Andie from PR makes a gesture that tells us we’re ready to wrap it up, but when a reporter I know well from days in Boston calls out that he has a question for me, I give her the OK.
“Holmes, you’ve been an exceptional player throughout your young career, but lately it seems like you have an extra something that has you moving like never before. You’ve been nearly unstoppable across the last few games, home and away.”
“Why thank you, Robert. I think you’re pretty special too,” I joke, leaning close to the mic and grinning like a fool. The room vibrates with quiet laughter.
“Correct me if I’m wrong, but it seems like there might be something you’re playing for. Something more than just team spirit or the quest for the Stanley Cup. Would you care to comment on that?”
And that’s why we have members of the PR team and coaches in the media rooms with us. That question is meant to set me up for failure. If I tell them I have no comment, I make it sound like there actually is something to comment on and I open myself up for speculation. If I give some generic “I’m hungry for it” answer, everyone rolls their eyes and I open myself up for speculation.
Fortunately for me, I have nothing to hide. I’m an open book, and while I’m not about to spill my guts here in front of the entire sports world, I’m not above giving them something to speculate about. I give Franny her usual quick pat for good luck, and then I go for it.
“As a matter of fact, Robert, there is something special I’m playing for lately. A very cute, very kind, sweet-like-honey something that I’m trying to impress with my mad, mad hockey skills. I’m glad you noticed. Getting called out for my hockey brilliance on national television ought to score me a few points.”
I wink, and the flash of cameras and shoutingreporters asking for more drowns out the sound of Andie wrapping things up while Coach ushers us out of the room.
Once we’re out of the camera’s line of sight, Coach pops me in the back of my head, knocking my hat to the ground.
“What was that for?” I whine, rubbing at the spot where he nailed me while leaning down to retrieve my hat.
“You know the rules, Holmes. No using the media to lure puck bunnies into your bed. Get the hell out of my sight.”
“He’s not a puck bunny, you crotchety old bitch,” I mutter under my breath, not only because Coach is acting like a crotchety old bitch, but because I hate the outdated, sexist term and I don’t want it associated anywhere near me or my Elliot.
Crotchety old bitch or not, I do as I’m told and grab my shit so I can hop on the team bus back to the hotel.
Since Coach tends to extend a longer leash our way after a win, a bunch of the guys went out to celebrate and experience some of the Tampa nightlife before the one o’clock curfew. I stay back at the hotel with the old heads and the married guys, since babysitting a bunch of drunk rookies is not my ideaof a good time. And besides, I’m not very good company anyway. In spite of the win, all the preening and the press room call out, I’m still anxious.
I can’t stop checking my phone, waiting to see if Elliot will text me again. I’m trying so hard to be good and give him the time he asked for to think things over, but not knowing is eating me alive. I’m dying to find out if he’s willing to explore this physicality with me or if I need to lick my wounds and try to live in a world where Elliot Baker is just my friend and nothing more.
None of my teammates deserve to deal with me, sulking in the corner of the bar while pounding Shirley Temples and checking my phone every two seconds.
Up in the hotel room, I try to distract myself in any way I can. I eat four peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, I ice the bruises on my ribs and shins. I crash Miles’s FaceTime call with his wife and then force him to watch Notting Hill with me, and I pretend it doesn’t bother me that my phone never lights up, save for the cursory “You’re an idiot! Why can’t you be better at everything!” voicemail from Dad. The distractions almost worked, but now that Miles is asleep in the next room and there’s nothing but the sound of his CPAP working overtime and the obnoxious snores that manage to sneak out anyway to keepme company, I can’t shake the restless feeling coursing through me.
I stare at the ceiling for what feels like an eternity, wondering what Elliot is doing in San Francisco. Wondering if he’s thought about my proposal. Wondering if he’s laying in his bed, thinking about me.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, throwing the flimsy hotel sheets to the ground and stomping to the bathroom with my phone in hand. I prop myself up on the edge of the bathroom counter and kick my feet up onto the toilet seat. Phone in hand, my finger hovers over the FaceTime button. Before I have a chance to talk myself out of it, I click the little camera icon and find Elliot’s name.
The phone rings once…twice…three times…and I’m beginning to regret all of my life choices. I shouldn’t be calling him. He asked me to give him until Sunday. I can do that. I can hang up, send a quick “Sorry, butt dial!” text and just go the fuck to sleep. But right as I’m about to hit the big red button, my favorite moss-y green eyes are looking back at me through my phone screen. Like a flip switching in my mind, my mood lifts instantly. A smile tugs at my lips as Elliot adjusts the phone so that I can see his face and the threadbare Redwoods t-shirt clinging to his chest.
“Hey, man. Sorry, I wasn’t expecting a phone call,” he says, tucking a hand behind his head. The movement makes his bicep bulge, straining against the cotton of his sleeve, and my throat goes dry.
“Hey, sorry. I couldn’t sleep and I figured since you’re a few hours behind, you might be awake to entertain me. I know I wasn’t supposed to call you, but…”
“Its fine, Goat. I’m glad you did. I missed you.”
My breath catches in my throat.
Imissed you.
Fuck, that feels good to hear.
“I also thought I should throw a shirt on before I answered my phone, but clearly that wasn’t necessary.”
Even through the phone, I can feel the heat of Elliot’s gaze on my bare skin. It’s then that I realize I didn’t bother with a shirt. I also notice the mirror behind me and how he’s able to see my chest and my back with this camera angle.
I hope he likes what he sees.
I want my body to please him. I want to please him.
