Page 11 of Poetry On Ice
I sit at my station and get my phone out of my locker. I make a firm decision to keep my eyes on my screen and try to find something to cheer me up. I opt to call up stats from the game as they come in. Lately, they’ve been doing wonders for my mood.
It’s fine.
Whatever. It’s just one game.
My stats are still better overall for the season.
I turn my attention to various headlines popping up on hockey sites I frequent. The letters swim and come in and out of focus. Black-and-white shapes flash on the screen. Rich, sultry flesh tones flicker in front of me, jarring my brain.
Fucking McGuire won’t get out of my line of sight.
It’s too much skin.
Too much muscle.
At last he saunters over to the shower, toiletry bag dangling in hand, towel draped over one shoulder. He moves with the happy-go-lucky gait of a man who feels good about himself. A man who knows damn well his shoulders are broad as fuck and his hips unreasonably narrow. A man who knows that when he moves, shelvesand dents form on his legs and his entire body radiates heat.
A man who I’m pretty sure knows something about me that I wish to God he didn’t.
Unlucky for him, I’m pretty sure I know something about him too.
I read the message from Luddy again and grit my teeth so hard the beginning of a headache bleeds into my temples.
Luddy: McGuire’s invited the team to his place for a housewarming tomorrow.
Luddy: I’m not saying you have to come, Decker. It’s up to you, but I think you should.
But I think you should?Who the hell is he kidding. That’s one hundred percent the same thing as telling me I have to come. It might even be worse.
I’m fuming by the time I pull up to McGuire’s house. I had to stop at two bottle stores to find the right bottle of wine—a 2016 Château Angelus Hommage a ElisabethBouchet. It cost me an arm and a leg, but I’m not walking into this housewarming thing empty-handed, and I can’t bring a crap bottle because people will notice. There will be a ton of eyes on me, and not just to make sure I don’t take a swing at the host. People will be poking their noses where they don’t belong, watching my every move to see how I interact with McGuire.
I hate this shit. I can’t believe I agreed to come.
Luddy has a lot to answer for, being so fucking nice all the time.
The house itself is a shock. It’s in Broadmoor, on Thickwood Drive, a well-established, tree-lined street littered with grand old houses. It’s less than ten minutes from where I live. Trees that haven’t yet lost the last of their leaves throw up a blaze of orange and red on either side of the road. It’s a nice street, but McGuire’s place is easily the worst house in a two-mile radius, if not more. It’s a colonial revival home with badly chipped paint, a roof that needs urgent attention, and a front porch that appears to be the home of at least one family of raccoons or opossums if the scratches on the timber decking are anything to go by.
I ring the bell and Bodie lets me in, pressing a beer into my hand before I step over the threshold. I smile and thank him, though I get the distinct impression thedrink is meant to subdue me rather than quench my thirst.
The interior of the house is a little better. It has good bones but needs work. The entrance is papered floor-to-ceiling with intricate and dated floral wallpaper in shades of sickly yellow and blue.
The headache I thought I’d beaten yesterday returns with a vengeance.
The hallway leads to a formal dining room, a separate sitting room, and a large open-plan kitchen-living room. There’s a fire roaring in the living room, boxes stacked against one wall, and nary a stick of furniture in the room, save for four stools at the kitchen counter.
Kids, wives, and players alike are sitting in front of the fire on flattened empty boxes.
McGuire appears before me, drink in hand. He’s wearing a pair of baggy denim jeans that pool at his feet and hang so low on his hips they show the waistband of his boxers. White Calvin’s, in case you’re wondering. His T-shirt is long-sleeved and boxy, not cropped exactly, but shorter than anything I’d ever consider wearing in public. It hits the waistband of his underwear, just. It’s bone-white and textured like it’s made of hemp or something organic. The neckline is cut in a low V that goes all the way to his sternum, and he’s layered a coupleof necklaces that look like they were bought on vacation in Bali around his neck.
He’s smiling like he knows he’s pretty and is pleased about it.
I want to go home.
I shouldn’t have come. I knew I didn’t want to be here. I should’ve just told Luddy no. It’s our day off, for God’s sake. It’s supposed to be a day of rest, not a day of let’s-see-how-high-we-can-get-our-blood-pressure.
McGuire acknowledges me with the faintest of nods and turns his attention to the gaggle of kids trailing behind him. One of them, Katz’s eldest, points to me and says, “Isn’t he your enemy?”
“Nah.” McGuire laughs, leaning down to whisper something into the kid’s ear. Something that sounds a lot like, “He’s my archrival” from where I’m standing. The kids burst into screeches of laughter and follow McGuire with the urgency of imprinted ducklings when he turns and heads to the kitchen.