Page 9 of These Wicked Games
My normally very unserious man-slut of a friend Ryker’s frown deepens. “I should have been careful. Fucking Rome. He’s going to kill someone one of these days. I should have—”
“It wasn’t your fault.” Grey squeezes the back of his neck. “I saw it. You were shoved right into him.” For someone with a nickname like “The Wolf,” you’d think Grey would be scary. The opposite. Grey is the glue that holds us all together. He’s our pack leader. Yes, I am captain, but I’m not exactly what you’d call the voice of reason. He’s our alternate captain. Greyson “The Wolf” Tremblay leads us all out of the darkness with a calm and steady hand. “He’s going to be okay. Alright?” He squeezes harder. I watch Ryker take a breath before nodding and smiling gratefully at Grey.
“I want to visit him. Will you guys go with me when we’re allowed?” Ryker asks.
“Of course,” I say. “You want to go out with us tonight?”
“Oli has to tinkle first,” Grey jokes.
Ryker just rolls his eyes. He’s another one who knows about my situation, just not that Andre is the reason behind it. “Nah. Not in a partying mood.”
“Shit, you know he’s upset.” Atlas chuckles, walking into the room with just his underwear on. “When does Kiki ever go to bed without a beautiful woman warming it?” Ryker laughs but I see it for the forced thing it is.
“I’m beat. Just not up for it. That was a hell of a game, though.”
I agree, the Vipers are something else.
Which leads me down a path I don’t want to think about. Andre Assface Tavares. No,assfaceis not his middle name, but it might as well be. Whatever, I can’t go down that path right now, and thankfully we won’t have to play them again for a couple of months.
“Go shower. Go take a piss.” Grey slaps my back. “Then we’ll go out.”
A distraction, that’s all we need right now.
three
Oli
You could say hockey players are superstitious.
My friends and I are no exception.
Grey wears the same socks every time we have an away game. They’re blue with little ducks on them, the ones his niece had gotten him for Christmas a few years ago. Atlas has to listen to ABBA before a game, while he gets ready in the locker room. Me? I don’t know if I have any superstitions, but I do talk to my mother in my head before each game. I think that’s less superstition and more I need it. All I say is that I miss her, I wish she were here to share it with me, and to wish me luck. My mother grew to love hockey as much as I did.
Then we have our victorytradition at away games.
After every win at an away game, Greyson, Atlas, and I find some obscure dive bar after drinks with the team. The more remote the better. If it looks like the set of a horror film . . . perfect. It’s not that we aren’t as close with the other guys, it’s just that after drinks with the team, everyone else either goes back to their hotel to talk to their families, wives, girlfriends, or takes back a woman they met at the bar.
Not us. This is tradition.
“This place looks like a shithole,” Grey says.
Which means it’s perfect.
I look over to Atlas rubbing his fingers through his hair. Something’s been a bit off with us all. I saw what happened on replays, and being there on the ice seems to have shaken him a bit. I clap my hand on Atlas’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze, and he swings those electric blue eyes to me. I honestly thought when he first got signed that he dyed his hair; it’s such a striking contrast.
Grey has been with the Otters for almost twelve years. He was drafted when he was twenty and has been lucky enough to call Oregon home this entire time. He’s a lifer. This game and his team are his world, along with his sister Alyssa and her six-year-old daughter. He’s gotten many offers to trade, more lucrative contracts, and better teams, but he loves it here. We instantly clicked when I got signed, and Grey was one of the few people to believe my story about the drug test.
Atlas got signed two years ago, and while he is only twenty-four, we kind of adopted him into our group. We’re all close, but it’s like Greyson feels responsible for him even though Atlas is eight years younger than him. We’re all best friends, but I know Grey knows about Atlas’s upbringing—something he’s never shared with me.I don’t know why, and I’m okay with that. It’s his story and he has a right to tell anyone he wants. We’re all close, and our different ages and experience levels don’t matter, because when the three of us are out on the ice at the same time, we’re nearly unbeatable.
Walking up to the tiny hole in the wall, we pass people who are outside smoking. Some stop talking to watch us as we walk up to the door, and the same anxiety hits me like it always does going somewhere new. You never know if you’re welcome. This isn’t our home turf, and we won tonight. Hockey may not be as popular as football or basketball, but in the areas where hockey is strong, the fans go hard. We never know what reception we’ll get going out, and maybe that’s why we do it. The adrenaline. We try to pick a new place every time.
Stale smoke, beer, and something sharp like patchouli hits us as we enter the dive. Tables and booths line the walls. The place is dimly lit with some blues singer crooning from the speakers, and most of the bar stools are full. Loud chatter makes it a bit deafening. Some eyes swing to us, most of them stunned, and a couple seem to glare but then turn back to their company. We mind our own buisness. We’re here to drink and hold up tradition.
We slide into a booth that could probably fit four to five normal-sized people, but Grey and Atlas cram into one side while I slide into the other. Atlas cranes his neck, no doubt checking out the fishing pond he’s stumbled into. “Could’ve taken any number of chicks home at the last bar.” Grey shakes his head.
“Yeah, but we always go out after. I’m not going to fuck this up. This is tradition, Grey! It’s holy. Sacred. Like peanut butter ice cream, or gapless thighs.” Atlas groans as if he’s thinking about it.Grey just rolls his eyes, shaking his head. “At least I can get chicks, father time.”
“Fuck off. I’m not that old.” Grey’s eyes flick to me, uneasy. “Maybe I’m saving myself for marriage.”
