“Nothing is up with her,” I growl. “We grew up together. I’m best friends with her brother, so we’re close too. That’s it.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister, Grady—” Wes mutters through clenched teeth, attempting to cut through the end of the tape. Unfortunately, he’s missing a critical incisor, and it’s my fault. During the playoffs last year, he was setting up for a pass in front of the net, and I blasted it from the blue line and accidentally lifted it right into his jaw.
I scoff. “I wasn’t referring to Grady.”
“Hey, ass. I don’t see Gus dragging your ass across Boston.” Fully dressed, Grady leans angrily against his locker. Hecouldleave us and meet the rest of the team on the ice, but I know he won’t. He’s staying to make sure I get out there at a reasonable time because, fair or not, Grady will somehow get chewed out about it, too.
I slump down on the bench to latch on my shin pads and pull up my socks. The pressure in my temple softens a fraction from sitting and I sigh through the relief. “More like policing me.”
“I used to be fun, you know.” Grady shakes a finger in my face.
“I remember.” A ghost of a smile on my lips. “No one is stopping you from sliding into walls in your underpants. I don’t know why you’re complaining.”
Grady groans, stretching his shoulder. The rotator cuff he tore cowboying in the Olympics still haunts him. He doesn’t have to say he regrets it out loud. I can see it on his face every time he spends the day after a game with an ice pack wrapped around his shoulder. His injury didn’t heal correctly and has severely reduced the power behind his slapshot.
Unfortunately, this means Grady’s a viable fourth-line option with a first-line salary, making him a target for Sports Radio fodder. The current rumor is that the only reason he’s on the team is because I’m a diva and need him to function. The rumor is bullshit. I’m the furthest thing from a diva. Still, I don’t know how Grady feels about it.
“It’s probably better I didn’t,” Grady says. “Besides, someone has to keep you from hurting yourself. Hell if Aulie is going to want to take care of your prima donna ass again. I can’t imagine how terrible that must have been for her.”
“You know, that’s the one thing I still can’t puzzle out about this situation.” Coop stands, wearing a tepid smirk, like he’s aware it’s dangerous to poke the bear, but he can’t help himself. “I don’t think the first person I’d ask to stay with me through all that would be my best friend’s little sister, you know?”
I swallow. Coop is digging way too close to the truth for my comfort. I asked Aulie to stay with me this summer because when I was at the lowest point in my life, she was the only person I wanted near me. Even if it was complete and total torture in so many ways. The hit Alex Piotrowski put on me in the Finals stole my best chance at the cup. The one dream I’ve had since my dad passed when I was seventeen. For a moment, I feared he’d taken my chance at playing hockey ever again, too.
“She was just saving me from a summer of my mother and sisters smothering me.”
“Can I have her number?” Wes asks, beating the butt end of his stick into the floor.
“What? No, you can’t have her—”
“She was stunning.” Big Ed nods. His eyes move around the room like he’s sharing a secret with the other guys, and I’m not in on it. “And nice. A perfect match for Wes.”
Again, I massacre the inside of my cheek. This time to stop myself from saying something too rude and grumpy for the Party-Parker-Persona. “I’m not—”
“Honestly, Wes would be better than half the duds she’s dated,” Grady adds.
Wes cocks his head to the side. “Thank you?”
“I’m not giving her number out to anyone. So can we move off Aulie, please?” My headache surges to my frontal lobe, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I can’t pretend to blame my hangover for the pain anymore. It’s clearly from interacting with these pains in the asses.
“How’s the leg doing?” Wes gestures to my knee with his newly taped stick.
The MCL tear in my knee and my dislocated shoulder from Piotrowski’s cheap hit have healed, but hell. It required an enormous amount of dedication and rehab on my part to get there.
Piotrowski should have gotten a major penalty and ejection for that hit.
He didn’t.
We should have won the game.
We didn’t.
We were up three games to two in a best-of-seven series before that game.
We lost the next game without me, too.
“The leg is fine.” I wave off his concerns.
