Page 22 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
“Afraid of a little competition?” I can’t help myself. My competitive streak is so wide it takes up my entire soul. I’d probably try and beat my own grandmother in an arm-wrestling contest—if she were still alive, God rest her soul.
“So why did you agree to theSports Illustratedlayout? Why are you such a publicity hound?” she says, ignoring my challenge. I should ignore her question, call her out on the change of subject, but I can’t because it’s the one question I’ve been asking myself daily of late.
“I signed that deal before the playoffs.”Before my recent slump into restlessness. But I don’t share that. Maybe I should. Maybe one more drink and I will. But with that kind of sharing comes intimacy and then feelings spill over into sexual attraction and once my cock gets involved—well, I can’t afford to go there. Don’t want to test my resolve again. Not now.
“So you’ve changed your mind then?”
“It doesn’t matter. A deal’s a deal.”
“You don’t want to do it—tired of being sold like a piece of meat?”
“Something like that.” I stop just short of the patio and stop her too. “Hey, what about volleyball. What’s with the reluctance to play? You’re a fucking Olympian.”
“That’s the problem,” she says. “The Olympics spoiled volleyball for me.”
“Burned out?”
“Something like that.” We’re both holding back. Because I know she’s not burned out, but I have no idea what the story is. And I want to know.
“I’ll get the story from you before the weekend is through.”
She laughs and steps onto the patio away from me. “And I’ll get your story about your change of attitude about publicity.”
“Touché.”
“It’s ennui,” she says. “That’s what you’re suffering from. Your life has become so routinely exciting that the usual thrills aren’t so thrilling anymore.” Her tone is matter-of-fact.
“You a shrink?”
She laughs. “No, but I’ve met my share of players here and there—none of them in your league, of course.”
“Of course.”
Someone blows a whistle and yells that it’s time to play drunk beach volleyball and there’s a rush of people moving inside to change into bathing suits. Levi comes for me. Chelsea takes off for the house, joining Maggs and some others.
“You’re on my team, man,” Levi says. “We’re lining up against the ringer. Maggs is on her side with your three brothers.”
“Who else do we have on our side?”
He shrugs, “My cousin Eli and his wife. And Allie Pink.”
“Shit.”
“How much did Chelsea have to drink?”
“Not enough to lose.” I’d bet my right nut on that. No matter what she says about not wanting to play, I know from past experience, albeit way in the past to our childhoods, that once we’re in the game she’ll be a fierce competitor. She puts everything she has into what she’s doing. The image of her in bed with me pops up before I can stop it because I’ve always wondered what all that passion would feel like with her, having had a small taste of it. Literally.
But this isn’t the time or place to let my cock take charge as I go inside with Levi and we change into matching bright orange swim trunks.
After we come back outside, I return to Gramps while the others are gathering beyond the patio on the sand at the net.
Wearing a bright white bikini, Chelsea parades back outside with Maggs and Allie. Maggs is wearing a white pinny over her black bikini and Allie is wearing an orange pinney over her pink one-piece. The lines of the teams are drawn in orange and white. The Browns have planned this game meticulously, having recruited the sides from the guests and wanting to maximize the sheer glamour and drama. Chelsea winds her way back to me, to our table, and I feel myself standing straighter, my blood pumping harder, as if I want to impress her like a teenager, before I was a big shot.
She reaches us and says, “The teams are ready. Looks like we’re opponents.”
“Like always,” I say. Feeling her nearness and the prospect of playing against her rouse my excitement like I haven’t felt since the season ended with the Stanley Cup playoffs and we didn’t win. But then we weren’t even supposed to make it that far, so most everyone is happy. The funk of disappointment hits me, but I fend it off, focusing on Chelsea’s smiling eyes.
Gramps squints up at us and I tilt the umbrella to cover him.
