“Ihear things are going well with your new chef,” Linc says as he drops beside me in his stall in the dressing room.
“Yeah,” I grunt.
We’re about to head out for our final warm-up before the game starts. He should know better than to talk to me right now.
“Sounds like you’ve got a cozy thing going on with shared breakfasts and dinners. Very domesticated.”
My teeth grind and my fists curl inside my gloves.
“What the fuck are you trying to say, Storm?”
He sits back as if he’s shocked by my tone.
“Nothing, man. Freya’s a great girl. I’m happy for you.”
“She’s my chef, not my girl.”
“Yeah, I know that. But I’m still happy for you.”
I glare at him, silently begging him to shut the fuck up. But the fact of the matter is that he’s right. Freya is fucking awesome. It hasn’t even been a week yet, and already I’m pretty sure hiring her has been one of the best decisions of my life. I swear, I’m eating better than I ever have. Even my previous chefs didn’t put as much thought or love into their food as Freya does. I’malready playing at the top of my game this season, and I can only see that getting better in the coming weeks.
But not only is she a fantastic cook, she’s also a great person, and I’m finding myself looking forward to going home every day—not to be alone, but to actually spend time with someone. It’s weird and so removed from what my life is usually like, but I’m struggling to find it in me to care. The short time we spend eating together in my kitchen is quickly becoming my favorite part of the day.
We’ve got another home game on Monday, and then we’re heading out of town for our next road game. There’s a part of me that’s already dreading it. Then there’s the other part that’s wondering what the fuck is wrong with me.
Never in my life have I cared about coming home to anyone. Ever.
It’s fucking weird to suddenly be wondering if she’ll be there when I get back…if she’ll have missed me.
Focus, asshole.
You’ve got a game. Get your head into it.
I squeeze my eyes closed and try to block everything out.
Some of the guys choose to put headphones in to help focus, but I prefer silence, which is impossible with these assholes surrounding me.
“We’re heading to the Fractured Compass tonight, right?” Monroe, our rookie, asks after he bounds over like a Labrador puppy who hasn’t seen his owner for a week.
I don’t realize the growl that rumbles through the air comes from me until Monroe turns his excited eyes my way and instantly deflates.
“Fletch,” I bark, glancing across the dressing room at our captain. “Keep your fucking rookie in check; he’s more excited about getting drunk after the game than he is winning.”
Fletch jerks his chin in acknowledgment before nodding in Monroe’s direction. “Marilyn,” he barks. “The fuck are you doing, talking to Handsy right now?”
Monroe’s head drops, and he instantly backs away. “Sorry, Cap. I’m excited. My sister and parents have come to watch the game.”
“That’s great, kid. How about you focus on giving them something to celebrate?”
“You got it,” he mumbles before dropping into his stall and pulling his cell out.
As the rest of the guys continue getting dressed around me, I run through footage from the game tape we’ve been watching in preparation for tonight. I can see their first line wingers as if they’re physically in front of me. I can also see the plays they prefer, the direction they prefer to shoot from, and their exact stance when they do.
I’m confident. Even more so with Donnelly and Killer in front of me. Those assholes shouldn’t get anywhere near the crease with D men like those two protecting me.
Glancing up, I find Donnelly already dressed, his elbows resting on his knees and his head lowered.
Clearly, he’s giving off better “leave me the fuck alone” vibes than I am, because no motherfucker is talking to him right now.
