Page 6 of Flagrant Foul (Totally Pucked #3)

“Come on, Mae,” I say when it’s time for me to leave. “Please tell me what I can do to repay you for all this.” My offer of a monetary payment has already been turned down twice. “I travel a lot, and I won’t feel right about you taking Ragnar if I can’t make it up to you.”

She purses her lips and goes pensive, rubbing the palms of her hands together slowly. “All right,” she says at last. “How about this? You tell me something interesting about yourself.”

My top lip curls up in horror. “Um, Mae, I’m sure it won’t come as a surprise, but I’d rather take a long road trip around each of the seven circles of hell than share an interesting fact about myself.”

“Oh, I know, dear.” Her shoulders shake gently as she giggles. “But you asked for a price, and that’s my price.”

“Ugh. God. Something interesting about me? Me? How many of these do I have to come up with? Will I have to think of one every time I leave Ragnar here because, seriously, I travel a lot. I’m not sure I can do that.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it too much if I were you, Theodore,” she says, waving me off jovially. “I’m old as all get out. I’ll probably forget about this conversation in a couple of days.”

“Please.” I click my tongue in disgust. “I doubt you’ve ever forgotten about something like this.”

She cackles again. “It’s amazing how well you understand me for someone who has only just met me, but come on, let me have it.” She holds out both hands like she thinks she’s Oliver Fucking Twist. “One interesting thing as payment, please.”

“Goddammit,” I murmur as my mind drifts and forms a vacuum. I can’t think of a thing. Not just an interesting thing. I can’t think of a single thing to say about myself. Interesting or not. “Holy shit,” I say a couple of times. “I think I might be the least interesting person on Earth.”

“I doubt that. Don’t forget, you’re competing with people like the Thompsons next door, and they’re dull as dishwater.”

I hem and haw, growing increasingly uncomfortable, and increasingly unable to recall a solitary thing about myself.

“Okay,” she says, taking pity on me. “How about this: something you’ve never told anyone. Doesn’t have to be interesting or noteworthy, just say the first thing that comes to mind. ”

The second she says it, an image of my hockey jersey flits across a blank screen.

Everything’s blank, misty, and pale, except for my jersey.

A big white screen, with a black garment right in the center.

A black jersey with a flaming orange, red, and yellow B on the front.

A jersey with the number seven on the back.

I know I’m going to say it before I open my mouth. It’s almost as though I’ve been keeping it in, waiting for the perfect opportunity and the right person to unburden myself to, and prove, once and for all, what a dumb shit I am.

I sigh a long, resigned sigh. “When I was a kid, I had a crush on a guy. His name was Sev.” I sit up a little straighter because now that I’ve started talking, I’m aware it’s significantly more stupid than I originally thought it was.

“Now, when I say I was a kid, I mean it. I was like ten or something, okay?”

Mae nods supportively.

“I’m not telling you that to defend myself in any way. I’m only telling you to help you understand just how young I was because even though I’m still stupid in many ways, I don’t think I’m stupid like that anymore. At least I hope not.”

She folds her hands neatly in her lap and places her knees and feet close together. “Okay, got it. ”

“So, as I said, his name was Sev, and being the little fool I was, I thought Sev was short for Seven. I never asked anyone about it or had it confirmed. I just assumed that’s what his full name was because that was the only word I could think of that started with those letters.

Long story short, fourteen years later, I’m a professional hockey player for one of the best teams in the NHL and the number on the back of my jersey is… seven.”

Mae gasps and has the decency to look suitably scandalized.

“And the worst of it is, Sev doesn’t even stand for Seven.

Sev is some bullshit made-up name his mom gave him because she met a hot guy called Zev when she was pregnant with Sev.

She liked the way the name sounded, and she liked the meaning—wolf in Hebrew—but she has a funny thing about the letters X , Y , and Z .

Doesn’t care for them, and doesn’t know why. ”

The same version of myself that walked into the coach’s office and demanded to be allowed to try out for goalie, confidently citing fiery reflexes as the reason, didn’t have to think twice about what his preferred number was.

“My number is seven, Coach,” I said when I made the team and was erroneously given a jersey that had number one brandished on the back .

“But, Teddy, goalies are usually number one? Are you sure you want seven?”

“I’m positive, Coach,” I said with gusto. “I love the number Sev en.” I thought no one would ever be able to decode that, despite how blatantly obvious it was.

I wish that’s all there was to it. I wish I could say I was number seven for a season or two and then came to my senses.

I almost did. I came close. When I started playing for a new club when I was fourteen, common sense and self-preservation attempted to flicker to life.

They gave me a jersey with a one on the back, and I didn’t complain.

I wore that number happily until I got signed to the Blackeyes.

At the time, Ben Stirling was captain, and he famously wore the number one jersey for the Blackeyes for over a decade.

When I was signing my contract, they asked me what number I wanted.

I should have been expecting the question, but I wasn’t.

Someone else took control of my mouth for a fraction of a second and said, “Seven.”

So when you think about it, I just lied to Mae—I’m still exactly as stupid as I was when I was a kid.

“Gosh, how embarrassing for you,” says Mae. “I can see why you’ve never told anyone about that before. Don’t worry, dear. I won’t tell.”

“Thanks, I’d appreciate that. ”

Fucking fuck.

I’ve gotten so wrapped up in Mae’s crazy, I forgot I was famous and that the press eats shit like this for breakfast. Panic begins its ungraceful clatter, thumping and thrashing in my heart and lungs, until I take a second to look at Mae. Her gaze hits me like a cold splash of water.

I believe her.

She won’t tell, but she does have questions.

“So, who is this Sev character anyway?”

I can tell she’s one of those people who likes tea in more ways than one, so I decide to give her just enough juicy details to sate her appetite and allow us to move on from the topic.

“He’s my brother’s best friend. I practically grew up with him in my house. He’s the worst.”

She purrs sympathetically and eyes the empty cookie container on the coffee table for just long enough to lull me into a false sense of security. “Do you know that when you say his name, a tiny bit of tension forms right here, near the corner of your mouth?”

To make sure I’m in no doubt about what she means, she motions with her finger to the exact spot she’s referring to.

She doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t need to.

She knows exactly who Sev is to me.