I shrug.
A woman moves up beside Cookie and touches his arm. “Excuse me. Are you Owen Cooke?”
He turns. “Yeah.”
“I thought so!” She holds up her phone with an excited smile. “Could I get a picture with you?”
“Sure.” Cookie smiles too and moves beside her so she can snap the selfie. “How about my friends here?”
Thanks, bro.
“Oh, wow, that would be great.” Her gaze lands on me. “Oh hey, you’re Easton Millar! The new guy.”
I grin. “Yep.” Even though I joined the team last season, I’m still “the new guy.”
“My girlfriends are all crazy about you!” she says breathlessly, then gives a self-conscious laugh.
I catch Cookie’s gagging mime behind the girl’s back.
“I’ll take the picture,” the bartender offers.
She hands her phone over and we all arrange ourselves behind her, since she’s about a foot shorter than us. After a few clicks, the bartender returns her phone.
She peers down at it. “Oh, thank you! These are great! My friends will be so jealous!”
We’re all used to this. Again, the fans are the reason we play. I used to get annoyed and impatient, especially when people asked me stupid questions about my past, which I do not want to talk about. But I’m doing better now, and most people have forgotten or don’t even know about what happened to me.
“Okay, I’ve got a question,” JBo announces once we’re done with the photo shoot.
“What?”
“Have you guys ever used a condom for oral?”
I blink. “Not what I was expecting. I, uh, have not.”
The others are all in agreement.
“Why?” Wendy asks. “You got an infection? Cold sore?”
“No!” JBo frowns. “I was just curious. Okay, this chick I was with last weekend asked me to. I’d never done it before.”
“Well, apparently you can get STIs from oral sex,” I say. “So it’s probably a good idea.”
“Then why don’t we do it?” Jammer asks wryly.
“Because we’re idiots?” I shrug.
“Yeah. Could be.”
“It’s kind of a mood killer, no?” Wendy says.
“I had to cut up a condom and use it like a dental dam,” JBo informs us. “I mean, it was good that I had the right kind. Ones with lube might be kind of nasty tasting.”
“Lots of flavors out there,” I point out.
“Okay, do you use one when women go down on you?” Jammer asks.
Again, we all answer in the negative.
“Risky,” he says, shaking his head.
“True. Something to think about.”
“Women are way more concerned about it,” JBo says. “They always want you to use a condom.”
“Obviously,” I say. “The consequences of getting pregnant are way worse for them.”
“I know, I know. And I do use one.”
“Same. Don’t be a fool, wrap your tool.”
They all laugh.
“They’re only a buck, get one before you fuck,” Wendy adds, to more laughter.
Tension eases out of me now we’ve turned the conversation away from shop talk. Hockey’s our passion, but everyone needs a break from their job sometimes.
Cookie and I take the subway home. We live in the same building, as do a couple of other guys who play for the team. Cookie was the one who recommended the building to me when I moved here. It’s nice, not super expensive, which is hard to find in New York, and it’s a great location—easy subway ride to and from the arena, and quick access to 9A to get to our practice facility.
We walk into the lobby of our building and head to the elevator. There’s a woman already there, waiting, with a pup on a leash. He’s bounding around, clearly a puppy, one of those so-ugly-he’s-cute kinds. Some kind of bulldog mix, maybe? Sad-looking eyes and mouth, black with a white patch on his chest, and big ears sticking up.
The elevator arrives and the woman steps inside, tugging the leash. But the pup doesn’t follow her; he’s more interested in us. We try to move forward so he’ll follow his owner, but he goes up on his back legs, pulling on his leash, tongue hanging out of his mouth. He’s hilarious.
Then the elevator doors slide shut.
The woman is inside. The dog is outside.
For a moment, everyone is stunned into silence. I wait for the doors to open again, and when they don’t, I leap forward and punch the button, hoping to stop the elevator. It doesn’t work. I punch it six more times. Then the woman in the elevator starts screaming. She’s still holding the leash and the dog is still attached to it, and the elevator is going up.
Jesus Christ.
“Fuck!” I dash forward and grab the leash. It’s pulling tight. I need to get it off the dog. “Fuck!”
I’m not even thinking, just reacting. All I know is I have to save this dog.
“Shhh. Calm down,” I order him. “It’s okay, it’s okay.”
It’s getting tighter.
Cookie leaps forward to grab the leash too, trying to hold it as it strains.
My fingers close around the clip. I can’t see what I’m doing, only feel, and I use my thumb to flick it open then wrangle it off. The dog is in my arms now, crying, and as he’s freed, I stumble back.
“Holy shit,” Cookie says, looking on in horror, eyes wide. “That was close.”
My legs suddenly feel like rubber bands and I sink down onto the floor on my ass, the dog on my lap. He’s now frantically licking my face and wriggling around. I stroke his back and try to dodge his tongue. “It’s okay, dude. You’re okay. I got you.”
The elevator returns to the ground floor and opens. The woman bursts out and stops short when she sees me.
“He’s okay,” I say. “See?”
She’s crying, her face wet and red. She appears to be in her thirties, with shoulder-length brown hair, wearing jeans and a jacket. “Oh my God!” She presses her hands to her face. “I was so scared. Oh my God.”
Her eyes go glassy and she doesn’t look so good. Cookie moves over to her to take her arm. “Maybe you should sit down.”