Page 3 of Game Misconduct

“Just thought you would like to know,” he replied, trying and failing to sound casual.

Mikey couldn’t meet my gaze. They were planning something. I could sense it. That was another talent I developed as a part of surviving my brothers. I didn’t think it was malicious, as most of the plots of my childhood had been, but it still made me uncomfortable.

Maybe they were like Jess, thinking that since I was single, I would want to meet some of the eligible men on the team. Mikey was one of them, and I liked him well enough but only as a friend.

“Yeah! We’ll be sure to introduce you to them,” Lance added.

Now would be the best time to invent an excuse and pretend like I was busy on Friday. It was only three days away, so the short notice would work in my favor, but from the past month or so I’d learned they were relentless. Ninety percent of the time they could be distracted by turning on the TV or the mention of a ball, but when they really set their mind to something, they didn’t let anything stop them. Apparently, I was the next object of obsession.

“Can’t wait.” I gave them a hint of a smile to help sell my lie.

It was a waste of breath to try to talk them out of it. I’d go through the motions of greeting strangers who were in my home, making sure nothing was damaged or destroyed, all while playing the part of the fun roommate, but I wasn’t sure what those two thought would happen. They could introduce me to all the single players in the league, and it wouldn’t matter.

From what I’d gathered from meeting the hockey wives, there was one specific commonality. Each woman was gorgeous, thin, and stylish. Granted, there was some diversity in the woman as far as what they wore and how skinny they were—some did actually have some curves—but it wasn’t hard to put together that there was a type of woman the players went for.

Through years of practicing self-love and differentiating between healthy and skinny, I was quite confident in who I was and how I looked, which was how I could accept that I was not the players’ type without crying or hating my body.

I didn’t let my dress size influence my happiness. I ate well, although I did have a weakness for quality cake I didn’t bother to hide, and I exercised a few times a week. What mattered was that my doctor agreed I was healthy and loved myself.

I didn’t say anything aloud, but I was perfectly aware that their efforts were in vain. I accepted my role as the friend years ago. That’s all I was to Mikey and Lance, and once they introduced me to their teammates, I’d become their friend too. At least Jess was already dating Lance. The worst was being used by a man in order to get with one of my friends. I went through that far too many times in high school and college until I realized I didn’t have to keep letting it happen. Learning to stand up for myself and not letting myself get used had been a painful lesson to learn, and I was glad to be past that stage of life.

Two

Parker

There were worse situations. There had to be. In the grand scheme of things, this was one blip. A blink. I’d forget all about this in a few months or years. I jumped away from the rustling sound coming from the overflowing trash cans that stood on either side of the back entrance to my new apartment building. The slightly less offensive front entrance had a metal grate door with a lock I didn’t own a key to.

This door was unlocked, presumably always, since it hung a bit crooked and the latch didn’t match up to the hole. Was this really suitable for human residents? I glanced inside the dark corridor, but even with the sunlight filling in from behind me, I couldn’t see much beyond the first ten feet. I stroked my beard, a habit I picked up since it grew longer over the past year, and considered alternatives. Sleeping in my car suddenly seemed like a good idea. The coupe didn’t have a backseat, but I’d make it work, at least until I could figure out where I was really supposed to live.

Or a hotel. Yeah, that was what I was going to do. I should have looked for one the second I pulled up to this place.

As soon as I had a free hand, I was calling my manager and firing him.

“Need some help?” a voice said too closely.

I spun in the slushy snow, tightening my grip on my bags, to find a grungy man with a hood pulled low over his head and thin sweats with suspicious stains covering the front. I took a step back.

“No, thank you.” I eased back into the building, and the man followed me. “I’m really fine.”

“I insist.” His hand reached out, and I caught a flash of silver and diamonds on his hand. It looked like a championship ring.

I studied him closer and realized the hoodie he was wearing had a discrete Fury logo on the left sleeve. My shoulders slumped. This was some sort of sick hazing ritual.

I muttered, thanks under my breath and handed him one of my bags. “I really appreciate your help, man.”

He held my bag in midair and cocked his head. “You’re really just going to hand over your stuff?”

I managed to hold back a laugh and let him think his ruse was still working. “Yeah, I’m exhausted, and I could use a free hand. I forgot what number I’m in.”

I pulled out my phone and opened the most recent text from Omar, my manager. “Three-eleven.” I looked around the hall for any sign of an elevator or staircase.

“You shouldn’t trust strangers.” He sounded confused.

“I don’t, but I do trust my teammates,” I said without looking at him.

He hmphed and pulled his hood back, revealing Mitch Doranon’s famously ginger hair. “How’d you know?”

I chuckled. “I don’t know many robbers that have Stanley Cup rings and team merch.” I tilted my chin toward the logo on his upper arm.