Page 13 of Season's Schemings
“And you two are acquainted how, exactly?” Malachi joins in, waggling his eyebrows.
I flick my towel at him. “Not in the way you’re thinking, that’s for sure.”
My teammate taps his nose knowingly. “Well, seeing as you know herso well, you should be aware that we all have a dietary Hall Pass tonight. Holiday tradition.”
“I don’t know her well at all,” I reply as I wrap my towel around my waist. “But great news about the Hall Pass. I’m so freaking hungry right now.”
Twenty-five minutes later, all nineteen of us Cyclones who traveled to Vegas are assembled and ready and looking (mostly) presentable. “Mostly” because Jimmy is wearing a knitted sweater with a belled-up turkey on the front. And there’s Colton and Aaron, who keep bickering about something, shoving and ribbing each other like they’re five-year-olds at a waterpark deciding who gets to go down the big slide first. Lars is the only one of us who appears semi-normal, watching over the group from a slightly removed position like a sentinel.
We don’t have another game for five days, so I think I’m going to take this rare opportunity to hit up a buffet with this bunch of goons. Stuff my face with cheat meal food alongside the men I think of as both teammates and brothers.
Because really, the Cyclones are like a big family who have welcomed me as their newest member. And bumbling and dysfunctional as said family is, I’m happy to be part of it.
We’re on our way out of the locker room when I spot a familiar figure in the corridor. Suit, sunglasses, cellphone permanently attached to his skull. I pause in surprise as my eyes meet his, and he gives me a wave.
“Mike!” I walk towards my agent. “What’re you doing here?”
Mike lives in Boston, working with the majority of his athlete clients remotely. I assumed that he’d be spending this Thanksgiving holiday at his condo in Palm Springs, golfing. The last place I expected to see him was here, in Vegas, standing right in front of me.
“Hey, Sebastian.” He scratches the back of his neck, seeming almost nervous. Which is very out of character for him. “Tony and I were hoping we could have a word.”
I make a face. “Torres wants to talk to me… now? With you?”
“Dennis Lieberman, too.”
“Actually?” If that isn’t the oddest request. Why would my coach, my agent, and the Cyclones’ freaking GM all need to see me? On a holiday, no less.
“Yeah. They’re waiting for us.”
I give a nod, a little disturbed by the twist in Mike’s mouth. I turn back to the team. “I’ll catch up with you guys in a bit.”
Then, I follow Mike in the other direction, towards the Coach’s room, while the voices of my dysfunctional pack of brothers fade behind us.
6
MADDIE
Ahh, Christmas in Las Vegas.
Well, to be precise, Thanksgiving Day in Las Vegas.
But everyone knows that those two holidays practically blend into one. The second the witches and ghouls and pumpkins pack up, it’s one big festive season through to January.
And even though it’s about a million and ten degrees as I step out of the arena and onto the Vegas Strip—where I shed my Cyclones hoodie and tie it around my waist so my skin can sizzle in the late afternoon sunshine like a fried egg—the entire place is buzzing with holiday cheer.
There are lights strung up everywhere, an abundance of 40-foot trees covered in glittery ornaments, and many, many sexy Santa Clauses milling about as I start to walk aimlessly, taking in the sights, smells and sounds of the holidays, Vegas style.
I take a deep breath, and realize I’m… content.
All things considered, it’s been a very good Thanksgiving so far.
This morning, I woke up early and ordered nutritionally balanced, personally customized breakfasts to be delivered to each player’s hotel room before their morning skate. Apparently, I don’t even have to do any cooking while I’m here, simply order food based on each of the guys’ macros. Which I probably could have done from Atlanta, but hey, I’m not complaining about a free trip to Vegas.
Plus, traveling with the team automatically got me out of today’s dinner with my parents (not to mention venturing into the great outdoors with Jax). And so, I ordered a ton of boring chicken-and-wild-rice-themed dishes for the boys’ pregame lunches, and then I mightttt have hit up a behemoth Vegas buffet, where I gleefully stuffed ham n’ yams in my face without my dear mother or ex-boyfriend to make comments on how much food I was ingesting.
After consuming about a million fat and sugar calories that shattered my inner nutritionist’s “everything in moderation” mantra, it was time for the game itself. It was an afternoon event so the arena was packed with families, which made the atmosphere very wholesome indeed. Save for the woman three rows up who kept trying to flash her bra at the players, and the drunk guy sitting behind me, double fisting plastic cups of beer and screaming “Go on Soupy! HIT HIM, SOUPY!” the entire time.
Goodness knows who Soupy is.