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Gigi coughs into her hand. “Yeah, not going to happen,” she replies, and I smirk at her when Beck’s not looking.
“Seriously, why not?” he insists. “Now that you’ve decided not to ride the Dunne train—”
“Don’t refer to yourself as that,” she orders.
“—this guy’s the next best thing. Plus you’d have good-looking children.” Beckett pauses in thought. “Colson would shit a brick, though, so… Probably a good call not to drink from that well.”
He wanders into the men’s locker room, oblivious to Gigi’s troubled face.
“Does he know?” she hisses when he’s gone.
“I don’t think so. It’s just Beckett being Beckett,” I assure her.
“Whatever. I’m going to change.”
I do the same, changing into a pair of swim trunks while devouring my apple in five bites. I toss the core into the trash can, then slide my feet into flip-flops and head for the tub room. I’m all about cold-water immersion therapy, although it’s not for the fainthearted. The first time you sink into the chilled water, you almost stop breathing. But eventually you build up a tolerance for it. They’re still not pleasant, but a short ice bath works miracles on aching postgame muscles and speeds up recovery times.
Gigi’s already in the therapy room, wearing a one-piece black Speedo that’s modest and shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. The way my body reacts, you’d think she was naked.
Approval flares in her gray eyes as they sweep over my bare chest. But when I turn to set my sports drink on the ledge across the room, she gasps.
“What?” I glance over my shoulder and realize her attention is on my bruise. “Yeah, it’s not great,” I agree.
She sips her water before setting down her own bottle down.
“How does fifteen minutes sound?” I suggest, drifting toward the timer at the door. “I know you’d prefer an hour, but I think fifteen is a solid start.”
“Good call.” Her voice is distracted.
I turn to see her fussing with her phone and a small external speaker.
“Just setting up my playlist,” she tells me.
Dread rises inside me. “No,” I say instantly.
“Yes,” she confirms with a broad smile. “Horizons. Trust me, it’s the best thing to listen to when you’re shivering your ass off in that tub.”
“I don’t trust you and I believe that to be a lie.”
“I’ve narrowed it down to two tracks. I’ll even be nice and let you choose. What’ll it be? The African bushveld or the reeds of North Carolina?”
“I fucking hate North Carolina.”
“Africa, it is.”
A moment later, we’re both sliding into our respective cold tubs. Gigi lets out a shriek of despair the moment her body is submerged.
“Confession,” she wheezes out.
I look over in amusement, resting my arms on the edges of the tub.
“As much as I like to brag about my cold-water proficiency, I hate ice baths with the chill of a thousand glaciers.”
I wholly agree. But the things that make you great don’t always feel great.
“In my early twenties, the African bushveld came calling. She welcomed me on a provocative journey, promising an unfiltered feast for my ears. Even now, decades later, I have never forgotten her raw, distinctive chorus.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “Why.”
“…I remember the trumpeting of an elephant mother, calling to her calf across the savanna. The relentless buzz of the African cicada as I smoked my pipe around the campfire. That night I learned that the hadeda ibis gets its name from the very sound it makes. The haa-haahaa-de-dah…so penetrating and distinct. Making it one of the rare birds to earn itself an onomatopoetic name. I cannot begin to describe the unforgettable symphony I discovered in the African bush. And now…let me take you there.”
We sit there for several silent seconds, the African bush serving as the backdrop for our cold therapy.
“Why do you hate North Carolina?” Gigi finally asks, curious.
I shrug. “I got stranded there once.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nah.”
She laughs. “Man, you really hate talking.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“Sweetie. That wasn’t a compliment. You know who else doesn’t talk? Serial killers.”
“I disagree… Seems like a lot of those crazy fuckers love to hear themselves talk.”
The water laps the sides of the tub as she sinks lower. Her face is pained. Pale from the cold. “Did you see my dad’s show last night?”
I flick her a dark look. “Yes.”
“What’s with the grumpy face? He complimented you.”
“He did not.”
“He said you were effective and praised your stickhandling.”
“No, that was Jake Connelly. Your dad looked like he was holding his nose and forcing himself to go along with it.”
“I promise you, if Jake thinks you’re good, my dad thinks it too. You just need to find a way to make him overlook what happened at Worlds. He has a thing about fighting.” She quiets for a moment. “I don’t know how much you know about his past, but one of the reasons his foundation works with so many domestic abuse charities is because he was a victim of it.”
