Page 9 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Ollie

I find a space on the street and tap the app to pay for parking. It’s just a short walk to the restaurant, but I check my phone out of habit and see a text from Aven and a notification of fifty-two new messages on MyFans.

Aven: You feel like filming anything tonight? Laura’s coming over and it should be a good time.

I start texting back and then stall out, not quite sure what to say. Aven obviously sees those three little conversational dots, because he jumps right in.

Aven: Olls, you haven’t posted anything in weeks. Don’t tell me Silly Goose Productions is closing its doors?!

I honestly don’t have an answer for that. I haven’t really considered shutting the whole thing down, but Aven’s right. It’s been weeks since I posted anything new, and that’s why my inbox fills up daily. My subscribers want new content, but I haven’t been in the mood.

Or, more accurately, I’ve been in the mood, but it feels wrong to record myself when all my sexual fantasies revolve around Fallon. The scorching session I recorded the other day is still in my drafts folder.

I really should join Aven and Laura tonight. The three of us have great chemistry and no matter what we’re doing, we all have a good time. Hanging out tonight tonight would give me a chance to catch up with them and to give my subscribers what they’ve been asking for.

But instead of answering Aven’s text, I pocket my phone as I approach my destination.

Despite its name, The Watering Hole is a classy place with a view of the bay. It’s a far cry from Wolfie’s, which is my usual go-to when I want a beer and some greasy food.

But my business today requires me to be off campus. If I held this little meeting of the minds at everybody’s favorite Bainbridge University hangout, we wouldn’t get anything done.

And I don’t have time for distractions or interruptions.

Wagner’s words from last week keep playing on a loop in my brain.

This team has no ownership, no leadership, not anymore.

His dig hit its mark, and I can’t even argue.

He’s right. Coach hasn’t declared a captain and even though the season hasn’t officially started, it feels off.

This isn’t like other years, and I hate it.

And it doesn’t help matters that my dad’s been up my ass about whether or not the team has voted yet.

I keep telling him it won’t happen for a couple weeks, but that doesn’t stop him from making little jabs about how I’m not leadership material and that if Coach had any real faith in me, he’d have chosen me the minute we found out Will was called up and the spot was open .

I’m usually a laid back guy. Not a lot rattles me. But hearing my dad needle me about my biggest insecurity? Yeah, that hurts. I can’t lie.

I want to be a leader on this team. I want to be the one they all rely on.

Even if I never get the title, though, I still care about these guys.

But I’ve got no fucking clue what to do about our current predicament, so I called in reinforcements.

Bypassing the hostess with a smile, I head straight for the bar.

I’d order a drink because I fucking need one, but a friendly wave from a familiar face has me turning around and taking a seat.

Pete Santos stands and wraps me in a one-armed bear hug. The guy’s as big as a damn grizzly, and he nearly crushes my ribs just trying to say hello.

“Don’t break him, Pete, our team’s got enough problems already.”

Van smiles at me as he approaches the table, but I can’t help wincing at his assessment.

As a former player on our team and a current member of the coaching staff, he’s got a unique vantage point.

If he can sense the tension while we’re only halfway through training camp, things are just as bad as I thought they were.

“It can’t be that bad,” Pete says, his perpetual smile in place.

I shrug. “Trust me, it’s that bad. I broke up a physical fight between Mickey and Wagner the other day, Blue’s pissing everybody off to the point where I’m afraid Liza’s gonna quit her job as house manager, and we’re playing like shit. But yeah, it could be worse.”

My joke falls flat as Van starts banging on the table. “What the hell are you doing?” I ask.

“Knocking on wood, obviously,” he answers, as our server approaches .

We order our beers and some appetizers and just when I’m ready to make a game plan, these two start yapping about how fucking great life is.

Pete’s about to start his student teaching and Van’s just landed his dream job as an assistant coach, even if our team is more high maintenance than ever before.

