Bree shook her head quickly. “It’s fine. It’s fine! Just the same thing. The guy just wanted more than I was willing to give. Again.”
“He’s done that before?”
“No!” Bree looked around, realizing belatedly how loud her answer had been. “Oh my gosh, Trista. It’s just what always happens. I’ve only gone out with him once. I only go out with any of them once.”
“That can’t be true.”
“I promise you it is.” She craned her neck and sighed heavily, something she would never have done on this particular topic with her brother. “I know there are good guys in the area; I’ve met them. They’re all married or serious enough to be. So why do I only attract the ones that look nice but are just a waste of time?”
“Welcome to the question of most of the actresses I know, babe.”
Bree rolled her eyes as she crossed the street to her complex. “Great. Living up the Hollywood life over here in St. Louis. I don’t even know why I bother.”
“I’m sorry, Bree. It’s just not fair.”
“I wasn’t aware that dating was in the court of fair play,” Bree mused. “More of a kill-or-be-killed game, isn’t it?”
Trista snorted a soft laugh. “Careful, Bree. Your inner cynic is showing.”
“I might just let her roam free for a while. Forget about dating and guys and whatever else, and just focus on school. I need to find an internship for next semester, and that might not be local anyway. A relationship now would just get in the way.”
“Hmm. Convincing me or yourself?”
Reaching for the keys in the front pocket of her backpack, Bree coughed a humorless laugh. “Stating. Emphatically. Not doing it, officially.”
“Okay. I’ll put an ad in the paper.”
“Nobody reads the paper anymore, Trista. Are you looking over a script for a period piece or something?”
“I might be. You home now?”
Bree pushed open the front door, which emitted a loud squeal of emphasis. “Just walked in.”
“’Kay. Let me know when you have a long weekend. We need a spa retreat. You’re letting your hair go, and I miss the highlights and lowlights.”
“I don’t miss the maintenance of the color,” Bree retorted as she dropped her bag on the floor and waved at Penny, who sat on the couch with a pint of ice cream and a textbook. “But I’ll take the retreat.”
“Love you, sis.”
Bree paused in her just-got-home routine for a fond smile. “Love you too, Tris. Bye.”
Setting the phone down on the kitchen table, Bree sank into the nearest chair with a heavy exhale.
“That sounded serious,” Penny announced. “Care to share?”
Bree waved a tired hand. “Just swearing off dating and men. Tired of the trouble.”
Penny raised her pint in solidarity. “Preach, girl. There’s another pint in the freezer. Grab it and dig in. I’ve got five more pages, and then I’m putting on a movie. You game?”
After the conversations she’d just had, that sounded amazing.
“I’m in,” she replied, moving to the freezer. “Except my brother’s got a charity game later, and I really should watch. I mean, he sent me the livestream link specifically so I could watch him.”
“Fine by me.” Penny grinned widely. “I’ve got a thing for Benj Miller. Hook a sister up?”
Bree laughed in surprise before heading over to the couch. “Actually, I might have an in there . . . ”
“Get off the boards! Get off the boards!”
Clint struggled hard against the monster of a teammate currently smothering him into the plexiglass, panting harder than he should have been with the exertion of it. But Moose wasn’t budging, so Clint did the only thing he could. Peeking in the only direction he could towards an open member of his current squad, he kicked the puck in his direction, which was instantly scooped up and sent in the direction of the goal.
Moose grunted and shoved off of Clint to go thundering towards the play while Clint struggled to find his lungs, currently caught between three or four ribs. But he couldn’t show that, couldn’t reveal any sign of weakness.
Two weeks with his team, and he was dying.
“Nice save, Fido!” someone called from the bench.
Clint wasn’t sure if that was sincere or sarcastic, and he wasn’t sure he cared. He raced as fast as he was able to help his team get the puck in the goal when the puck was suddenly cleared right at him.
He blinked for a millisecond, then scooped it up, weaving his way towards the net, a new energy screaming its way down his legs. He called out without words, his teammates somehow comprehending his intentions by keeping the defense as occupied as possible.
“Hup!” his own defenders called from the line. “Hup! Hup!”
Time seemed to slow, and Clint could hear himself exhale slowly, the goal and its keeper looming before him.
His eyes flicked left and right, noting the location of defenders, then he jerked to his left, sliding the puck neatly between the legs of one player before delivering the most perfect slapshot of his life beneath the arm of the goalie.
The bench chanted their approval, and Clint was suddenly swarmed by his fellow teammates, all batting his helmet like they were his older brothers.
“Attaboy, Fido, atta kid!” Hook, their top right-sided defender and captain of the team, praised, thumping him hard on the back. “And after Moose flattened you? That’s no small thing, bro. He was gunning for you all day.”
“I noticed,” Clint replied, forcing a combination of grin and grimace. “Did I steal his locker or something?”
Hook snorted once. “Nah. Moose was just really close with Jerky, and his arrest really shook Moose up.”
“That’s not my fault, is it?” Clint exhaled roughly as they skated their way to the bench while the next group lined up. “I already know I’m Jerky’s replacement and him being gone is the only reason I’m here. I don’t need the whole team taking it out on me.”
