I drop my gaze, unable to look either of my friends in the eye as guilt once again washes over me. I worry the bottom of the jersey, lifting it from where it hangs mid-thigh. Are things getting serious with Jase? And what the hell am I supposed to do if they are?
Chapter Fifteen
“Bring The Storm” by Birds of Prey blares through the locker room while I use a roll of rainbow tape—affectionately dubbed Sammycorn tape by the BTU Titans—to secure my uniform socks.
“Bro…” Cali backhands my bare shoulder. “Why don’t you ever put that shit on silent?”
Yoshi!
Yoshi!
My phone is blowing up with text notifications like Mario can’t decide if he wants to stay on his dinosaur sidekick. And yes, my text alert tone is from Super Mario Bros. You already know how seriously we take our Mario Kart, and the little green dude is always my avatar when we play.
“Sorry.” I flick it to silent and pull up my messages.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: Bro…you are soooooo screwed.
THE KRAKEN (Gage): I thought we had an understanding. You DO NOT piss off pregnant women. You wanna risk your life and mess with your sister, go for it. But, for THE LOVE OF GOD, can you refrain from getting your bestie (and I hate you BTW for making me have to use the word bestie…add BTW to the list too) all pissy. She lives with me. I’M the one who takes the brunt of the **whispers** hormones.
THE BIG HAMMER: Vin, you are failing at this best friend game. Doesn’t bro code dictate that you’re supposed to help keep the girls off my back?
THE BIG HAMMER: And, Gage, man, what can I say? YOU were the one who asked Balboa to marry you. Her living with you kinda comes with the territory.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: You mean the same way you kept them off my back when YOU told me I needed to bend the knee with The Coven?
THE KRAKEN: *middle finger emoji*
THE BIG HAMMER: Ummm…I’m pretty sure my advice is one of the main reasons your way-too-good-for-you girlfriend is ACTUALLY your girlfriend.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: *see Gage’s previous text*
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: Also…there’s this.
DAUNTLESS SUPERMAN: *picture of all eight Covenettes huddled together*
“Shit.”
Fuck me.
“They’re all here?” Cali unabashedly looks over my shoulder, eavesdropping. Although, is it eavesdropping if it’s a text?
“It would appear so.”
“By your tone, I’m going to say this wasn’t planned?”
“Nope.”
“Harrison!” Cali bellows, summoning the third member of our standard trio.
“What’s up, Cali?”
“Hope you didn’t have plans tonight. Covenettes in the hiz-ouse.”
I roll my eyes. It comes as no surprise that Cali with his over-the-top personality is one of my teammates I’m closest with.
“Which ones?” Harrison plops down on the bench next to me.
“All of them.” The glee in Cali’s voice has me rolling my eyes again.
“What did you do?” Harrison’s eyes are wide as they look down at where I’m lacing up my skates.
“Nothing,” I reply through clenched teeth.
“Bull.” Harrison eyes me, having plenty of experience with The Coven himself. “You must have done something to warrant an unplanned gathering.”
Cali snorts, and my elbow connects with his side, eliciting a grunt of pain. Serves you right, asshole.
“Come on, Donnelly. Fess up,” Harrison prods.
“Who says it’s unplanned?”
Now Harrison snorts. “The fact that the three of us”—he waves a finger between him, Cali, and me—“would have had plans for after the game.”
Damn him for being right.
“I think it has to do with our boy here’s girlfriend,” Cali practically sings like he’s Gene Kelly in the rain. Yes, I’ve been brushing up on my musical knowledge.
“Girlfriend? Since when do you have a gir—” Harrison slaps his thighs, joining Cali’s laughter as realization hits. “Holy shit. You finally made a move on the actress?”
“Making a move was never his problem. It was getting her to say yes that was the issue.” Cali is all too happy to clarify.
Ignoring them, I pull my chest protector over my head, followed by my black and gray home jersey. I won’t bother with my helmet until game time, so all that’s left to do is slip on my good luck charm—one of JD’s hair ties.
Don’t judge me. We all have them.
Ooo, story time. **rubs hands together** I love story time.
There’s the aforementioned Sammycorn tape, which became a thing after Ryan scored a hat trick wearing it after a lost bet to Sammy. Any of the Titans who have gone pro like us still use it because our college team went on a fifteen-game winning streak going into our second Frozen Four victory.
Even our two guys who switched to fighting after college tape a piece in their shorts when they have a match. We take it very seriously.
Tucker ties a pair of laces from when his high school team won State to his skates, and Jake always kisses my sister—and nieces since their birth—through the glass before a game.
If that’s not enough proof I’m not the only one with a quirk, Vince always needs Rocky to be the one to wrap his hands before a fight. Dude almost completely lost his shit before his fight a few weeks ago, but that’s a story for another time.
Back to me.
So yeah, my only thing is I wear a hair tie of my sister’s on my wrist, have since we were twelve and I had the best game of my hockey career because she had asked me to grab her one and I forgot to give it to her.
But as I slip the black elastic over my hand, it snaps. Shit. Reaching into my bag for a different one, I come up empty.
Now what do I do?
Intellectually, I know it doesn’t have an effect on how I play—hockey players have their superstitions, but at least we aren’t as bad as baseball players—but the last thing I need with Melody in attendance is a change to my routine.
Wombmate, you better have a hair tie on you.
Half an hour before puck drop, we clomp our way down the rubber pads to the rink for warm-ups.
Pre-game ritual first, new hair tie second.
After my lap around the rink, I skate over to the boards in front of my sister’s seats, knocking on the plexiglass to get her attention.
A chorus of “Jase!” “Trip!” “Dude!” Bro!” “Bestie!” comes at me as everyone greets me at once.
“JD.” I single her out. “I need your hair tie.” I gesture to my head in case she has a hard time hearing me over the noise in the arena. Without a beat, she pulls the one from her hair and slingshots it over the glass. God love her.
Pinching my glove under my armpit, I slide the tie home. “Love you,” I call out, skating backward.
I take a few shots on goal as I scan the typical section that houses family members of the Storm—there are too many of mine for them to sit there—until I find a particular shade of pink.