Page 4 of Your Pucking Mom

“Fucking pizza?” Coach McNulty asked as he walked into my apartment. I lived in one of the penthouse apartments of a building that the Ravens basically commandeered as their own. I started living here first, appreciating the amenities the building offered because I was not about to learn how to cook.

“I hate cooking,” I grumbled as I opened a few more boxes of pizza and set out wings from their Styrofoam containers on the large kitchen island. Some of the guys had helped me set up a few extra foldable tables. I grabbed a few paper plates and napkins; figured it was as good as any fancy cutlery and meal the other guys would set up. Well, maybe not for some of the bougie dudes like Coach, but pizza was sustenance.

“Jesus,” Coach said as he grabbed a few slices, then went to the dining room. It was a big room with floor-to-ceiling windows covering the entire apartment, shaped like an L. I’d had a designer come in and decorate a couple of years ago, trying to make it not seem as cold as it started out, so it was filled with leather furniture and wood accents. I had replaced the original marble floors with hardwood planks, but kept the kitchen and bedroom modern and clean. At the end of the day, I had a bed to lie in and a couch to watch shows on, so I didn’t care what it looked like.

“Settle down!” Coach shouted over the loud group of men as I grabbed some pizza and slumped into a chair in the corner. The area was slightly secluded from everyone else and faced the city, so I could watch the lights twinkle and admire the darkness of the lake.

“We got the new guy coming today,” Coach announced, standing, so we all turned in his direction.

“You mean the kid we have to babysit?” Alex piped in from the other side of the room, and everyone erupted in laughter. We were getting a brand-new one this year, the youngest kid the League had seen, and while we’d all seen him play in videos, it was hard to believe that an eighteen year old would somehow fit in with the rest of us since most of the guys were in their mid-twenties.

“He doesn’t need babysitting…”

“Says Google,” I chimed in. A swift online search of his name revealed, beyond his hockey stats and numerous awards, he had a penchant for going wild at parties and teetering on the brink of getting arrested. Frankly, it was likely the influence of the small-town politics I knew all too well that kept him out of jail. Only further emphasizing the fact I had no intention of playing babysitter to a team member who was a reckless child.

“His mother is in town—” I burst into laughter, and the team joined in, finding it amusing that a statement about one of our players had to start with those words.

“You think it’s so funny, Cole, then you mentor him,” Coach threatened as I put my pizza down on my lap.

“Hey, hey”—I threw my hands in the air—“I didn’t say shit.”

“Be fucking nice,” Coach reprimanded me, and suddenly I felt like the child here, a feeling I despised.

“Whatever.” As I took another bite of pizza, they talked in the background, and I stared out at the city, letting my imagination wander. That sad woman I’d met earlier was out there somewhere. I wondered if she had finally gotten her smile back and whatever was bothering her was fixed.

My thoughts were interrupted, and my head snapped up. The door clicked open.

A child walked through the door. An actual kid, with his hands stuffed into the pockets of his jeans, his hoodie with his high school team on it, and an awkward shuffle of his feet. It was going to be a long fucking season, and someone was going to have to hold his hand.

The entire room went quiet. “Oh, uh, is this the team dinner?” He looked around a few times, but no one said a word, not even Coach, who closed his eyes and swallowed. I wondered how much of the child’s hiring was the Coach’s choice since the child was such a risk.

It was Dirks, one of the defensemen, who finally walked over and threw his hand around his shoulders. “Yeah, brother. Glad you’re here. We were just getting settled in.”

He grabbed him a plate and threw on a few slices before leading him around the room to do proper introductions. They looked somewhat like brothers or distant cousins with their blond hair. Although Dirks had straighter hair and the kid had curly hair, they both looked like they could have been cast right out of the showLaguna Beach.

“Isn’t that your job?” Alex walked over to me, handing me a beer from the fridge. He was a left-wing with a slight Russian accent, dark black hair, and piercing green eyes. He was from Moscow and had been with the Ravens for almost as long as I had. We were the two oldest on the team and neighbors, so I probably considered Alex my closest friend. Plus, he had a cool-as-shit wife.

“Eh, let Dirks get it. He seemed eager,” I mumbled, and Alex huffed out a laugh as he brought his beer to his lips.

“He’s a fucking reckless option,” I said.

Alex nodded. “But he plays like a fucking boss.”

“Yeah, but without a team mentality, he’s going to fail. He needs to be able to know his place. It’s not always about raw talent anymore.”

“Okay, Coach,” Alex teased, and I shoved him.

“Here they come.”

“Motherfucker,” I hissed under my breath. This was the last thing I needed tonight. The one reason I didn’t want to play happy host was because I wasn’t.

“Yo, this is our cap, Ledger Cole, but we all just call him Cole.” I tilted my chin before Dirks continued. “This one here is one of the alternate captains and the greatest left-winger in the goddamn League, Alexsey Popov.”

The child looked like he was about to shit his pants, and Alex, noticing that I refused to stand, extended his hand. “It’s just Alex, but I’ll take the accolades, Dirks.”

“Oh, hey, Austin Hart.” Dirks and Alex stared down at me as I splayed my legs, with my pizza on a paper plate on my lap and a beer in my hand.

I sighed, taking a deep breath. This was why I needed to retire. I loved playing hockey, but shit like this was painful. The politics of hockey made me want to bang my head against a wall.

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