Like I needed the fucking reminder. I grab my helmet and skate back to the goal, wondering if this is all worth it. When my contract with the Sharks ended, I was a free agent, and no other team wanted to pick me up based on my overabundant presence in the press. But the Foxes were desperate for a goalie with playoff experience, and my baby brother vouched for me.
The brother who has always hated me for being an Alpha and playing in the NHL is the reason why I’m here.
Isn’t that some shit?
That whole time, he’d been jealous of me, pushing me away because I was a reminder of the things he wasn’t so easily given. I worked hard to get where I am, and more often than not, I find myself wanting exactly what Owen has.
I’d say the tables have turned, but there was never a time that I didn’t want to be a part of Owen’s life or have some jealousy over the close relationship he has with our mother.
I groan, hating that I feel like a depressive sack of shit.
Despite my inner turmoil, I get through practice without another altercation, but I do have to deal with my brother critiquing every single fucking move I make.
This is going to be a long season.
Going back to my undecorated, overly gray, lonely apartment just didn’t feel right. With the need to improve my image, I don’t go to a bar. Instead, I find myself at a mom-and-pop diner that blessedly sells alcohol.
The combination of omelet and a Jack and Coke is a depressing one, but it’s better than going to a bar, drinking too much, taking home the first person who touches my arm, and then waking up the next morning to see my face plastered on the internet.
It’s not that I don’t want anything deeper with anyone, it just seems like no one is truly interested in getting to know me. I’m a good lay, but I’m not sure if I’m worth much else.
I look around for my waitress to get a refill, and when she doesn’t come by, I wave a hand at the man working on the nearby tables.
“Hey, can I get another?” I ask him as he turns around. He looks strangely familiar, but I can’t put my finger on it.
“Max? What are you doing here?” he asks, looking down at my pathetic excuse for a meal. “Ethan,” he says, and I furrow my brow, trying to place him. “The mascot,” he sighs out.
“Right,” I say, snapping my fingers. “You work here?”
“Believe it or not, mascots aren’t rolling in money,” he replies.
“But here?” I ask, and he nods.
“It’s my dad’s place. I’ve worked here for as long as I can remember. The tips are nice and help me pay my bills while still being able to work for the Foxes.”
I blink at him, and he stares at me a moment before taking my glass and getting me a refill. I suppose I never really considered what a mascot makes. Really, I never considered the mascot at all.
Ethan replaces my drink and sits it on the table. I sigh, and the man just plops into the booth across from me. I look around the half-full diner, wondering what the fuck is happening right now, but he just gives me a soft smile.
He’s handsome. It’s like he’s a combination of the burnout kid all grown up mixed with the boy-next-door look. I’m not sure how to explain it, but there’s something alluring about him.
No, I’m not fucking the mascot.
“Do you want some advice?” he asks. My immediate response is to tell him to fuck off. But I’m aiming to become a better person—it’s fucking awful.
“I assume you’re planning on giving it anyway?”
“No one notices when I’m around, and therefore I’ve learned quite a bit of knowledge about the Foxes’ players and staff. But if you don’t want some friendly tips from Finnegan the Fox, I can just take my sweet ass elsewhere,” he says, using his fingertips to balance himself on the old worn diner table, and I grab his wrist.
“Wait. I’m listening.”
“Alright, there’s a few things you need to understand,” he says, lacing his fingers together, his forearms covered in black and gray tattoos as his tendons flex. “Owen fucking hated you last year, and a lot of that spilled throughout the team. While you two might be good or working on things now, there’s still a lotof residual resentment. The team loves Owen. I mean, a goalie starting later in the season from a feeder team and helping lead the team to a cup? He’s beloved.”
“I’m well aware of how loved my brother is.”
“Sheesh, no shit. Sounds like there’s some resentment on your end too,” he says, and I glare at him. “I have other shit to do if you don’t want to listen.”
“I’m listening,” I reply, toning down my irritation.
