As the captain, I was supposed to set an example, but with these girls that example was apparently how to get smashed while celebrating our recent win against ye olde enemy, the University of Chicago.
“We won, Yatesy! The least you could do is be happy about it!” Bones, our tender, threw her arm around me and kissed my temple—sloppily. “Let’s get another round in and see if that’ll cheer you up.”
I didn’t think my mood was so obvious, but these girls knew me better than anyone.
“I’ll get the drinks in.” The team cheered. “Sauvignon Blanc all around?”
“Fuck, no! Shots!” Mel, my bestie and one of our best D-gals, pointed at me. “Shots, LoYo, or get outta here!”
“Shots, shots, shots …” The rest of them drummed the table, mostly out of sync, which proved my point that shots were the last thing they needed. Still, I had an example to set.
I headed up to the bar and rested my elbows on the sticky wood. I needed an attitude adjustment, that was for sure. We were on a six-game streak and were likely headed to the Frozen Four for the third year running. I should have been overjoyed, but it was hard to think of the good stuff when my mind was filled with all the crap about my dad.
His lawyer had left another message. I hope you respond, Ms. Yates … your father needs you … just a short statement, attesting to his character.
How about: his character sucked? Some guys preferred to take the hard road—though my father would probably say criminality was the easier option. My sister Sadie had been giving him money since he came out of prison five years ago after serving three and a half years for embezzlement. Since his release, he’d been living what I thought was an exemplary life. We had repaired our relationship and partly filled the hole of abandonment left when he chose a life of crime over the care of his twelve-year-old daughter.
But it wasn’t long before he was back to his old tricks. And now I was supposed to tell a judge that he wasn’t such a bad guy after all.
I shook my head and raised my hand, but my navel-gazing meant I’d missed my shot with the bartender, who was already walking to the other end of the bar.
Someone jostled me, another eager customer. I turned, my face in a frown, and met the Arctic blue eyes I was starting to read a little too well. In the four months since I’d first heard him in the room next to mine, we had become friendly. I wouldn’t dare to characterize it as anything else. We drilled together a few mornings a week, grabbed breakfast on occasion, and talked about anything and everything. Surface stuff, to be honest. Sharing about my problems, especially my problems with my father, embarrassed me. Jason knew a little about what was up, but I was even shields up around him.
I was extra vigilant around Alexei, careful not to give him any encouragement or look like I might be interested in him for anything other than hockey talk and jocular ribbing about his love of the ladies.
He nudged me gently. “That does not look like the face of a winner.”
“And that doesn’t look like the face of one, either.”
He clutched his chest. “Ah, you wound me.”
So they had lost their game last night, and I was in a bad mood.
“Sorry, just not feeling it.” I raised my hand to get the barkeep’s attention. Was ignored again.
“You played well. Like you had something to prove.”
I had missed out on the Patty Kazmaier award last year, and this was my final shot at it. I was determined to be the winner, so I would be set up for the draft. I wanted to get my first pick, the Athenas—or at least, I had. Before my father tainted Chicago for me.
“We all have something to prove, Nazarov.”
“Yes, this is true.” He signaled to the bartender who immediately dropped whatever he was doing and came over at the superstar’s summons. “She was here first.” He gestured to me.
The bartender glanced at me. “What’ll it be?”
“Twelve shots of tequila, lemon, salt, and a beer.”
Cue the look of annoyance. You would swear I was a bad tipper. “I’ll get the server to send it over.”
Fine. I gestured to my fellow barfly. Nazarov ordered two beers, was served immediately, and passed one to me. “So you don’t have to wait.”
“How did you know the beer was for me?”
“You are the captain, the responsible girl on the team. No shots for you.”
That was me, alright. I always did the right thing, anxious to ensure no one would ever associate me with bad stock. My last boyfriend dumped me after running an internet search and discovering my father’s history—Google searches were supposed to be for girls to find out shit about their dates—so I usually kept that stuff to myself. Especially now that my father had decided staying out of trouble was too much to handle.
I considered my beer, wishing I had ordered something stronger. When I looked up, Nazarov was staring at me. He moved in a little closer.