“Knock it off, man,” Hook all but ordered. “We all have our crap in this game. Petey got called up when Grayson Boes blew out his knee. Hotch rode the bench forever until an entire line got suspended. This isn’t a temp position you just fill in for, all right? Just play the game.”
Another bat on his helmet, and Hook climbed over the boards into the bench, catching a tossed bottle of water easily. Clint followed him, sitting on the bench in silence.
The last two weeks had been an endless blur of practice and stress, trying to figure out team dynamics and keeping his head above the water. Some of the guys were great; others didn’t care if he were there or not.
Clint wasn’t sure he cared all that much either. He just wanted to play. His first game was next week, and until then, he didn’t think he’d feel much like a member of the team.
It sounded stupid when he thought about it. He wasn’t normally so sensitive to this sort of thing, or to anything, really. He usually just went with the flow and figured things out as he went.
This was different.
He didn’t expect best friends—that sort of thing took time—but with the Rays he’d had a squad, and back with Northbrook, he’d had a bond.
This felt like just a cluster of guys on the ice.
It wasn’t as easy to play under these conditions.
It was fine, but it wasn’t easy.
“Nice shot, Fido,” another teammate said, sitting down beside Clint. “We’ll watch that one on replay a lot, huh?” He chuckled and downed some water. “And earlier, back during shootouts, that was wicked deke you had going on.”
Clint turned to him, amused by the defender, who went by Cal on the ice, for reasons he didn’t yet understand. “It went off the bar, Cal. Not that wicked.”
Cal scoffed loudly, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter. You wigged Geezer out of his mind. That was a close call for him, and he knows it.”
“Thanks, man.” Clint had to smile as he watched the other guys play. Cal was
just one of those guys that were never ruffled by anything and were always smiling. The guy would even smile doing line drills on the ice while the rest of the team was red-faced and close to vomiting.
Literally—that had been two days ago, and Cal had just smiled like he was having the time of his life.
Unnatural.
Coach Singleton’s whistle sounded after another goal, and everybody left the bench and moved to center ice, joining the other players.
“Not a bad day, boys,” Coach said, somehow managing to chomp on his gum and speak coherently at the same time, as usual. He was a former navy man and was now a bit stockier, but no less impressive. “We look quick, we look sleek, and Fido here’s flying up the ice like he was born on it.”
The unexpected praise caught Clint off guard, and he ducked his head slightly as his teammates rumbled their approval, tapping their sticks on the ice.
“We got the Hounds next week,” Coach continued, looking around at each of them. “Forget about what happened last year, forget about anything in the past. I only want you focusing on this year and this game. This season. Everybody’s gotta get a session in with Eric before Tuesday, and anybody feeling the slightest aches and pains, see Doc or Brad. No sense gutting it out needlessly game one. Get healthy, get strong, get your heads right. All clear?”
“Yes, Coach,” the team answered as one.
Coach nodded and whistled, gesturing in a circle. “Five laps and hit the showers. Weights tomorrow, no ice. Get a good run in. That’s all.”
The team tapped their sticks on the ice repeatedly in unison in a sort of applause before Hook rose from the ice and tossed his helmet down. “Five laps, boys. Let’s hit it.”
Other helmets joined his on the ice as Clint and the others followed suit, filing in line as they began their laps. Some players hated the laps or line drills at the end of an already-tough practice, but Clint liked this part. It got them back to the very basics of their sport.
Skating had always been relaxing to him. The sound of his blades slashing against the ice, a crisp, clean noise in chorus as all twenty of them glided along the rink. It took him back to being a kid on the ice on his grandfather’s farm, or the early days on the community center ice when all the other kids were giggling and falling down and he was simply skating laps or weaving down center ice between imaginary players.
He felt most at peace in this space. The soundtrack of the ice was his favorite, and he’d have done twenty laps to keep it going.
“Fido,” Cal suddenly said, coming up to skate alongside him. “You have plans tomorrow?”
Clint smirked at his teammate. “Other than kicking your trash at weights?”
“Nice try.”
“Oh, planning an upset this time?”
“I’m taking that as a no.” Cal raised a thick brow. “Belltown’s playing at MSSL this weekend. You like college basketball?”
Clint reared back a little. “Yeah, I do, better than the pros. I didn’t go to Belltown, though. That was Grizz.”
“Same difference,” Cal replied with a shake of his sweat-dampened hair. “You in?”
There was something hilarious about him and Grizz being referred to as “same difference.” It was remarkably accurate. They looked more alike than the other McCarthy brothers, though there was no mistaking the relation between any of them, and they were the two that had gone most into athletics. Their personalities were similar, though Grizz was more social, and those similarities had led to the brothers being either the best of friends or the worst of enemies growing up.
Clint was sure his mom had feared for their lives at the hands of each other at least a dozen times in their youth.
“Sure,” Clint replied as they started their fourth lap. “Why not? Who all’s going?”
“So far, just you and me,” Cal shot back, grinning in his usual way. “Hotch might be game; he’s a baller in his spare time. Mario, Junior, and Fig are usually up for stuff. Sound like a good crew?”
