Page 49 of The Import Slot
“Fuck that,” says Hutch. “That’s relationship territory. Hey Prez, I bet you didn’t have to graft like this back in the NHL. I bet they were falling into your bed.”
“Something like that,” I say. They were if you wanted it, but it was just sex; besides, I don’t kiss and tell.
“Did you have a girl in every city?” Bettsy asks.
“No, but it was easy enough to pick someone up,” I say, throwing him a bone. I took no one home and I never had sleepovers. It was always ‘get in, get on, get off and get out’, bringing my own condom, and taking it home with me. I’ve heard horror stories of women fishing used condoms out of the trash to score a payout.
The chat keeps going until Danny makes his way in. He’s late today, and I don’t know where he’s been all afternoon, but I can guess. He sits down and checks his phone before tossing it into his bag.
“You okay, bud?” I ask.
“Yeah.” He leaves it at that and everyone knows better than to press a guy before a game. “Can I borrow some tape, please?” he asks, his voice depleted of any enthusiasm. He’s clearly not himself, so I don’t even bother ribbing him about getting his own tape as I toss him a roll.
My phone pings, and I’m glad to see Jen has finally texted me back. She’s been busy most of the day with the juniors, and I couldn’t make the session because Vicky had me do a promo for season-ticket holders before I took a nap. She fills me in on her morning before telling me about her work contract.
Jen:The offer is much more than I thought it would be, so I’m happy to accept it. Let’s celebrate after you win!
Ryan:Celebrate how? Do I get another kiss?
I haven’t thought about anything other than the kisses and the fact that I want more; I don’t think I’ll ever get enough. My whole body comes to life at the thought of her lips, but I’m worried as we haven’t spoken about the obvious elephant in the room: what the hell are we doing? We’ve managed to avoid that topic altogether when we’ve talked.
Jen replies favourably and wishes me good luck and I finish lacing my skates as the rest of the guys ready up.
Johnny makes his way to the middle of the room, skirting around the logo. He chats to some of the other guys before striding over to me and cocking his head to the side, motioning me to join him for a private chat.
“How are you feeling, Prez? Ready to go?”
“As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.” This is weird. He didn’t even ask me this before the season opener.
Johnny lowers his voice. “Look, I know this is tough for you, and I know you’re struggling with some of the reaction times some of the guys have, but give them a chance to adjust to you too.” He pats me on the shoulder. I know he’s right. “Let’s go,” he booms back to the room. “Warm-ups, boys.”
We head out to the tunnel, Johnny and I are last to leave the dressing room. It’s usually a relatively steady affair, but the queue to the ice has halted.
“What’s the holdup?” I hear our starting tendy, Parker Fforde, ask. He’s six foot six; if anyone can see the front of the line, it’s him.
There’re groans of frustration before Vicky’s blonde plait comes into view. She is, unfortunately, on her phone recording us coming out, stopping everyone in turn. Ffordey sighs, nudging his way to the front, as he’s usually the first one out anyway.
There are mumbles of chatter, and then Ffordey lets out an exasperated sigh.
“Caramel latte with four sugars,” he booms as if he’s reading the same order from a ticket at the drive-through for the hundredth time that day.
Ah, so Vicky wants coffee orders for the socials.
More of the guys step forward and give a response into the tiny mic before she finally gets to me, beckoning me forward.
“Here’s our star forward, Ryan Preston. What’s your order?” I give her a winning smile and tell her mine’s an Earl Grey with milk. Not my order, but I know it’ll amuse Jen. I hate giving out any actual information of credence. I’ve had so many people walk up to me in the past and start listing off my favourite things. It’s creepy.
We’re playing the same team as the opener, and as we skate out, I lock eyes with their #43, Matt Rodgers, who was giving us shit the last time we were against them. Something about one of us sleeping with his girlfriend: I scowl at Bettsy for bringing this beef to our table. I’m usually not too chippy, but I’ll bite if someone pisses me off enough, and us guys are like pack animals; hurt one of us, and you hurt us all.
I do a quick lap of our end and come to a stop at the glass where Jen is standing, tapping the glass to get her attention. Only when she turns around do I see who she’s speaking to. Nathan. He has a brunette on his arm, a shit-eating grin on his face, and Jen looks uncomfortable. I decide to play a bit, so I do a ‘call me’ gesture to Jen with my gloved hand before skating away. I’m still watching them out of the corner of my eye. He’s still saying something to Jen, and I’m watching while I’m stretching on the ice. Danny comes to a stop next to me and drops too.
“What’s his problem?” I ask, eyeing the conversation. Danny gives a quick glance before responding.
“No idea why he’s talking to Jen, but I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s come to show off that chick on his arm. It’s the sort of thing he would do.”
“How much do you know about him?” I ask.
“He’s a dick. That’s all you need to know. Anyway, that Rodgers is giving you eyes, so it looks like we have more pressing problems on the ice,” he says.
