Page 12 of Season's Schemings
AKA Maddie.
I’ve barely seen her since our kitchen and bathroom run-in at the beginning of last week. But I’ve sure heard her. On the flight out here, she sat with one of the physios, Georgia, and talked her ear off for three hours. Right now, she’s on her feet, a few rows behind our bench, cheering. Her hair’s in a sloppy braid, her cheeks are flushed apple red, and one hand is gesticulating wildly in a gesture I can’t decipher as she…
Talks into a phone?
I almost laugh. For a moment, I thought she was cheering for the goal alongside everyone else in the arena. Like a normal person watching hockey would do.
But nope, she’s on the phone.
Strange one, that girl.
“Nice shot, Sebby my man!” Colton smacks me on the back. I return the gesture, strange girls long forgotten as the rest of the guys on the ice surround us and we all slam into the corner with shouts of victory.
Because wewon.And even though American Thanksgiving is in an entirely different month to Canadian Thanksgiving and they have extremely questionable yam toppings for their holiday dinner, I am feeling very, very thankful right about now.
After the final buzzer blows, I skate off the ice on a high. Sweat is dripping from my brow and I’m sure my whole body is going to hurt for the next week, but I’m happy as I pile into the locker room with all the guys.
“I’m talking mashed potatoes. Roast potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Potato casserole. Those thinly sliced potatoes with that cheese sauce on them. Potato salad, even.”
“Jimmy?” Dallas says with a startlingly sweet smile.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the hell up about potatoes.”
“But they’re the best part of Thanksgiving dinner! Everyone knows that.” Triple J puffs out his chest and glowers at our teammate. “It’s my Irish blood, makes me love the things. Can’t get enough of ‘em.”
Jake Griswold, another of our stellar defensemen, takes a seat on the bench next to Dallas, rolling his eyes. “Binge-watching Collin Farrell movies while you eat Lucky Charms doesn’t make you Irish, dumbass,” he grouches.
“I dress up for St. Patrick’s day, too,” Triple J responds, defensive.
I swivel from where I’m removing my shin guards to peer at him. “What the hell do you dress up as for St. Patrick’s day?”
He shakes his head at me like I’m incredibly stupid for asking this. “A leprechaun, of course.”
Dallas grins. “Surely you don’t even need a costume for that one.”
Everyone cracks up at this. Even our usually somber goalie, Lars Anderssen, is laughing. In response, Jimmy throws a bottle of Old Spice body wash at Dallas, and I collapse into laughter as it bounces off of my teammate’s skull perfectly, as if in slow motion.
“Ouch!” he yelps.
“Nice reflexes, D.” I snort.
Before Dallas can snap back at me, Malachi Holmes—our team captain who plays right wing with impressive power and finesse—cuts in. “Okay, children, enough fighting. Can we get back to the matter at hand and decide where the hell we’re going for food? I’m starving.”
“Caesars Palace buffet, fo’ shizzle,” Jimmy says.
“Nah, I heard the one at the Bellagio is better,” Dallas responds immediately. I get the feeling the guy hasn’t heard a damn thing about any buffet—he’s just salty about the Old Spice hit.
“No way, I—”
“Don’t we have to eat what Maddie has planned for us?” I interrupt.
“Who?” Aaron asks, rubbing his bare shoulder, where a large purple bruise is beginning to bloom from when an opponent’s high stick whacked him during the game.
“Duh, the new team nutritionist who’s on this trip with us?”
The assistant captain bugs his eyes at me. “Well, sorry I didn’t know her name wasMaddie.”