I think back to the last conversation I had with my agent, the one in which Fred assured me he could get me traded to the Portland Badgers without breaking a sweat. They’re on my approved trade list, I have friends out there, and that team knows how to work together as a team.
But fuck…my entire family is here in the New York and New Jersey area. I see my parents and sisters and brothers at least once a month for a big family dinner. I get to chase my nieces and nephews around my parents’ big backyard and am even teaching three-year-old Owen how to play hockey. If I move clear across the country, I might only see them once or twice a year. I won’t be there to hold the babies after they’re born or to help my dad hang the Christmas lights without breaking his neck.
And I won’t be in the city I love best.
I’ve travelled the world and explored dozens of big cities other people seem to love, but for me none of them can hold a candle to New York. This city feels like it’s full of crazy people sometimes, but it’s also so…alive. New York has a pulsing, aching, determined, fiercely beating heart at the center of it. This city celebrates together and grieves together. It’s a place that’s always changing but still somehow always the same. And I love that.
In my more optimistic moments, I imagine taking my own son or daughter to the places my parents took us when we were kids. To the playgrounds in Central Park in the summer, where we ran wild through the water features and played King of the Hill on the giant rocks. To the Zoo and the museums and to ride the ferry around the Statue of Liberty and bikes on Governor’s Island.
In my less optimistic moments, I realize I might never be a dad. Most women want marriage before kids and considering what a shit job I’m doing of “parenting” this team…
Well, maybe I wouldn’t be such a great father after all.
“Is it too early for a drink?” Braxton asks as he skates up beside me, watching our assistant coach pull Sven and Pete apart.
“It’s Monday,” I say with a sigh.
“Well, fuck,” he curses dryly.
The entire team signed a “sobriety pledge” for the duration of our team-building camp. Management made it clear they don’t care if we have a drink or two on the weekends, but they expect us to be sharp, sober, and well-rested Monday through Friday.
“Do you think this team is cursed?” he asks. “I thought the new guys were supposed to ‘change the chemistry’ and make everything all better. But so far… I think they’re only making things worse.”
“I don’t know,” I say, hating the heavy, doomed feeling dragging at my stomach, making it feel like the wrap I had for lunch weighs a thousand pounds. “But something’s gotta give.”
“Yeah.” He shrugs. “Maybe we’ll have a breakthrough during group therapy.” He snorts. “Or I’ll color a really pretty picture this afternoon and everything will magically be okay.”
I shoot him a hard look. “We’re taking that seriously from now on. I promised Evie we would. It’s disrespectful not to try as hard in those sessions as we try out here. If we really want this team to change, we need to give it everything we’ve got.”
Braxton grunts. “All right, man. But half the team saw her drunk and disorderly at the bar last Friday.” He exhales a soft huff of laughter. “You know they’re going to give her shit about it. That’s what they do. She’ll have to prove she can take the heat or…”
He trails off with a shrug, but that’s fine. I don’t need him to fill in the blank.
As team captain I know these guys better than anyone and even the good-natured among them live to fuck with each other. It’s the way they show affection, the way they bond. I’m guessing most of them won’t mean to embarrass Evie, or make her feel bad with their teasing, but that’s likely to be the result.
Evie’s just so…Evie. So sweet and innocent and earnest.
But if they make her run from the art room in tears, I may have to pound a few faces myself.
Hell, maybe I should open a can of whoop ass on the lot of them. Maybe seeing their usually calm, cool, and level-headed captain foaming at the mouth and throwing punches will deliver a message—everyone has a limit to the amount of bullshit they’ll tolerate and half the men on this team are pushing mine.
Once Coach Vera finally has Pete under control in one penalty box and Sven parked in the one on the opposite side of the rink, we return to our scrimmage, but none of our hearts are in it. Practice this morning was plagued by low energy from the guys who didn’t take the “well-rested” mandate seriously, anxiety from our two injured players trying to get back on the ice, and bad attitudes from the rest.
Group therapy before lunch only exacerbated the problem, leading to Russian Sven throwing his sandwich across the room in response to a joke about his twin sister, Anya, who is nearly Sven’s size, and which one of them would win in a fight.
And now the afternoon scrimmage is proving to be just as much of a wash.
To say my expectations are low as I shower and change into street clothes for art therapy, is an understatement.
I’m dreading the next ninety minutes and not sure how much support I’ll be able to give Evie. Sure, I’m the captain, and most of these men like me as much as they like anyone, but the bad energy is thick in the air today. The team is tired, pissed off, frustrated, and looking to take it out on a vulnerable target.
And I can’t imagine a more vulnerable target than Evie.
I toss my things into my bag and hustle to the new “art room” as fast as I can, but by the time I arrive, several of the other players are already there.
Already there and settled peacefully into their seats, drawing with a focus that is frankly…shocking.
Before I can shoot a raised eyebrow Evie’s way to silently enquire as to what magic she’s worked on these cranky bastards, she pipes up from the corner of the room behind me, “Hey there, Ian, Pete, your materials are waiting on the tables, under the postcard with your name on it. I decided against the clay project. I think this exercise will be more beneficial for where you are as a team.”
I spin toward her voice and suddenly lose the ability to hear.
I know she’s still speaking—I can see her glossy pink lips moving—but I can’t make sense of anything she’s saying.
I’m too thrown by her sex siren of a transformation.
Chapter 10
Ian
Whoa. And…wow.
Evie hardly looks like the same person.
Gone are the grungy overalls and oversized t-shirts she usually wears underneath. Instead, she’s wearing a pair of tight black jeans that cling to her curvy thighs, leather boots with a small heel, and a fluttery green sleeveless blouse that emphasizes the bright green of her eyes.
Or maybe that’s the eyeliner doing that…
Evie’s wearing makeup—not a lot—but the effect is knock-your-socks-off stunning. She looks like…
Like…
“Spit spot, boys,” she says, shooing me and Pete—who is also standing stock-still beside me with his jaw dropped—toward the tables. “The faster you finish your first assignment, the faster you get donuts.”