Page 7 of Cherry Picking
He’s a force to be reckoned with, and one that gets my blood boiling with enough adrenaline to strain the cup beneath my uniform.
Instant infatuation and hero worship never make for a good combo, but goddamn is he an incredible player and good looking as hell and matches my wit like we’re tossing ping pong balls instead of snark.
It’s not like Coach’s grueling practice schedule has left me much time or energy for hooking up and ridding myself of this overdose of sexual tension.
A wrench hits my ankle—not hard—but enough that I frown and look down to see Locke peering at me.
“Why don’t you go grab us some lunch?”
Maybe he knows I need a distraction—or maybe he’s just hungry—but I don’t hesitate to grab the wallet he holds out to me.
“What do you want?”
He shrugs. “Surprise me.”
“Just for that you’re getting corn dogs. From Sonic.”
He wrinkles his nose and pushes back under the car.
I’m not heartless. As much as I want that Route 44, I know greasy food isn’t on Locke’s top list of dietary choices. He’ll eat sugar until his teeth rots, but super greasy fast foods? Not so much.
It never stops being strange: walking the town I grew up in. It never stops feeling like the last five years didn’t happen. Like Iimagined my entire hockey career, and here I am with a blunt reminder that I never made it. Even if being a pro at the top of the hockey food chain was never really my goal, it still stings.
I’ve seen every major city in America and several in Canada; I’ve been around the block. That doesn’t mean people don’t talk, and in small town Tennessee life, folks love nothing more than juvenile gossip.
“I hear he’s a real hot head. Channels all that anger and aggression into beating people up. What kind of sport allows players to brawl in the middle of a game? It’s uncouth.”
Ah. Gotta love middle aged white women who never learned to keep their voices down.
I’m used to being the center of gossip.
I’m brash.
I’m vulgar.
I’m rude and disrespectful.
Because I have no intentions of hiding who I am.
Because I’ve decked more homophobes on the ice than hockey pucks I’ve caught.
Because people mistake my loyalty for insubordination.
Fuck ‘em.
Any insults they hurl my way, I can take.
This local sub shop is one of Locke’s favorites and the only place that accommodates his weird taste for chili cheese buffalo chicken. I know. Combination flavor overload. But it puts some meat on his twiggy bones, so I won’t deprive him of his monstrosity.
Waiting in line would be a much more enjoyable experience if the ladies at the table beside it would shut up for—I don’t know—the five minutes I’ll have to stand here.
“Did you hear about his father? Poor man had a heart attack last year when his youngest son?—”
“Hey!” I bark in my fiercest goalie voice, causing both of the ladies to jump and snap their wide-eyed gazes over to me. “Mind your manners when you’re talking about someone’s family three feet away from them.”
I might not be a household name, but no one forgets the local screw ups.
The ladies whisper amongst themselves with pointed looks in my direction, no doubt continuing their shit talk out of earshot. Which is fine. Bitch and moan about me all you want, but leave my family out of it.
