Page 82 of Offside Attraction

I'm packing all black lace

Brat

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Chubs’ house was the epitome of suburban living in Northeast Calgary, with its long, straight street and neatly manicured lawns. The quiet was disrupted by the rumble of engines as his teammates pulled up and parked their vehicles, then grabbed their gear and hauled it to the driveway, ready to load it into the passenger van he’d rented to take to Lethbridge. They’d driven separately before, but it was always more fun to get rowdy.

Jordan pulled up next to the group and parked, pretending to tip a chauffeur hat. He got out and opened the storage compartment at the back of the bus, then climbed back in the driver’s seat.

The guys piled in, and Chubs’ brother Mike climbed in last. He used to travel with the team for every tourney, but then he went and got married. Now he had two toddlers and they rarely saw him on the weekends.

Jordan fist-bumped him over the seat, waited a second for everyone to get settled, then pulled away from the curb.

"Jord, your eye still looks like shit," Cam called from a few rows back.

Jordan smirked. "Thanks, bud. Appreciate you.”

Steele leaned over the seat. "I wondered if Country mentioned you on his latest YouTube stream. Haven’t watched it yet."

Jordan glanced in the rearview. “Let me know if I’m famous.”

Chubs opened a bag of chips. “Speaking of famous, I set the new squat record at the gym last night. Seems that piqued Ellie’s interest.” He lifted his arm and flexed.

“Can’t deny a man who locks in on leg day.” Wyatt nodded in approval.

Jordan laughed. Van talk was just as good as locker room talk. Maybe better. After sitting around the table across from the doctors on the board at Rocky Ridge, he’d briefly questioned his life choices. Here he was in his thirties still laughing at jokes about ball sacks.

At work, he put on a mature face, and that part of him did exist. The part that took life seriously, that thought about life goals, taxes, and retirement. But the idea of eating the same thing for breakfast every day and tracking his HDL intake felt like a death sentence. Maybe he wouldn’t ever have to be the guy that sat at a table he sponsored with a sour expression on his face. Maybe he’d be the one copping a feel on his wife beneath the tablecloth.

Wife.That thought brought his train of thought to a screeching halt. Had that word even once crossed his mind in the past ten years? It had been there in his early twenties. After everything went down with Lisa and Sean, it had taken him a while to bounce back. But when he did, he’d been positive he wanted someone permanently in his life. After Sonya, he was dead set against it.

“. . . already texting me. Said I was ‘unexpectedly charming.’” Chubs was still on his leg day story, then. Jordan reached for his water bottle.

Mike laughed, shaking his head. “That means she expected you to be a complete disaster, bud. Low bar.”

“You’re one to talk, Mr. Ball and Chain,” Chubs shot back. “Bet you’ve forgotten what a first date even feels like.”

Mike grinned, unbothered, and leaned forward. “Yeah, well, while you’re out here fumbling through Tinder and doing squats for attention, I’m at home with a wife who knows how to make lasagna better than your mom.”

Cam snorted. “Food flex. Shit’s getting real.”

Jordan chuckled. He was in a damn good mood, and there was one reason for that. He glanced down at his phone, but there weren’t any new notifications from Rhonda. She was probably busy schmoozing doctors.

Plenty from Ethan, though. They’d been texting for the past couple of days. He’d shown up for practice the day before, which was a step in the right direction. Finally, as of last night, he’d convinced him to at least think about talking to his parents and reaching out to Jace’s. He of all people understood what it looked like to avoid the tough conversations.

His phone screen lit up, and he grinned. Think of the devil.

Rhonda

Should be at the rink by about eight thirty. Nine if I suck at my job

Jordan glanced over at Steele in the passenger seat. He couldn’t ask him to type a message out for him. Instead he waited until they were at a red light, then tapped out a quick response.

Try not to throw your bra on the ice, but I understand if you can’t help yourself

Rhonda

What if I’m not wearing one?

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