Page 50 of He Has It All (Boston Brawlers Hockey)
Chapter 13
Ryan
The minute I set foot in the locker room and breathe in the musty, sweaty air, whatever tension I have left from the night before leaves me. A few guys are there ahead of me, my pal, goalie Finnegan Reed, and my on-ice wingman, Aiden Liam Cavanaugh. Finn and I have shared more than a beer or two, but off ice, all Aiden and I have in common is a few Irish genes. The rest of his genes come from a place of tea drinkers, but no one holds that against the tough fucker because he’d punish anyone who did. He’s a serious dude and seriously tough.
We exchange wise cracks by way of hellos and on my way to my locker I pause at the new guy in the room.
“Brady Mackenzie.” I put out a hand. He takes it with a nod. “Glad to have you back. Let’s see what you can do with a full season here start to finish.” He’d been traded to us in January after being on probation for a few games for some fucking trouble, but I don’t bother trying to remember what it was because this is a fresh start. And he’s a fucking badass player, my other wingman. The missing piece now found to make our line impossible to stop.
“Now all we need is for some defense to show up and we have a game,” I say, sitting on the bench to lace up my skates.
“I don’t need no fucking defense,” Finn says, only half joking, but even Aiden laughs at him.
We head out to the ice as the rest of the guys trickle in. Half of them I don’t recognize: draftees, free agents, hopefuls, and longshots. I nod my respect at them all. Not waiting for the coach or anyone with a whistle because I’m ready and they’re following me, we hit the ice. And I’m home. On the ice with a stick in my hands and my teammates skating around me, that swishing sound of skates shaving frost from the surface, sticks hitting pucks and pucks hitting boards. These are the sounds of home and childhood, like dogs barking in the neighborhood and mosquitos buzzing on summer nights. Uncomplicated, here and now.
This is how I spend the next few weeks, on the ice or exhausted, always in the moment. Right up until the moments lead me to the date of theSports Illustratedshoot and I have to take the weekend off. Not that we have official ice time, but I and my line have been coming in for skate-arounds on the off days and we’ve been gelling.
But today, my staying in the present mindset now includes Chelsea, because she’s going to be on the set of the photo shoot. The knowledge pops into my head from the recesses where I’d buried it and brings with it a whole lot of shit. Excitement for my dick and trouble for my head. And that fucking tightness in my chest. Suddenly the calm of my hockey-inspired Zen universe disperses and I’m in that confusing chaotic Chelsea-Wilde-inspired place that I crave and despise, that I’m drawn to like fucking Wile E Coyote to the edge of the cliff.
These are my thoughts on the plane ride. I’m on a plane because fuckingSIdecided they want to do the shoot on Nantucket, of course, and they’ve arranged for me to take one of these small fucking planes with eight seats that I hate. With the earphones on and my eyes closed, I do my fucking best to channel the negative energy. My target? Chelsea Wilde. By the time I arrive at the fucking Nantucket Hotel and Resort, the scene of the fucking crime, I’m mad as fuck at her for asking me to let her attend.
Even after I made a stink and had my agent argue with theSIpeople about the location, they insisted it had everything they needed. A quaint entry, an outdoor bar, and a beautiful beach. Hell, the hotel even has beds if they needed them. I think they threw in the last part to scare me because there’s no fucking way a bed is going to be any part of any photo of me here or anywhere. Ever.
TheSIshoot is the last thing I want to do now, but I have no choice. As planned, Chelsea gets her press pass to be here and it makes me really mad that she’s going through with this, like she’s cashing in on me, and I have no control over my anger. As the limo pulls up to the front entrance of the hotel—because of course Ham the Houdini Jett can’t go anywhere without his limo and he’s here, in his words,to keep me from doing anything crazy. I translate that to mean he’s here to prevent me from seducing Chelsea. Again. We get out of the limo and with the hotel confronting me with an accusing glare, I’m suspicious about whereSIgot the idea for using this spot. If Chelsea were in front of me right now, I’d strangle her. Right after I fucked her silly, and kissed her tenderly, and . . .fuck. I’m fucked.
It’s a two-day shoot with multiple sets, I’m told, so we waste no time. On the first set outdoors down by the water, cameras are set up with lights—I don’t know what the hell they need lights for since the sun is blazing and I’m sweating even though I’m buck naked under my robe. There’s a tent, some chairs, and a crowd of people. There are two photographers, a director, a makeup artist, a wardrobe manager, though as far as I can tell, all she has to manage is one extra-large terrycloth robe. and assistant, a set director, a lighting director, and two production assistants.
“Did you all decide to make a movie here instead of a taking a few photos?” I say, emerging from my trailer—yes, my trailer—with the makeup and wardrobe people trailing me. I’m seriously underdressed with nothing under the robe because we’re doing some beefcake shots where I’m posing nude, although they promise to keep it tasteful somehow, insisting my junk won’t show up. Except to the live audience of course, who will all be treated to the Full Monty.
Not that I’m a shy man, or modest by any stretch, and certainly confident in what I have to show, but I do have lines in the sand, a notion about what’s private. And my package is private.
Then there’s the complication of Chelsea, putting aside for a second that she’s taking photos for her sleazy Gossip Girl on-air feature, she’s someone I don’t want to see me this way. She’s someone I fucking care about, damn it. Care about what she thinks of me, don’t want her to see me reduced to . . . this. Selling myself for some titillating ass photos. Fuck. I wish I’d never signed this deal. I swear I’m going to donate the money to kittens and orphanages. Or maybe the ASPCA and foster care programs.
Not that any such donations will impress Chelsea. My eyes find hers as the crowd of workers on the set chuckles at the ridiculousness of the production, acknowledging the hoopla. They even had to go to the extreme of hiring police to keep people away, thanks to Chelsea and her station’s preshoot publicity.SIdoesn’t mind. They love it since it’ll help sell more copies, get them more ad dollars when the issue comes out in a few weeks.
I seem to be the only fool not in love with the whole setup. My agent stands by talking to the producer andSImanaging editor. Walking over to one of the photographers, I ask him if it’s normal for a magazine editor to be at the shoot.
He shakes his head. “No, man. This is a big one. They’re banking on you to be a big seller.” He gives me a tight smile. “No pressure.”
I laugh. “Frankly, I could care less.”
“Good. Keep loose and we’ll get our shots quick and easy.”
I nod. “The quicker the better.”
There’s equipment arranged on the beach as the wardrobe manager, makeup artist, and director lead me toward the ocean and a mini trampoline sitting at the water’s edge. It’s so out of place and weird that it takes a second to process.
“What the fuck—?”
“Don’t worry.” The director throws up his hands in a defensive posture. Maybe he thinks I’m going to deck him and maybe I’m thinking about it. Whatever charm and aplomb I’ve had in the past with the media is nowhere. History. Along with my desire to be front and center, to cash in on fame and fortune, to milk it for everything it’s worth. Because it ain’t fucking worth this.
“I’m not a fucking circus act.”
“I know—you’re not. It’s not like that. We have a vision of this shot where you’re airborne above the water and the mini tramp was the best way we could figure to get it.”
“Airborne?” I see Chelsea in the distance with the others, waiting, and I see concern etched on her face. She cares. She’s got my back. I know it. And for whatever sick reason, knowing this, feeling this, relieves me of the tension knotting me up. Blowing out a breath, I get my professional mojo back, dispelling the whiny bitch that I’ve been so far.
“Okay. Let’s do this.” Before I think, shutting out thoughts of consequences, getting back to the here and now, I drop my robe.
