Page 4 of Puck Me Twice
About half of the guys on the team are settled with partners, and the other half are enjoying the bachelor lifestyle. Even though, technically, yes, I’m single, that’s by design. I choose not to date.
People exhaust me. The physical demands of keeping up with my job exhaust me. Everyday life exhausts me.
How do neurotypical people function? I honestly have no clue.
My phone rings at the ungodly hour of eight o’clock in the morning. There are only a handful of people who are allowed to call me; everyone else goes straight to voicemail.
My agent? Yeah, I’m picking up his call.
“It’s the third fucking week of the season, bud,” Brad barks into my ear.
“I hadn’t realized.” Scrubbing a hand over my face, I try to wake up a little. “What do you want?”
He snorts. “You could at least try to act like you give a shit.”
“I’m talking to you. I’m giving a shit.” Does he not realize that just getting through to me is a major step above everyone else? I don’t even answer my parents’ phone calls.
Not that they call me.
Brad sighs. “There are photos.”
“Great. Of what?”
“Of you at a bar, looking pissed off and annoyed.”
That… is my default expression. I’ve been told on multiple occasions I have “resting bitch face.”
“So?”
“So there’s already rumors of friction on the team.”
“It’s the third week. I don’t even know half the guys’ names yet.”
Mainly because we brought in a lot of rookies this season. I know their numbers and their last names, if only because it’s stitched onto the backs of their jerseys.
“Start acting like you do,” Brad says. “Fix it.”
“Why do I have to fix it?”
“Because otherwise, you’ll be labeled a bad egg, and no team will want you. Remember, we’ve got to think bigger.”
He hangs up without ceremony, the way I like it, and my hyperfocus starts spiraling.
Think bigger? Bigger than what?
My contract is up at the end of this season. Ideally, I’ll score one more lengthy, long-term contract before my playing years start dwindling — and with it, my salary options. Twenty-seven is basically middle-aged in the hockey world.
I like Boston. In my fourth season with the team, I’ve settled into my life. I don’t want to pick up and move.
Not again.
My apartment is nice. It’s a two-bedroom townhouse in a quiet neighborhood where I can be alone and enjoy it. There’s a gorgeous, custom-built chef’s kitchen with countertops that actually suit my height, and space for all three of my stand mixers plus my sourdough starter, and a walk-in pantry to house all my supplies.
I’ve got Hildy, the little old lady who lives in a shoe, down the street. She always has a new recipe for trade or a sample to take home.
Rupert and I have a routine. Even though she’s okay when I leave, I like to think she’s happy when I come back. I don’t know that she has many feelings aside from hunger and apathy. I understand that. My two main emotions are hunger and apathy, too.
Yeah, I know that I can find a new house in another city and build my own kitchen. Through the years, I’ve played on enough hockey teams to know it takes time to settle in and assimilate, but it’s not impossible. Rupert would come with me. We’re a mated pair. Just, you know, cross-species.