Cal had listed off some of Clint’s favorites on the team and none of the ones that seemed to have issues with him, so there was no hesitation.
“Absolutely.”
* * *
Spending more than her usual amount of time with her roommates led Bree to do things that she couldn’t normally be coerced to do.
Like attend a basketball game.
She liked most sports in general, probably more out of repeated exposure in her life than anything else, but she had also learned that without someone to cheer for, she never got that invested in it.
But it was Belltown playing her school, and while she didn’t particularly care about the athletic programs at Missouri State at St. Louis, she had enough ties to both schools to make an appearance. That, and she’d heard great things about the churros at the basketball games here.
The arena was packed, which was no surprise, as there wasn’t anything else going on in early November on campus, and MSSL was supposed to be pretty good this year. Everybody was decked out in yellow and blue, enough to make her eyes hurt with it. Or maybe that was just the bright-yellow color of the seats in the arena, the walls of the arena, and the shirts of the student section in the arena.
“I feel like I’ve been swallowed by Big Bird,” Bree muttered to no one in particular as she, Penny, and Amy made their way to their seats.
“Oh, stop that,” Amy teased, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. “You’re standing out, wearing that shirt in here. I don’t even think Belltown has a fan section here.”
Bree glanced around quickly, knowing better, then tapped Amy’s shoulder. “Sure they do.” She pointed to the seats near the rafters in the northeast corner. “Right there.”
Three rows of red and blue broke up the sea of yellow, but it wasn’t much. Oh, every now and then there was a brave individual wearing red, but for the most part, only the passionate MSSL fans were here.
Poor Belltown.
“And down they go,” Bree murmured, the words for her alone. She hadn’t attended Belltown for undergrad, much to Ryker’s dismay, but she still had fond ties to the school. Some of her greatest memories had been the trips to Massachusetts for her brother’s games or events there. So many people that had been part of her life in childhood. Her teenage years, for the most part, Ryker had been in the pros, but the Six Pack never let the relationships fade.
She could still text the group of them and get a mass collection of responses from them, each one better than the last.
Her birthday texts were unfailingly epic.
Instead of having just one older brother, she really had six.
Which could be a bit annoying at times, but mostly it was great.
Mostly.
“Thank you for not wearing red,” Penny called up to her as they continued lower into the bowels of the arena. “White is passable, and you won’t stand out as much.”
“You’re welcome?” Bree shrugged with a bemused smile.
The truth of the matter was that Bree didn’t own anything in MSSL colors, and she didn’t particularly care to. There might be a gray T-shirt from the early days of her program tucked away in a dresser drawer, but that was about it.
Belltown shirts, on the other hand, could practically have a drawer of their own.
Ryker liked to distribute his alumni and athletic-booster swag among the family.
He was generous like that.
The three girls slid their way into their row towards their seats, earning glowers and grumbles from the fans around them, just as the tip-off occurred.
Bree watched without much interest as the teams darted back and forth on the court, the ball flying between and being dribbled around players with an almost-dizzying frequency. One didn’t have to know basketball well to know these two teams were very skilled, and the MSSL fans wasted no time in letting Belltown know how they felt about opposition in their arena.
She eyed the Belltown team bench, no longer familiar with the names of any Belltown athletes,
as she once might have been. But she knew the focused, almost-anxious looks those players wore, and the determined set of the coach’s jaw. The players’ mouths moved as they spoke to their teammates on the court, though none of the words were audible to anyone except those who sat just behind the bench.
MSSL scored the first points, earning a thundering marching sound from the student section, accompanied by a fitting anthem by the pep band. That was to be expected, she supposed, when their mascot was the Militiamen. The face of the mascot himself, decked out in a fitting historic uniform, wasted no time in hyping up the student section, his musket raised aloft.
“Ohhhhhhh, and where’d they go?” the student section chanted, mocking Belltown’s usual Lumberjack cry with their own twist.
Bree’s lips pursed, and air hissed out as she considered how that would have infuriated Ryker and any other proud Lumberjack.
Good thing she wasn’t one.
Still, it did make her face tighten a bit.
Very strange.
The game continued on for a few minutes, Belltown scoring in return and MSSL answering those points, and so on. No great plays, no exceptional moments, just clean, talented basketball.
Time for food.
“I need a churro,” Bree informed her roommates, gesturing up to the concourse. “You guys need anything?”
Amy handed her a five-dollar bill. “Popcorn and chocolate!” She pressed her hands together in a pleading motion.
Bree nodded and looked at Penny.
“Churro.” She handed Bree a wad of cash, her expression serious. “If they have dipping sauces, get one of each.”
There was a reason Penny was her favorite roommate—no offense to Amy—and this was it.
Money in hand, Bree made her way back up the endless steps of the arena, wondering what in the world had possessed designers of basketball facilities to do this to its fans. At least they weren’t up in the nosebleeds, she supposed, but it wasn’t that much of a consolation.
Thankfully, the line at the nearest concession stand was short, and Bree was able to survey the menu for only a few minutes before it was her turn. Much longer and she might have been swayed to get more than the churro she had set out to get.
Faceoff (Northbrook Hockey Elite Book 1) Page 3