Plus, they’re happily coupled off and unable to keep the sappy grins off their faces for two long.

Listen, it’s not that I begrudge them their happiness.

How could I when I’m the mastermind between both of their love matches?

Maybe that’s what’s bothering me. I’m usually the guy who solves problems before they start. I think so far outside the box that I don’t even know where the box is. But now our team is imploding, and I don’t have a fucking clue what to do about it.

“Dude, you’re a fucking genius,” Van says, offering Pete a high five as I try to piece together what little I heard of their conversation so I can figure out what the hell they’re talking about.

Confusion must register on my face because Van steps in and bails me out. “Pete said Booker’s first game is in a couple weeks, so we should livestream it and show it at The Chapel. Wait, is that still what you guys call it?”

I shake my head. “It needs a new name, but nothing’s come to me yet.

I need inspiration.” I take a sip of my beer as though the alcohol will point my brain in the right direction, but it doesn’t.

But I file that little tidbit about Booker’s first game away in my mind.

A watch party would be fun, but maybe there’s something else—something bigger—that we could do.

“You should have a contest to name the hockey house,” Van says, snapping his fingers. “People love that kinda shit.”

He’s right and so is Pete. I should be grateful for their ideas. Instead, I’m pissed off. I’m the one who should be thinking up this stuff.

“What’s the matter, Olls?” Pete asks. “You look like they just instituted a dress code at all the Jock Block parties and now you’re gonna have to be fully clothed everywhere.”

Ok, that would suck. But this sucks more.

“This team is a mess, no joke. And I’m not sure what to do about it.

Or if it’s even my job, considering the team clearly doesn’t consider me to be leadership material, and neither does Coach.

” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them, but I don’t even regret it.

Sure it’d be fun to shoot the shit and pretend things will work out on their own, but five minutes in that house would have anyone doubting the fate of this team.

Hell, even Fallon agrees. What did she say?

At this rate she doubts we’ll get anywhere close to the championship game. The worst part is, she’s right.

Van and Pete sense it too, which is no real surprise. Van’s got a front row seat to the shit show and Pete’s younger brother Leo is one of our newest players.

“It’s bad, guys,” I tell them, hoping they’ll chime in any time now with some words of wisdom.

Instead, Pete just nods. “I can’t sugarcoat shit. It is bad. The question is, what are you willing to do about it?”

“No clue. I can barely keep the peace. And what the hell was Coach thinking, anyway?”

Van grimaces. “From a strategic mindset, it’s a great move.

Think about it, Olls. We lost depth at center and defense.

The two best players at those positions just happened to be up for grabs.

So Coach brought them on board. If you look at things from that angle, the team is fucking stacked this year.

If you’re all working together and playing your best hockey, there’s nothing that can stop you. ”

“That’s just it,” I say, correcting him.

“How are we supposed to play our best hockey under these conditions? Wagner and Mickey are constantly at each other’s throats.

Blue’s not quite as much of an asshole as his best friend is, but any bond I form there is gonna feel like a betrayal. You know Mick will see it that way.”

“Then prove to him that it isn’t,” Pete says, like it’s really that simple. “Don’t give me that look,” he continues. “Think about it, Olls, if anyone can bring this team together, it’s you.”

“What he said,” Van adds, nodding at his bestie. “And hell no, he’s not just going to slap that C on your jersey. Where’s the fun in that? And where’s the respect? He wants you to earn it, and we all know you can. You were born for this shit. Bringing people together is what you do.”

“You’re the guy who can fix this,” Pete says. “You’re the glue that holds the team together. So quit your bitching and start making the magic happen.”

The guys move on to other subjects, but I’m stuck on this one. I can feel the answer floating around in my brain, but I can't quite place it. Shit. They’re right, though. Something’s gotta get these guys to gel and see that we all have a common goal.

I swallow the last of my beer and as the amber liquid hits my tongue, inspiration strikes. I know exactly how to bring the team together.

We’re gonna throw a party.