Page 35 of Patrick

CHAPTER 9

TRICK

“Hey, turtle boy.” Van laughs as he passes by me and attempts to snap his towel at me. I’m not slow enough to let him catch me, and I give him the obligatory F-U finger. But I can’t blame him because I was fucking slow on the ice.

Slouched in a chair, wearing nothing but boxers, I’m not in a hurry to get into the shower, and I stifle a yawn. The locker room is busy, and none of the other guys seem to have my energy deficit problem.

Bog sits on the bench nearby. “You staying over again, or have you found a more comfortable bed?” He grins as he towels off.

“He looks like he needs a good bed right now,” Sully says from his locker next to Bog, loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Sluggish much? My Great Aunt Betty has more pep than you do—and she’s missing a leg.”

There’s enough balking at Sully’s comment for the missing leg TMI from my teammates, so I don’t feel a need to respond. Normally, I’d whip my towel at him—because I’m the best at it—to shut him up.

The problem is he’s right. And wrong. It’s not last night’s sleep or needing a good bed that’s getting to me; it’s commuting from home and trying to bridge the gap between my hockey team and my family, trying to be present and focused for both that’s killing me.

Now with Fifi in my life, well, shit, I feel like a psycho with a split personality. Or maybe too much like a dirt-bag leading two lives and lying to everyone. Even if I spilled the secret I’m holding, it wouldn’t solve anything. I’d still have a problem handling the split in my focus.

How can I give enough attention to hockey, my family, and Fifi? I’m not even counting schoolwork—which I damn well ought to count since I may need that degree in the long run. If hockey doesn’t work out, and if I have the nerve to tell Dad I don’t want to work in the fish business.

Maybe that’s the worst secret of all. My mind flips to Pop’s reaction when I tell him I can’t stomach the smell of fish, and I picture him running after me with a fat smelly haddock in one hand and a fish knife in the other. I shake the image from my head.

So far, only two people know about that dark and smelly secret: Bog and Fifi.

Standing, I grab a towel from my cubby, drop my shorts, and wrap the towel around my hips before my dick starts thinking about Fifi and gets any ideas. Then I escape to the shower.

“Nothing to say?” Sully calls after me. I hear Bog telling him to leave me alone. Then an argument starts, but I don’t hear the fading words. The exhaustion I feel right now, like someone pulled the plug in my gas tank and drained me dry, is past bone deep and past even what a banquet-sized meal or twenty-four hours of sleep can cure.

Letting the hot shower wash my invisible turmoil away, I relax, and my tension eases until the only turmoil left on my mind is Fifi.

After the team dinner in the facility’s dining room, I pick up my backpack and stand. “Gotta go, guys.” I’m the first one at our table to leave. Usually, I’m the last.

“Headed home?” Bog asks.

I nod because it’s easier than explaining that I may not be going straight home depending on what Fifi says when I text her. Or maybe I should call.

“See you in the morning.”

“Final practice before the B.C. game,” Sully says. “Make sure you’re well rested, Trick.” He levels a knowing stare at me, and I wonder if he’s a mind reader. But I shake it off. I’ll be fine. I can have a girlfriend if other guys can. Sully has a girlfriend, doesn’t he?

“You make sure you’re rested, Sully. You’re the one with the steady girl in your bed.”

Bog looks at me with raised brows like I’ve lost my mind. Van blows out a whistle.

Sully stands and steps into me. “My girlfriend is none of your business and has nothing to do with this. I’m not the one falling asleep during drills.”

“Fuck you. I yawned. Big fucking crime.” I shove my chair in and turn away because this conversation is over. As I walk to the door, I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until I get outside, relieved that Sully didn’t follow me and punch me out. He could do it. He’s bigger.

I’m a bigger ass, though, and I might fight dirty if he tried, if he weren’t a decent guy and our fucking team captain. But that’s not why he’s leaving me alone. He doesn’t want to bruise the star player of the team, because we both know that’s who I am.

Up until now, I haven’t abused my status, haven’t thought of myself differently, and don’t want to go near that level of assholery. So why did I do it? Why did I get personal with him and call him out on his bullshit when he was doing his usual thing as captain?

Fifi. I have Fifi on my mind. I reach my car in the rink’s lot and hesitate. “Fuck.” I can’t let Sully get in my head. I pull my phone from my pocket and get in the car as I punch in Fifi’s number. She picks up after one ring.

“You up for a visitor this evening?”

“Why, of course, big boy—what’s your name?”

I laugh even while a rush of hot jealousy rears up from nowhere. “My name is your one-and-only.”