callahan.” He reads item four. “Don’t forget the time you were so excited Maeve came to a game.”

I furrow my brow. “She comes to a lot of games.”

With a satisfied grin, Max uncaps the erasable pen and adds the missing item five. She comes to a lot of games .

“How is that cute?” I ask.

He claps my shoulder. “Tone, Callahan. It’s your tone.”

I hold my hands out wide. “Well, this was a great gift. Truly.”

“I knew he’d love it. Let’s frame it for him, guys,” Hugo says, snapping a pic of the board—because of course he does. These assholes will never let me live this down.

“I’ll blow that up poster-size and hang it tonight. And listen, can’t wait to return the favor with gifts for all of you. Let’s hit the ice,” I say, turning around .

Wesley whistles loudly for attention, and I turn back. “That wasn’t your gift.”

“You found another way to give me a hard time?” I ask.

“That was the setup,” Wesley says, then reaches into his stall and tosses me—a box of condoms.

I catch it and immediately toss it back. “With friends like you…” I mutter, then head straight out to the ice for practice.

I am not going to think about the intended use of their gift. Not. At. All.

The moment practice is over, I’m the first one off the ice. Back in the locker room, I shower and change at lightning speed, avoiding my friends as best as I can when I grab my bag and go.

I don’t need their comments in my head. Because those assholes are annoyingly right. But the thing is—Maeve is awesome. That’s a fact. She’s funny, bold, and wild, and she’s faced pain no one should ever have to face. But she’s on the other side, strong and gutsy, and she’d fight off a nest of vipers for anyone she loves.

I’m one of those anyones . And I’m not stupid enough to risk losing that.

Doesn’t matter that I liked kissing her.

Doesn’t matter that I have dirty dreams about her.

Doesn’t even matter that I loved the way she looked in my clothes.

Nothing can ever come of this friendly affection I feel for her, and it’s not simply because of my friendship with her brother. I’m damaged goods when it comes to romance. I’m radioactive, and I guess I’ve accepted it as part of who I am.

Nora died when I was twenty-two, and since then, I’ve had nothing but a series of short-term relationships that never make it past the six-month mark. They’re broken-down cars sputtering, running out of gas at the end of a deserted highway with nowhere to go.

Somewhere inside my heart, there’s an expiration date for some damn reason. Even if I tried with Maeve, we’d inevitably end. And no fucking way am I risking losing her. She means too much to me and so does her brother.

In the back of the Lyft headed to the airport, I power through some emails from Soraya, the executive Beckett and I hired to run day-to-day operations for Total Teamwork. She’s an Iranian-born former competitive ice skater who grew up in Portland, and she’s experienced firsthand the benefits of what we’re trying to build.

Total Teamwork focuses on underprivileged kids. It’s about sports and support. The clinics and camps we’re launching will have counselors available and offer peer support through group sessions. Our goal? To teach kids that problems are best solved together.

We have a ton of events planned for the project’s kickoff, so Soraya is checking with me on details. Am I ready for the board meeting next week? Then, we’ll focus on the launch picnic after that and then the glow-in-the-dark fun run.

I fire off responses to her emails, but then, when the car nears the exit for San Bruno Avenue, a message pops up from one of my dads and then the other.

Carlos: Is Vegas tonight? Beware the blackjack tables. You know your track record.

John: And the house always wins. So try not to lose your shirt.

My jaw drops at the suggestion I’m bad at gambling.

Asher: I believe you sent your message to the wrong person.

John: Nope. I meant it for you.

Asher: Mean!

Carlos: Mean and honest. A winning combo.

Asher: And you’re giving me a hard time, too? Great. Just great.

John: Someone has to keep you humble. It’s a parent’s job.

Asher: And you two excel at that. I’ll have you know I am as awesome at blackjack as I am at managing a baseball team.

Carlos: You don’t manage a baseball team.

Asher: Yet. I don’t yet.

John: Right. And someday, I’ll be good at pickleball.

I grin at their banter, but seeing Carlos’s name reminds me of something I wanted to tell him. It’s too much for a text, so I hit dial.

He answers quickly with a curious, “Hey, what’s going on?”

“Good news. Just wanted to let you know I looked into that elbow pain J-Dad was having,” I say, turning toward the window.

There’s a pause, and then he says, “Oh, you did?”

“Yeah. Remember after my game last week, his arm was kind of sore?”

“Sure,” he says, sounding tentative.

“I checked online, and I don’t think it’s radiculopathy, where one of the nerve roots is irritated. There would be tingling and numbness in the arm if it was. More likely, it’s just regular muscle pain.” Passing that on rekindles the relief I felt that weekend after looking up arm pain symptoms and their probable causes.

Carlos answers, “I wasn’t really worried.” His tone is just shy of paternalistic, but he is a dad.

“Oh good.”

“We’ve been playing pickleball. So it was probably that,” he adds.

“Good, good. Just wanted to be sure.” The car is nearing the terminal. “Carry on with the pickleball.”

He laughs lightly, pauses, then says, “We will. And…thanks, kid.”

“Anytime.”

When I hang up, I switch over to my camera app and hit record, still in the Lyft’s back seat.

“If you don’t hear from me, assume I won big at the tables and bought a baseball team, proving you both wrong. But I’m not as mean as you two, so I’ll get you good seats to all the games.” I pause and lower my voice in case the driver’s listening in. “Love you two.”

I hit end, watch it, then roll my eyes. Fuck, that’s cheesy, but it’s on brand for us—full of sarcasm and love. And, really, you should tell the people in your life that you love them.

Because you never know.