Page 3 of Goalie Secrets
Ignoring the text, I politely ask doll-like Stella to wait while I grab my wallet. Even unwelcome strippers deserve a cash tip.
“Any fun plans today?” she asks, walking into the living room.
“Dinner,” I answer curtly. The team has the first night off in weeks, so a few of us are meeting at Borderlands. The restaurant transitions from a steakhouse into a popular drinking establishment in the later hours.
I’ll be long gone by then, having made plans for myself and by myself after dinner.
“With someone special?” she asks flirtatiously, while twirling her hair extensions with a taloned finger.
I ignore the question and change the subject. “When did you start working at the Neon?”
My best guess is that Stella works at my dad’s strip club in Dayton. The Naughty Neon is a typical gentleman’s club located at the intersection of two major freeways. Although I’ve been there exactly once—out of curiosity when he begged me to grab a drink with him when I turned twenty-one—I can confirm that the place is as loud and tacky as it sounds.
“I moved from Akron a few months ago because my friend, do you know Candy? She says the Neon has—”
“Here you go,” I blurt as soon as I locate a fifty. I register too late that she’d been talking. “I’m sorry, you were saying?”
“So, you’re a big-time goalie, huh?” She takes the cash and tucks it in her bra. I don’t like how her eyes roam up and down my shirt, as if she’s activating X-ray vision.
“Thanks for driving over. Oh, and let me cover your gas.” I give her another twenty. “Drive safe,” I add. How many cues can I drop to indicate:please leave as fast as your car will take you.
She gets the hint and walks to the front door, slipping her hands into the arms of her UPS shirt. I squirm when she fails to button up before stepping outside. There are kids living across the street, for fuck’s sake. Leaning on the shut door, I don’t exhale until her car drives away.
Pulling up my dad’s last text, my fingers shake with anger.
I’d rather punch something than text my father. Or, better yet, I’d rather punch my father than text him.
Me:Dad, we talked about this. Do not send me strippers EVER AGAIN.
Dad:You’re welcome! And wait till you see my surprise later.
Me:No surprises. I mean it.
Me:No strippers. No surprises.
Dad:I thought she might entice you to come by this week. I wanted to show you my expansion plans.
And there it is. He’s been trying to hit me up for money since the second I turned pro. As frustrating as the exchange is, it is annoyingly familiar.
William Schmidt is a narcissistic sex addict who can’t understand why I’m not the opportunistic manwhore he’s always wanted for a son. What man doesn’t want to own a strip club, after all? ME! The only thing I’m less interested in than a strip club is turning into someone like him: addicted to women and sex.
Not that I can have this conversation with him. I might as well scream into the void for how effectively my dad and I communicate. We are not close. In fact, we’re practically strangers to each other. My father will never understand what it is to focus on a career that requires restraint and discipline.
And I can’t get over the fact that he entered my life when I started to make the news while in college. Instead of admitting that he had abandoned me and mom throughout my childhood and only resurfaced when my hockey career became imminent, he blamesher.
Christina Lopez is a Guatemalan immigrant he got pregnant when she was nineteen and he was over thirty. She raised me alone, refused to marry him, and protected me from his influence as much as she could. It’s her last name of Lopez that I carry proudly.
A dull pull at my hamstring sharpens. There’s also a familiar spike of panic that this is it… this is the one that brings it all back…
No. Justno. I shut down the negative thoughts and focus on what I can control. Doctors and trainers have helped me control chronic pain for almost a decade. That’s not changing today.
Because of our stint of away games, I haven’t been at the rehab center for almost two weeks, that’s all. The Mavericks’ medical staff is competent and helpful. However, few doctors have experience with and knowledge about my connective tissue disorder the way a physiatrist like Dr. Kyle Lane does. Now that I’m back in town, seeing him is on top of my to-do list.
I’m scheduled for a two o’clock appointment, but I don’t want to wait that long. I’ll need to see himbeforemy workout, not after.
Instead of dialing the main line, I call Sabrina. She’s the office manager and married to the Mavericks captain, Dexter Whitby. More importantly, Sabrina used to be a goaltender for the women’s league. I don’t have to explain last-minute appointment changes to a fellow hockey player. The body needs what it needs.
“Hey, Jeremy! What’s up?” she answers cheerfully.