Page 35 of Check the Halls
Don’t read into it, I tell myself.
Fuck that. I’m going to read into it a little. I take my time putting the new shirt on. I know I’m in the best shape of my life and as far as I’m concerned, she can look all she likes.
“I usually run shirtless,” Austin tells Maddy. Is he flexing?
“This is a fundraiser for children, Austin,” I warn. “So you’ll wear the shirt.”
“Okay, fine. But if my nipples chafe, I’m blaming you.”
A throat clears behind him.
“Excuse me, is this where we get the race shirts?” A striking, tall brunette stands just behind Austin, her long hair woven into braided pigtails that fall past her shoulders. There’s an effortless confidence in the way she carries herself. Her toned arms and strong posture scream athlete. She seems familiar, though I can’t place where I’ve seen her before. She looks past Austin, directing her question to Maddy, either completely unaware or uninterestedin the way Austin openly gapes at her, his jaw practically on the pavement.
“It sure is,” Maddy says, smiling at her.
“Great. Can I get eleven for the Minks, please?”
Realization dawns on me. That’s how I know her.
“You’re Bailey Gates.” I recognize the Ottawa Minks goalie from her poster in our shared training facility. Not only is she one of the top goalies in the PWHL, she’s from a family of professional athletes. The entire family are essentially Canadian sports royalty.
“That’s me.” She nods at me in acknowledgement.
“I’m Ben–”
“Ben Michaels. Otters defenseman. Three-time All-Star, top five in scoring for D, one hundred and fifty-six blocked shots last year.”
Bailey lists off hockey stats easier than breathing. Her praise seems to have shaken Austin from his trance. “Impressive,” he says as he looks her over, slowly. “Now do me.”
Bailey gives him a scrutinising look, one eyebrow lifting. “I’m sorry—who are you?”
There’s some chuckles from teammates within earshot. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Austin blush before.
Maddy hides a smile as she hoists the bag of shirts and hats up over her shoulder. “I’ll come to you,” she offers. Her eyes flash to mine briefly before she walks away with Bailey. I watch her go, admiring how her tights hug her round ass as respectfully as I can.
“Do you think she really doesn’t know who I am?” Austin looks utterly lost.
“I think not enough men talk about the dangers ofnipple chafing,” Will says, throwing an arm around his shoulders.
“Yeah. Thank you for your bravery.” Foster tags on pulling his Santa hat onto his head.
“Oh shit!” Will grins as he watches him. “Everybody—hang on to your Santa hats for the Halloween party!”
Groans break out from every Otter player. The team’s Halloween party at a downtown nightclub called Jinx is an annual tradition. Another tradition is to have a shootout competition during the preseason. Whoever wins this shootout gets to pick the theme of the Halloween party. Last year the theme was horror movies, the year before was 80’s themed. This year, to everyone’s dismay, Will won the shootout and declared, on the spot, that this year’s theme would be Christmas.
Will was booed off the ice that day and the entire team gave him shit about it for weeks. But as usual, no one was able to stay mad at him for long.
The fun run is a blast. The route was planned around some of Ottawa’s most well-known landmarks. We run by Parliament Hill, the War Memorial, Château Laurier, the Shaw Centre, and along the Rideau Canal. Even though it’s only a 5 kilometre fun run, Maddy has kid-manned water stations set up often. Near the end, we’re all so hot from running in the sun wearing Santa hats that we start encouraging the kids to throw the water at us.
After we cross the finish line, I pose for promotional pictures with Annika Lei. A bunch of kids have brought their jerseys and we all spend some time signing autographs and chatting with families.
I’m pleasantly surprised to see Sam and his mom inthe crowd and excitedly call them over. I invited them at the last minute and didn’t think they’d make it. Elliot is dressed in mismatched scrubs. Her blonde hair is piled on top of her head, a pen and what looks like a hi-liter sticking out of the messy bun. Her bright eyes almost mask the dark circles under her eyes.
Sam wears his signature ensemble— a pair of jeans, an oversized hoodie, and a look of pure indifference.
“I don’t want your autograph,” Sam deadpans when they approach.
“Keep telling yourself that, lil’ buddy.”
