Page 10 of Worth the Risk

Me: Has he been to a doctor?

Isabella: Nope. He claims after seeing that stupid wedding movie that Windex does actually help with pain.

Me: My Big Fat Greek Wedding?

Isabella: Yeah.

Me: We’re Italian.

Isabella: I’m aware. You try telling him that.

Me: So I need to come help out, and then tell our father that Windex doesn’t actually cure pain?

Isabella: Yep. Hit a Costco on your way for those pickles I like. Love you, byeeeee!

Me: I am not buying you another five gallon tub of pickles.

Me: Who needs that much?

Me: Did you finish the last one? Shit, Belle, I just bought those three months ago. No human should go through that many pickles.

Me: This is why you’re still single.

Isabella: Oh yeah? What’s YOUR excuse?

I chuckle as I turn off the screen and toss my phone onto my bed. Taking a quick look around my room, I notice how stark it is. My mom and sisters decorated, so there are things on the walls. Weird knickknacks on furniture. But it’s not me. The modern edges and minimalist furniture doesn’t scream Luca Santo, ice hockey god. Okay, that was awful. Regardless, it’s not me. How could I make this space more comfortable for me?

Sighing, I turn my phone back on to look at my schedule. I have three days with no practice where I can head home and see what help is needed. I think I’ll call a realtor while I’m home. It would be nice to have a property there so I didn’t have to stay at the hotel. Or worse, with my parents. The month I was home scarred me in more ways than one. While it’s wonderful to see that my parents still clearly love and crave each other, I shouldn’t have to literally see them. Hell, maybe that’s why my dad keeps messing up his hip. I shudder and shake my head to clear the visual of how I saw them in the kitchen. Gross.

It’s only nine o’clock, but I’m beat. The party last night wasn’t a good call. I don’t even know what I was thinking. Pisses me off to know if I hadn’t brought those three girls home, I might have had a chance with Hannah. Who am I kidding, I’ll never have a chance with her. She’s above my pay grade.

The following morning, I’m up and at the practice arena early. We aren’t technically in training camp yet, but we can still use the facility for work outs and ice time. Sports Facility Zone has lots of children’s leagues for hockey. So, we have set times for Wolves players when we can access the ice.

The ice is my happy place. It’s where there’s no drama. No paparazzi. No meddling mother, no dramatic sisters, or crazy brothers. No worries about the future. Just me, the puck and my stick. The ice is where I can breathe. I take a few laps around the perimeter, just settling in to the moment and relaxing.

“Santo!”

I look over my shoulder and see a couple of coaches off by the wall. I skate over with a smile.

“Looking above average out there, Santzy,” Coach Woodward calls as I approach. Above average. Nice. And once someone calls you something in hockey, it sticks. I’ve been called Santzy since I was five. And above average? That’s hitting below the belt.

“Looking forward to being back out there, coach,” I answer.

“Listen, we have a new social media manager and we’re setting up times for all the players to meet her. Get with your agent and set up a time, okay?” Coach Davenport says, his eyes studying me. Davenport and I have never gotten along. He’s just a general prick. He’s only five years older than me, but his career was more glorified than mine is. He’s got a ring. Now he’s coaching, and he thinks he’s better than me. Pisses me off.

“Sure thing, coach. Is she hot?” I ask. Coach Davenport glares at me. Stupid easy making him mad.

“Off limits, asshole.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

We’re told often that any employee in the Wolves organization is off limits. There isn’t technically a no-fraternization policy, but we’re highly encouraged to steer clear of anyone working here. Don’t shit where you eat, Coach Woodward tells us often.

“You and Daws gonna be kosher this season, or more of the same bullshit antics as last year?” Coach Erikson, the skills coach, asks me. I shrug.

“He’s the one with the issues, not me,” I say cockily.

“You antagonize him and you know it, Santo,” Coach Davenport retorts.