“Shopping isn’t fun.”
“MetroMart isn’t shopping,” she retorts. “It’s an experience. A sociological experiment—like a capitalist wonderland designed by someone who really, really loves warehouse lighting.”
I snort. “You’re describing my personal hell.”
Looming over me, she plants her hands on her hips. “Have you ever shopped there?”
“No,” I say with a firm shake of my head. “I don’t want to buy my toilet paper from a place that requires me to own a forklift to get it home.”
A smile plays at her lips. “Fair enough. So you’re anti-MetroMart?”
“I’m anti–paying to pay more,” I correct. “If I wanted to feel like I was part of an exclusive club, I’d join a cult. At least they’d give me a robe.”
“I’m pretty sure cults give you trauma and trust issues, not robes, but I digress.” She tilts her head, considering. “Have you ever had their hot dogs?”
“No.”
Her hands fall to her sides and she heaves out a breath. “Cameron. We’re going to MetroMart together.”
“I already said?—”
“No, you’ve never had a MetroMart hot dog, and that’s tragic. We must remedy that. Also, because I need paper towels, enough to supply a small army, and basic baking ingredients, and I refuse to spend ten dollars on a standard-size bag of sugar. And watching you try to navigate a cart the size of a small car through those narrow aisles while dodging sample stations is going to be the entertainment highlight of my week.”
I fight back a smile. “You’re really selling this experience, Kennedy.”
“Just wait until you see the parking lot.”
I made it thirty-two years without ever sending or receiving a dick pic. Then I started fake dating Kennedy Caplan.
Though I haven’t suddenly gotten the urge to send her unsolicited photographs, she sends me cookie dick pics regularly.
Elaborate cookie dicks with impressive attention to anatomical detail.
It was quite a surprise to unlock my phone after our game against Atlanta and find a photo from Kennedy of one of her frosted dicks. It made me laugh, which, considering my mood after they kicked our asses, was a feat.
For the last week, she’s sent me a new image every day and as I skate off the ice after a win against Detroit, I itch to head to my locker and check my phone. It’s stupid and distracting, but I can’t help the way I anticipate the sight of her name flashing across my screen.
But first, I have to deal with the postgame circus. The reporters swarm the moment I step off the ice, shoving microphones into my face before I’ve even caught my breath. My jersey’s soaked through with sweat, my hair plastered to my forehead, but they don’t care.
“Thirty-nine saves tonight. What was working for you out there?”
I give them the standard answers. Saw the puck well. Defense played great in front of me. Team effort. The words come automatically after years of this, my brain on autopilot while I think about whether today’s cookie is going to be another masterpiece or one of her “abstract” attempts.
“That glove save in the second period was highlight-reel material?—”
“Just doing my job,” I cut in, backing toward the tunnel. “Sorry, need to hit the showers. Thanks, guys.”
I’ll get a disapproving text from Sloane later for bailing before follow-up questions, but right now, I don’t give a shit. The locker room’s chaos, the sharp smell of sweat and ice clinging toeverything as I peel off my goalie gear piece by piece. My legs feel like jelly after staying in the butterfly position for sixty minutes, but exhaustion like this is the good kind.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you take off gear so quickly,” Jake comments with a laugh. “Got somewhere to be before lockdown?”
I roll my eyes. That word,lockdown, always makes me feel like a high school kid on an out-of-town field trip. Our coaches monitor our travel and recovery closely and prefer if we don’t leave the hotel during off-hours. That’s not an issue for me. Unless it’s O’Leary’s after a home game, my postgame routine to decompress is regimented. My teammates don’t get it. They don’t understand that my position requires a different mentality from theirs, and the concentration required is exhausting in a different way; one that leaves me mentally and physically drained.
I quickly shower, letting the scalding water beat down on my shoulders and wash away the game along with the adrenaline draining out of my system. Once I’ve toweled off, I throw on sweats and a hoodie, then snag my phone and drop to the bench.
Kennedy Caplan
Congrats on the win! I made you a special cookie to celebrate.
