Page 2 of Cherry Picking
I climb out with a laugh and grab my gear out of the bed, but Locke stops me with a two fingered whistle.
“My place is open as long as you need it. I’m really fucking happy you’re home, Griff.”
I give him a salute and a smile before his sappiness rubs off on me. The last thing I need is to walk into the team gym with onions in my eyes and take a round of ribbing before I’ve even learned anyone’s names.
It’s a strange kind of familiarity staring at the Hornet’s arena. Being back where it all started. I never played for my home team—jumping straight to Vancouver’s farm team—but it still feels like the cycle is coming full circle.
It feels final. Like I either make this work, or my time in the PHL might just be through.
No pressure or anything.
The gym has its own entrance with a keycard swipe, so I pull my lanyard out of my t-shirt and step inside the room of sweat and testosterone that smells exactly like where I want to be.
The guys are scattered, so it doesn’t seem like anyone notices me slip in. I use that to my advantage, finding a corner to drop my gear in and popping my wireless earbuds out to get started.
My days always start with the treadmill. Breath control, endurance, focus, all things a good goaltender needs. All things I’m excellent at so long as I can keep my head.
I get so lost in it that I don’t notice someone taking up the machine beside me until they clear their throat. Pulling one of my earbuds out, I glance over to find a surprisingly pretty face.
Here’s the thing about hockey players: we’re very rarely pretty. We’re lots of hard lines, bruises, broken teeth, and oftentimes ragged. So seeing someone with soft lines on their youthful face and long, light lashes that make their doe eyes pop is a little jarring.
“Foster, right?”
Even their voice is a little higher than most of the gruff players I interact with.
I offer him a hand that he gladly takes. “Yup. Griffin Foster.”
“Evan Hawks. Captain.”
When I raise my brow, his face breaks out into a grin. “I get that reaction a lot.”
“How old are you?”
Hawks rolls his eyes, but his smile holds strong. “Twenty-three. I have a baby face.”
My own lips twitch, but I refrain from any unnecessary comments.
First day on the team, Griff, behave.
“Are you here to give me the fear of God speech?”
The laughter that comes out echoes through the room, catching nearby players’ attention.
“Fuck no. I advocated for this switch; I’m fucking thrilled that you’re here.”
I scoff but can’t stop the forming grin. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. We’ve been complacent with our low rankings for too long. You kick ass and take names. We could use some of that fire.”
He’s almost too animated and chipper for my taste, but there’s something about that pleading smile that softens the anxious knot in my gut.
If cute were what I went for, Hawks might be a tempting body to latch onto. He’s short, but his physique is strong and well defined. But fucking around with teammates is a hard no.
Made that mistake.
Learned my lesson.
I have the crooked nose to prove it.
