Page 33 of He Has Pluck

“That’s bullshit.” My words are quiet and directed at her. I ignore fucking Carlos and walk out. I shouldn’t feel betrayed because what is she to me? My lover? Hardly. There’s no love between us. Not even friendship. Most of the time, she’s my fucking enemy, hater of useless hockey and hockey players.

But some of the time, there’s something else between us. I feel those occasional waves of admiration, feel a well of something more than sensual pleasure filling me. Hell, we have our laughs. Of course, there’s something. Friends? Definitely not.

Hell if I know what we are to each other besides a constant knot of tension that seems to get tighter and more twisted every time we’re together.

* * *

As I pull out of the garage, I glance at the gas gauge of my old Mustang, and it’s almost on empty. Shit. I’m already late to meet the landlady at the house in Chelsea. All my things fill the back seat because there was no room in the trunk with the tire and tools stashed there.

Before I pull onto the street to head north over the Tobin Bridge, I slip my phone out and hit the number for the woman I spoke with to let her know I’m running late. After I stop for gas, I punch the address into the navigator and make my way to the place I’m going to live for the next month or so, hopefully longer.

When I arrive, a large older woman dressed in what looks like a nightgown and slippers stands on the curb, waiting for me. I follow the woman inside the place, which turns out to be a boarding house, and I wonder if maybe it was a mistake to rent the room sight unseen.

The place is worse than I expected. It’s not the dingy smell or the dirt or worn paint, but the clientele living here that gives me pause. When she shows me the main common room on the first floor, I haven’t seen so many strung-out, beat-up people since I bailed dad out of jail that one time.

But I suppose the vibe of desolation suits my mood right now. I’m dangerously close to fucking up my chance for the NHL, to blowing my chance at the fucking Stanley Cup—over a woman. One who doesn’t even like hockey, one who doesn’t respect me. One who can’t be trusted.

One who hates me, wants to fuck me and… One who doesn’t like that she wants to spend the night with me because she’s never spent the night with any man before me for fuck’s sake.

What kind of woman is she?

The kind your dick can’t live without, apparently.

Too bad for my dick because the rest of me can’t afford to have anything to do with her. I don’t care about her vulnerable underbelly, how strong she is and how emotionally stunted she is or where her wounds came from. I don’t care that she truly wants to make a difference in the world, that she’s smarter than hell, that she makes me laugh when she’s not looking or that she’s so fucking dedicated to excellence at her job and has massive talent to go with her work ethic chops.

This is what I think as I follow my landlady to the second floor and we run into a guy in the stairwell who looks so high he’s checked out—as long as I don’t breathe too deeply I can stand it. We stop at room 23, my jersey number, and she hands me the key. My lips curve up, and I unlock the door.

I drop the two bags I’m carrying in the small room with the worn floor and two windows. My landlady says I’m lucky to get a private bathroom, but she’s charging me an extra twenty bucks a week for the luck.

There’s a mattress on the floor parading as a bed and only slightly larger than twin size. It looks new, thank fuck. The kitchenette is a sink, a shelf with a microwave, a coffee maker and a refrigerator that might hold a couple of six-packs and a tray of ice cubes at best. There’s one scratched-up chest of drawers with a cable box on top but no internet modem. And no TV.

Then reading it’ll be.

As long as my mom never sees where I’m living, it’ll do. The price and the convenience of a furnished place within ten minutes of the Garden and practice facility are the most important things. And then there’s the fact that I shouldn’t be settling in and getting too comfortable here just yet since my stint with the Brawlers could end as swiftly as it started.

I go back downstairs to get the boxes of personal things out of my car that I’ve been carting around for a few days—bedding and my pillow and shit. It doesn’t take long to unpack, and I’m making a list of things I need. There’s two things on it, coffee and a case of water, when my phone rings. It’s Rafe.

“I hear you found a place. My parents are visiting and the house is crowded, so my wife is sending me out to bring you a house warming gift.”

“Is that right?”

“Before you feel too special, the players’ wives and girlfriends have a tradition of bringing housewarming gifts—or in your case, because you’re a bachelor, sending the gift over with one of us.”

“That’s cool. But I hope the gift isn’t too special because this place isn’t much.”

“No worries. I’ve seen bachelor pads before. How about if I get there in fifteen?”

He shows up with Finn and when I let them in, appalled doesn’t even cover a fraction of the looks on their faces.

“You weren’t lying about this place not being much,” Rafe says as he steps inside.

I have two folding chairs set in front of a small metal folding table and my bed for seating. I shrug it off.

“There’s not even a television in here,” Finn says. “I would’ve brought one of my spares if I knew—I’ll bring it next time.”

“I won’t have time to watch TV,” I say. “In fact, I was heading back to the facility to work with the strength and conditioning coach.” I take the box Rafe hands me, and it’s filled with snacks and a couple of bottles.

“This is the kind of housewarming gift I can get into.” I grin.