Page 12 of Off the Post

Brewsky gives the stylist, who’s applying body paint to Pendy’s torso, an exaggerated wink, then admires himself in the mirror. “Now I understand why my girlfriend loves to have her spa days.”

I roll my eyes at his absurdity. On any normal day, or if we were joking around in the locker room, I might laugh and banter with him. Today is not either of those.

The stylist gestures for me to take a seat. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I’m Dante and I’ll be doing your hair and makeup next.”

With no choice in the matter, I take a seat and wait my turn. But I don’t need to be happy about it. This is my first time participating in this calendar shoot, and I had no idea they went to all this trouble to turn us into professional models. When I spoke with the woman who called to remind me about the event, my attention was elsewhere, and I don’t remember her mentioning anything about this stuff.

Maybe she did and I neglected to catch it.

I barely remember her telling me her name. Maybe it’s Alison or Ali? Honestly, my mind had been on trying to resolve the flight issues and not today’s plans. I’d be surprised if I said more than two words to her. She probably thinks I’m a dick.

Nothing new there. There’s a reason my reputation exists.

Pendy jumps in to tease Brewsky about his appearance, breaking into my thoughts.

“Dude,” he says with a chuckle, “I think you have one of those faces they say only a mother could love.”

“Hey, bruh,” Brewsky replies, poking Pendy in his shoulder, “I resemble that remark.”

My chin drops to my chest, and I press my lips in a firm line to keep from grinning as I run a hand through my still damp hair. “I’m going to need some more coffee if I have to deal with you two Dummköpfe today.”

Just as I say this, someone taps lightly on my shoulder. Already tense from the last twenty-four hours, I startle and let out an annoyed curse.

“Fuck.”

I lift my gaze, ready to ream the person for sneaking up behind me, but my eyes land on a gorgeous woman with curly auburn locks. In one hand, she carries a tablet, and in her other arm is a giant inflatable yellow ducky ring toy like those ones used in pools. An inexplicable current runs down my spine as I stare back into her bright blue eyes.

“I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I was—” she begins, but I cut her off.

“Well, you did,” I snap, unable to help myself with all the tightly wound emotions swirling inside me. “Announce yourself next time.”

The muscles in my jaw tighten, and I immediately regret my outburst. A heavy exhale leaves my lungs. But it’s too late, the damage is done. Her eyes—a blue that reminds me of the skies back home in Baden bei Wien—widen in response, and her mouth twists into a disapproving frown. I expect her to shrink away from my reproachful tone, which is the one I use when I’m hounded by the media after a loss and want them to leave me alone. Instead, and to my surprise, a smile pulls on the edges of her lips and then expands into something that mirrors the sun.

A breath catches in my throat.

“That’s exactly what I was trying to do,” she replies with a hint of sarcasm woven in her words. Unfazed, she offers me her outstretched hand. “You must be Soren. I’m Ali. Nice to meet you.” But since the duck is still under her arm, it gets stuck between her and my chair and then falls from her grasp, bouncing once before it lands on the floor between us.

This produces a giggle from her exquisite mouth. I tamp down my growing confusion with a biting glare.

“Oops. Sorry.”

The moment our hands join, I’m blinded by my reaction. An electrifying current zings up my arm and hits me in the chest with the speed of a slap shot.

I drop her hand immediately, hoping that even with her bravado, she’ll take heed of my warning vibe. Others usually do. It’s a well-known trick of The Wolf.

But Ali doesn’t seem to be affected by my unkindness.

The thing is, I wasn’t always this way. As a kid, I was happy, goofy, and more than a little precocious. My brother and I were known pranksters, especially on each other. But oftentimes, we’d get our friends and even our parents on the best jokes.

One time, Günther and I decided we’d create a murder scene using cans of tomato sauce and ketchup. It scared my mom and dad into thinking I’d accidentally killed Günther.

Now, years later, it seems life has played its own prank on me. It’s turned me from that happy-go-lucky boy into an oppositional and angry man. Or, as I’d be known in German, an Arschloch.

The grief of losing my parents and then my brother has destroyed me. There is so much of it, I hoard it all: the loss, grief, loneliness, and guilt. I don’t know how to let it go, so I utilize the anger that curdles in my stomach when I’m between the pipes. Every blocked shot and save is another way for me to deal.

The feeling of warmth remains even after Ali’s touch is gone. It’s exactly like when I’ve been given anesthesia for procedures. There’s a moment when you feel an uncomfortable prick as the needle goes in but then the sensation takes hold and you’re floating.

Up. Up. Up.