Page 2 of Shutout
A trickle of ice crawls up my spine and I shiver to try to shake it off, but it still rises up to claw at my neck. Thanks to the therapist that the court mandated after my parents’ divorce, I recognize what’s happening. And I latch into whatever is around me to not acknowledge my good ol’ rejection sensitivity.
“Seriously?” I whirl around. “We just had the most embarrassing game in Thunder Bolts history, and you want to party?”
“What’s it matter with you, pretty boy?”
Sighing, I turn around to face the departing captain. Liam Roberts. He’s wearing the same smirk that has ruined my life in more ways than one.
“Like, chill. You’re already drafted. You’ll bust your ass here for two more years before they send you to some farm team. No need to act like tonight was the end of your career.”
It’s like this dude never got the memo that nothing in life is guaranteed. Unfortunately, I got it via first class mail, by email, by text, from a messenger bird, and even damn fax just in case I forgot.
Liam Roberts and I are the same in some ways, but theopposite in most. He’s also the son of a former NHL player. The genes and the clout have definitely favored him his entire life on and off the ice. He’s used to winning in life, and maybe that’s why this team doesn’t matter to him. He thinks he’s got it made. But I doubt that him dragging his feet around the ice is going to look good to the franchise that drafted him two years ago. His prophecy that a farm team comes next is coming true for himself from what I’ve heard.
Me? I’m also the son of a former NHL player. In addition, I’m also the son of a former Victoria’s Secret model. My genes are the literal only thing I’ve won at in life. Everything else has been a pathetic Greek tragedy, and maybe that’s why I’m hungry for a big W.
“Every game is the end all be all,” I say in a low voice. Slowly, I force a smile onto my face. “But sure, let’s have a party tonight to celebrate your mediocrity.”
“What the hell did you just say?”
Dane breaks into an exaggerated holler. “Party at the Bolt House!”
“Yeah!” One of the juniors hollers back, not realizing that Dane was being sarcastic as shit.
Liam glares at me and I turn away from him to pull my jersey over my head. If I can have it my way, this will be the last time I exchange any words with this asswipe in my life. His coasting and douchebaggery will take him straight to an abyss, but I’ll keep climbing out of my own.
“You okay?” Dane asks beside me.
Even though he doesn’t know all my deepest, darkest secrets, Dane’s the only person in this team who can read me like an open book. Liv used to say I should only play poker and with her after making millions of dollars in the pros, just so she could win every cent off me.
Thinking about her makes me even more sour, though.
“No,” I admit.
He flops on the bench beside me and bends down to unlace his skates. “We’ll be better next year.”
Will we? But I don’t voice my doubts aloud. He knows Liam corrupted the juniors too, and then there’s the fact that Coach Green seems to have given up on us.
I shake my head hard to push that thought away from my head. There’s only so much catastrophe my pea brain can take in one night.
So, after showering and changing into an Armani suit, I climb onto my Jeep Gladiator—both courtesy of my father’s plastic—and head back to the Bolts House.
A few years ago, after the first generation of Thunder Bolts started putting the team on the North Eastern map, some St. Cloud alumni banded up to become our first boosters. Since our facilities were already top of the line, they instead bought this massive Victorian mansion near Main Street. It’s more or less the team’s frat house even though only ten people can live in it.
Once I reach my room on the ground floor, I toss my duffel bag under my desk and lock the door. Leaning my head back, I close my eyes against the prospect of an entire night dwelling on the loss and what that means for the program.
Should I just transfer to another college with a better team? Maybe this time I should pick one on the west coast. That way I could pretend the distance between me and the people I wish gave a shit about me is the reason why they don’t.
“Sorry, guys.” I mutter to the signed posters from Max Cassiano and Aran Rodriguez, both in their pro team jerseys. “I really wanted to follow in your footsteps, but it looks like I’m gonna have to veer off.”
For now, I’m going to ditch this place for the night. I remove the suit jacket and toss it on my bed, followed by the tie. Before taking off my pants, I pull out the cellphone fromthe pocket and catch sight of a million notifications, none of which are missed calls or texts from my parents.
Whatever.
After changing into jeans and an Aelfric Eden graphic T-shirt, I pick my phone up again and fire up a text to Dane so he also ditches this joint. And because he’s not quick enough to answer, I switch to check some of my notifications starting by Instagram.
The first post that pops up is from Liv and my entire attention zeroes in on it. It’s just a picture of her hand, thumb down. All the rings she used to wear are missing and her nails are clear of polish. I recognize the sleeve of her sweatshirt as a St. Cloud branded one, which would’ve been too preppy for her until she started dating McDude.
The caption reads,The last thing I want to do is go to a party at the Bolt House and yet?—
