Page 12 of Overtime
I grunt in agreement.
Slowly, I lower myself to my bench and just breathe for a while. Anyone would think goalies have it easier because we don’t have to skate around the ice all game long. But the coaches still make us join skating practice—while wearing bigger, heavier pads. I can’t be faulted for needing a moment.
Glad to report Edwards visited the barrel today. Twice. But I don’t even have the energy to heckle him. I wish a crane could remove my jersey for me.
I grit my teeth and push through as I always do. Not a peep comes out of my mouth even though everything hurts like hell. My jersey makes a wet slapping sound as it hits the floor. I remove my pads at a snail’s pace, one by one. The hardest part is peeling off the undershirt that has fused to my skin. It takes me several tries and a growl before I’m able to tear it off.
“Mierda.” I grunt when I look down at myself and no further layers have magically removed themselves.
“C’mon, the faster we get naked, the faster we can get a cold shower,” Archie says to the room, immediately bringing people’s motivation through the roof. They should’ve made him the captain instead. I couldn’t motivate a mosquito to bite me right now.
Eventually, I manage to haul my bare ass to the showers. I don’t even have enough energy to jump when the freezing spray of water hits my feverish skin. I wipe my face with my hands. This time a basket of steaming salt-sprinkled rustic French fries pops into my mind. And you know what? After this puke-inducing practice, a burger and fries sound perfect. Maybe with a shake.
Wait, no. A beer. Stout. With frost on the glass. And there’s only one place nearby that sells this exact combo.
“Who’s up for O’Malley’s?” I ask.
A roaring chorus of yeses bounces off the bathroom walls.
My muscles ease under the freezing shower. By the time I’m dressed up and out the door, I start feeling almost normal. Except for the fierce growling in my gut.
“You read my mind, Rodriguez. O’Malley’s is exactly what the doctor ordered,” my roommate says as he falls in step beside me. “In fact, this girl from class texted that she and some friends will be there.”
I cut a glance at him and almost blurt out that I’m only going for the food, but that would be too big a bone to throw at this gossip hound. In a second, he would zero in on theonlyand turn it on its head.
We toss our bags full of rank pads into the trunk of my car and join a few guys from the team for the walk over to the only bar on campus. There are many others downtown, but that’s too much effort. And that’s why O’Malley’s is packed every day and night of the week.
Tonight is no exception. There isn’t a single free table in this damn place, but I will eat my burger standing in a corner if I must. I break off from the group and head to the bar to place my order, starting with the stout.
“ID?” the bartender asks, even though I’m here practically every other day.
Sighing, I fish for my wallet and open it before him. He appears as bored as me as he checks my birth date and nods. I turn, leaning my elbows on the bar to scope out the situation. If anyone looks remotely like they’ll be done with their meal or drinks, I will hover over them like a storm cloud until they scamper off.
Waving catches my attention. Archie motions me over to a table with three girls and a handful of Bolts. Moreover, the surface space is pretty clear.
“Here,” the dude behind the bar says, slamming a tall glass of stout onto the bar.
I grab it, enjoying how my fingers stick to the icy surface, and make my way through the crowd to the table.
“Here he is, the infamous Bolts captain in the flesh.” Archie makes a grand sweep of his arm toward me that actually helps clear up space. I slide up to the tall table and finally take a swig of my drink.
“Oh my goodness. It’s such an honor to meet you, Aran,” a girl says, extending a slim hand with very long nails. “I’m Lori Schmitt, and these are my friends, Tiffany Peterson and Rebecca Newman. They go by Tiff and Rebs.”
She called me Aaron. Normally, I’d consider giving her a pass because she’s hot and potentially interested. Today, I don’t give her a pass for precisely those reasons.
When it’s clear I’m not going to shake her hand, Archie chimes in. “Tiff and I have class together, and I figured her friends are our friends, you know?” He gives me a look, the kind that meansbe nice or else.
“Double cheeseburger and fries?” a waiter asks, and I raise my hand.
The vultures lean in while I set the basket of food on the table, and I give them a warning look. Except the Lori chickmust be worse at reading cues than me, or she maybe does it on purpose. She grabs a fry and pops it into her mouth with a smile.
It’s official. She’s on my blacklist.
Her smile falters under the force of my glare. “It’s just a fry!” She titters a high-pitched laugh.
But it’s never just a fry. It starts with one. Then it’s half of the ration. And then it’swhy don’t you tell me you love me?
I know her type. It’s the same kind that got me slapped in front of the entire team a few days ago. The exact type that got me in trouble with Coach. And that I always gravitate to because they seem easy-going at first. We do a little fooling around, and then they want to screw me over.
