Page 5 of Wake Me Up
“I’m not an asshole, you know,” I say quickly, a bit offended. “I do know how to communicate with people.”
Flashing an amused look, he smirks. “Well, all righty then. Put on your happy pants and be ready to teach some kids, motherfucker.”
“Oh, I’ll be ready,” I utter as he skates off, heading toward Walker James and a few others.
Once he’s gone, I drop down onto the ice and start some stretches, and instantly, I fight a wince when a pain shoots across my hip.
Coming out of nowhere, Kolt Kolburne steps onto the ice. He’s in his sneakers because of an injury a few weeks ago that took him out of the season early.
“You know, eventually, you’re going to have to stop ignoring the pain, fuckhead.” He keeps his voice low, making sure nobody hears him.
Kolt is quiet, like me. Or I guess I should say, we just aren’t as loud as most of the dudes on our team. Even though he’s quiet, he sees absolutely everything.
Kolt is sort of the voice of reason on the team, even though he’d roll his eyes if we told him that.
“I’m not ignoring it, asshole. I go to PT multiple times a week. I’m just getting old.”
“Is that why you’re so ugly?” He smirks, narrowing his eyes. “I’ve been wondering for a while now.”
“Yeah, yeah. Don’t be jealous, Kolburne,” I say and give him the finger. I continue stretching, not giving him the satisfaction that it hurts as bad as it does. Wear and tear—that’s all it is. I’ve been playing at this level for a long-ass time, and my body is tired.
“Well, be careful making those faces while you’re stretching, big guy,” he mumbles. “Coaches see that, and that new, fresh,younggoalie they’ve got coming in may be taking your place.”
He says it as a joke, but I know there’s a hidden message. Kolt and I don’t have to come out and say how we’re feeling; we’re so much alike that we just pick up on shit that our teammates would miss. So, I know Kolt is telling me that if I don’t get it together and fix my body, I will be replaced.
He doesn’t realize part of me wants that.
“Anyway, a bunch of us are going to Cambridge’s after practice to watch the football game. You in?”
“Since you asked, handsome, I’ll be there,” I say, and he gives me the slightest head nod before exiting the ice.
These guys are my family. I can’t imagine what life would be like if I wasn’t around them every single day.
I glance up at the clock, noting that I have roughly six minutes to finish frosting these cinnamon buns before I need to leave to pick up the kids from school. Which would be okay for anyone who can frost messily, but that is not me.
My grandfather moves some things around in the case, no doubt taking inventory in his head of what we need to restock tonight. He may be eighty-two, but he’s here working every single day. My grandmother passed away a few years back, and he’s worked himself to the bone every day since.I guess I can relate because it’s been five years since Jamie passed away and I still can hardly stand to sit idle for too long.
“The apple fritters were a hit today,” Gramp says, still with his head down toward the bakery case. “So were the éclairs.”
“Strange because, last week, we didn’t sell many of either of those,” I toss back, putting some icing on the last two cinnamon buns as carefully as I can with the time I have left before chucking the knife in the sink.
“Don’t forget that tomorrow is the day that hotshot hockey player comes in and buys all of our doughnuts,” my grandfather says, shuffling over toward me. “Let’s be sure we’re prepared.”
“Already on it, Gramp,” I say with a smile, thinking of the famous hockey player, Smith Sawyer, who comes in weekly, buys all of our doughnuts, and then takes them to the homeless shelter, even though he doesn’t admit that he does it. “The kids had a late start this morning because of a pipe issue at school, so they came in and helped me before you got here.”
“Of course they did,” he says proudly. “You’d best be going now.” He nods toward the window. “The traffic is looking thick out there.”
I wash my hands quickly and peel my apron off before hanging it on the worn shelf. Leaning forward, I kiss his cheek. “Love you. See you tomorrow.”
“You know, you can take the day off. We have that dipshit working a few hours tomorrow,” he grumbles. “I’ll be fine.”
I roll my eyes, heading for the back door. “That dipshit’s name is Jasper, and he’s a nice kid.”
I shake my head at my grandfather. He loves to pretend he’s the biggest asshole, even though he has a heart of gold.
“You know, Frey, you can tell a lot about the path a fellow is headed in life judging by the direction of his hat,” he says, still grumbling. “I’ll give you a hint: Jasper wears his backward.”
I don’t even laugh because I’m used to the ridiculous sayings he comes up with, and I don’t bother to tell him that Jasper is a sixteen-year-old kid. Of course he wears his hat backward. Hell, I see a lot of grown men doing it, and some of them even pull it off too.
