Page 77 of Against the Odds
I laughed and nipped his chin. “Some other time. Right now, let me kiss you till you quit catastrophizing.” I caught his lips with mine. His mouth tasted of weak coffee, and he kissed me like he was drowning. I met him, wild need for need, but then gentled things, broke away from his lips to kiss his jaw, his cheek, his temple.
Callum took a long, shaky breath, and wrapped his arms around me, laying his head on my shoulder. “You’re a good person to have around, y’know?”
“Don’t turn my head with too much praise or anything.” I smiled, but inside I was frantically hoping this wouldn’t turn out to be a big mistake.
CHAPTER 19
CALLUM
I skated out onto the ice for Sunday’s game against the Archers feeling like I might throw up right there in my own crease. The last five days had been a total shit show. Zeke’s friend’s friend, Valencia, was an awesome, tough-looking Black woman in her forties who’d listened intently and asked me a bunch of relevant questions, then recorded an official statement. But the next day, before we Foxes flew off to Bakersfield, she handed me off to some underlings who seemed bored by my whole situation.
After two hours of going through online mugshots, trying to find “Mr. Smith,” I gave up without identifying him. You’d think someone who loomed so large in my life would be unforgettable, but by the fifth guy who was a “maybe,” I realized I was shitty at remembering faces. I hadn’t thought he was that important at the time. All I recalled was middle-aged, short, stocky, white face, dark hair. Could’ve been anyone.
Uncle Wayne knew who he was, of course, but the GREC agents were just tracking my uncle, giving him a long rope, I guess.
And then, after being totally useless for the cops, I had to get on a plane and play like nothing was happening. I tried to sleep in the air, tried to nap at the hotel, and failed at both. I was sofucked up in warmups that Coach put Brosky in net for game one instead of game two. We lost four to one that night, and even though I backstopped a three-two overtime win the next night, Coach wasn’t happy with me.
After our plane got in around noon Friday, I’d headed home, trying to get some rest, but things were awkward with Grandpa. He said he hadn’t seen Uncle Wayne since he picked up his stuff, and also hadn’t seen the truck. He asked if I’d been tracking Uncle Wayne with my app, and since I didn’t want to explain why the cops were involved now, I said no. Pretty sure he knew I was lying, though. I’d never been good at that.
So another restless night. Another breakfast when Grandpa looked at me like he didn’t understand me. A practice where I was marginally better than Brosky, though not by much. Then last night, the game I was supposed to win. I honestly thought about losing, but my competitive streak wouldn’t let me. We pulled it off, taking down the Archers five to two.
This morning, Grandpa had gone to the store early, like he didn’t want to see me. And now, here I was. Game two of the back-to-back. Ordered to lose to the Archers tonight. About to lose my lunch, for one thing.
Zeke was up in the stands. I didn’t want to know where. Not a distraction I could handle. Assuming he’d showed up. He’d insisted he was coming, even swapped for a graveyard shift next week with someone, so he could make it. I wanted him far from the whole mess, but he’d refused, and secretly I was glad.
I took my place on the blue line. The lights went down, then the spots came up. The anthem played. Just Canada’s this time, since the Archers were from Edmonton. I’d have been good with both, to delay the start.
Win? Lose?The GREC boys wanted me to lose. Lose, take the payoff, keep stringing Mr. Smith along, wear a recorder, get evidence. Uncle Wayne had called me last night to remind me ofthe threats, to my career, to Grandpa. He laughed when I raged at him and I’d failed to make the recording work on my phone.
I want to win this one, more than I want a Cup. I’m going to win it.Fuck Uncle Wayne and fuck Mr. Smith and all the cops incapable of doing their jobs without turning me into a criminal.
As soon as the music was done, I skated to my net and began roughing up my crease the way I liked it.Nothing’s getting past me today. Suck it, Archers and Mr. Smith.I hunkered down and stopped a dangerous rush off the opening faceoff, totally in the groove.
By the second intermission, my groove was ragged around the edges. I stomped down to the locker room and stopped in the doorway, staring around the room. My teammates were subdued, reflecting the fact that the Archers had shut us out through two periods of play. I had a shutout going too, but we’d spent most of last period scrambling to defend in our own zone, not scoring for shit. I really wanted a nice fat cushion.
I need this one.
“What the fuck is up with you losers?” I snapped. The guys looked up, surprise on their faces because my intermission routine was to sit in my spot and drink my Gatorade and eat my snack and ignore everything around me. Especially with a shutout in play. But I was beyond pissed off. “How about scoring a goal or two? Last night, you had five. Tonight, you’re sitting around with your thumbs up your asses while they dogpile on me. This is Edmonton, for fuck’s sake. Two games out of last place in the entire league! Why are they whipping around you like you’re peewee players in the learn-to-skate class?”
“Come on, Fitzer,” Sully placated me. “We’re having an off night, but we’ll get it together. There’s a whole period left, and we’re tied.”
“We’re tied because I’m doing my fucking job! How about some of you assholes?—”
“Fitzer!” Hobbes snapped as he pushed to his feet. “Lay off your teammates. Everyone here wants to win just as much as you do.”
“I doubt that!” I strode to my locker, got out my drink, and slammed the door so hard it bounced open again. So I slammed it some more. Maybe five times.
Until Hobbes caught my wrist. “Quit that. Simmer down.”
I yanked free. “Don’t fucking tell me what to do. We’re going to win this game or I’m going to shove my stick up some asses. Blade first.”
“Why does it matter so much?” Sully asked. “It’s one game. We’re having a great season. Yeah, we all want to fucking win, but no one else is losing their mind over it. Why can’t you chill?”
“Itmatters!” I looked around. All the guys were staring at me, eyes wide, like I was some kind of freak. I couldn’t tell them why I needed the win, but the sudden temptation to shock them, to give them an actual reason to look at me that way, rocked me. Without thinking, I said, “My fucking boyfriend is out there watching me play and I don’t want him to see us acting like a bunch of losers!”
I froze.What the fuck did I just say?
Hobbes blinked.
