No such luck. He was very much still awake when I walked through the door. Actually, awake might not be the right term. His eyes were open, and he was staring at the TV screen, which wasrunning through highlights on ESPN, but he definitely wasn’t seeing anything.
He jolted when I let the hotel room door slam shut on its own. When his eyes landed on me they were wide, as if he was shocked to see me. “Sorry,” he apologized for no reason, then looked away. This time, out the window towards the glimmering Vegas lights instead of at the television.
I took off my shoes. “You good?”
“Yep!” A fake smile crossed the half of his face I could see.
Frowning, I rubbed the back of my neck. He was clearly distressed, but I had to weigh my options about how much I cared. Surprisingly, it was more than I liked, which is still niggling in my subconscious today while I rack weights. Especially after seeing his body language across the restaurant while he was having dinner with his father. “You sure?”
He still didn’t face me, but he nodded. “Yeah. I’m sure.”
Still not convinced, I pressed. “I’m sorry about Bouchard. He doesn’t always know when to quit.”
Connor finally turned and really looked at me. Studied me. As if he was trying to decipher my angle. I didn’t have one. “Really, Gavin. I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”
I nodded and left it at that, then went to brush my teeth and stripped down to my briefs to go to bed. When I exited the bathroom, the TV and his bedside light were off. He’d also rolled onto his side facing away from me, but I could tell he was still awake. I said nothing more, got into bed, and closed my eyes.
It took me longer to fall asleep than usual. On road trips with the Blizzards, I usually room with Tavish, who’s a snorer and talks in his sleep. You’d think that would be more annoying. But the silence coming from Connor’s side of the room was unnerving. It was an uneasy calm. The kind that comes during a series of storms where one has blown out and another is blowing in with the murmuring of thunder echoing in the distance.
Logically, I knew it had nothing to do with me. But even now as I place another set of fifty-pound plates onto the bar balancedin the standing squat rack, I wonder if I should have pressed him more. Or would it have been better if I hadn’t returned at all?
Which is ridiculous. Besides, that’s not an option. I have to sleep somewhere, and despite what everyone thinks of me, I prefer a bed over a random floor. I’m no longer a feral Alaskan child. I am housebroken now, after all.
Connor
I’m the first to arrive in the conference room the team has reserved for breakfast, team meetings, and watching game film. It’s not ideal. But they’ve done a good job of making it functional for us. There are three rows of rectangular tables and chairs to sit at, but I’m willing to bet that over the course of this week we’ll manage to break most of them. Hockey players aren’t really known for being delicate on our surroundings.
Thankfully, the hotel understood the assignment with the food; there’s a mountain of breakfast options for us to choose from. Bacon, eggs, biscuits, garlic and rosemary potatoes, fresh fruit, orange juice, and a ton of coffee, plus individual boxes of cereal and some grab-and-go snacks. I’m tempted to start eating already but choose instead to wait for the rest of my teammates, who are slowly trickling in.
Most of them look like they had a rough night. Or more accurately, like they’re having a rough morning after a fun night of too much Las Vegas. I won’t lie. When they announced this was where we were holding training camp, I worried about it looking exactly like this. It’s to be expected. We’re a group of men, mostly under the age of thirty. The prime demographic for Las Vegas fun. Even Coach Chris looks like he had one too many of God knows what last night. Food, drinks, gambling? The potential for indulgence is endless.
I guess having a miserable dinner with my father has some benefits to it. And besides, as team captain it is up to me to set a good example. Which is exactly what I try to do as I greet them all.
“Fuck off, Skipper,” Bradley Warren growls at me when I say good morning. He’s dragging ass as he walks in, smelling like spilled beer and wearing sunglasses that aren’t hiding the sprinkling of glitter he has on his face, concentrated around his mouth.
“Don’t mind him,” Bouchard says, looking not much better, but at least he’s being friendly towards me… for once. I wonder if that’s Gavin’s doing. “I found his ass down at The Strip’s Strip a few hours ago.”
That explains the glitter.
“Don’t act innocent.” Bradley slings an arm over Bouchard’s shoulders, then rubs his knuckles into Bouchard’s wet hair. At least one of them managed to take a shower. “If it wasn’t for Franklin pouring us into a cab we’d still be there.”
Max Franklin, a left wing who plays for Seattle, shakes his head at them. The motion makes him turn green. “I’m never hanging out with you two degenerates again.”
“Trust us,” Bouchard says. “We don’t want to hang out with you either.” He looks at Bradley and they both grin and dramatically say together, apparently imitating Max, “My wife is gonna murder me.”
Max gives them the finger, then fills himself a mug of coffee that he drinks black.
“Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in,” Bouchard says, and I turn to see who he’s talking about, even though I already have an idea who it is. Gavin.
“You’re one to talk,” Gavin says as he looks Bouchard up and down. “What litter box did you get pulled out of?”
“The Strip’s Strip,” Bradley says as he takes a seat at one of the tables with a plate of food. He removes his sunglasses and rubs his temples.
“You should come with us next time,” Bouchard says.
“No, he shouldn’t,” Bradley says and begins eating. “If he shows up, we won’t get any action. He’ll scare off all the chicks.”
I frown and turn away from their conversation to fill my plate. I get it. Partying and strip clubs and all the rest are par forthe course. I know how it is. There’s always a group of guys on every team who can’t resist the allure of that kind of a good time. But for some reason, I hate the thought of Gavin being one of them. It doesn’t seem to fit.
