Page 7
Tanner
I glance at the reusable grocery bags piled into the front seat of my cherry red Camaro while slowly tapping my chin in contemplation.
Pretty sure helping Hoss heal is what’s best for the boys as much as me.
Afterall, she helps get us hyped and helps us stay hyped and never fails to verbally cross check any one of us right in the gibs when we’re out of line.
She’s almost like having one more bench boss in a way.
Or a bench mother?
No.
Not that.
Bench sister, maybe?
That’s probably better branding.
“ Tanner? ” Father cautiously calls through the speakers in my car. “ You alright? ”
“Yes,” I clumsily retort, doing my best to shake off the thoughts of this being a mistake. “My apologies for the delay. I was verifying that I had the correct address.”
“Of your ill teammate?”
Alright.
I might’ve adjusted the truth just a bit to fit the narrative I needed to sell in order to not feel like shite for disobeying Cap by being here.
And you know what?
I do consider Hoss a teammate.
Plus, according to the Dalvegan team motto, I am supposed to.
Everyone that puts the crest on their vest matters.
That. Includes. Her.
It’s not my fault she just happens to have tits under hers instead of pecks.
Tits I pray to my lucky skates I one day get to actually see.
“Yes.” Killing the engine at the very edge of what I hope like hell is her driveway precedes me adding, “With our first pre-season game coming this weekend, I just want us all feeling our best.” I skeptically eyeball the front exterior of her Mediterranean style home. “Healthy scratches are better than hurt ones, aye?”
Except there is no scratching Hoss.
She has no replacement.
She’s never missed a game or chance to film, and she’s not about to start now.
Especially if I can prevent it.
“I suppose they are,” Father cautiously concludes. “Exactly how ill are they?” There’s a small ruffling sound that indicates he’s adjusting his grip on the device. “Should they perhaps see a physician? Perhaps the team’s physician?”
“Likely just a cold.” My attention continues to scan the surroundings for something – fuck, I’ll take anything – that reveals to me I’m not about to knock on a complete stranger’s door. “Honestly, I think some of your famous spicy chicken tortilla soup will clear everything right up.” An innocent grin thoughtlessly grows on my face. “It always works for me.”
“Soups from around the world is still one of the most beloved parts of my curriculum.”
“What is not to love? You combined history with eating making it nearly impossible for uni kids to deny signing up for your course.”
“Food is a very respectable language and teaching tool all its own.”
“I’m aware.”
“Understanding the West African roots of gumbo and the Kamakura period ties to miso soup and-”
“ Father ,” I gingerly interrupt, “I did not call for a history lesson but a recipe, remember?”
Light chortles leave us both. “ My apologies. ”
He cannot help it.
Father loves history.
Dad loves hockey.
And I am a walking amalgamation of both.
Once his amusement dies down, he investigates, “You are absolutely certain that you are equipped to make it on your own?”
“I believe so.”
Truthskies?
I fucking hope so.
I’ve never had to make the shite on my own, just reheat it.
See, whenever Father comes to town for a visit, he always makes a batch for me to eat and then freezes a batch for me to periodically eat over the next stretch of time.
He’s thoughtful.
I’m lazy.
It’s quite an incredible balance we have.
“You have all your basics, yes?”
“I bought everything you sent me.”
“Including emerald green serrano peppers?”
“And chipotle peppers in Adobo sauce.”
“Does your teammate have a crockpot to cook all of this in?”
“Bought one.”
“You bought one or brought one ?”
Um…which one is less weird?
Which one sounds less weird?
The lull between us unfortunately stretches on for too long prompting Father to curiously investigate, “ Which teammate did you say this was for again? I do not recall.”
I didn’t.
I have been specifically skating around certain verbiage to avoid having to be on the PK of explaining my very real yet simultaneously nonexistent relationship with the one woman I’d be willing to hang ‘em up for.
Especially if she insisted on it while she was naked.
I’d swear to never touch my 3Ps again to have endless access to such a view.
“I-I-I have to go,” I awkwardly stammer and slip the key fob into my pocket. “I’ll text you later when I have the opportunity.”
An arrogant, all-knowing chortle I’m quite familiar with hits my ears. “Very well, Tanner. I love you.”
“I love you too, Father.”
Ending the call is quickly followed by me gracelessly gathering all the materials I bought at the nearest Concession Stand, our local health food chain, and traipsing up what I easily confirm is her pavestone pathway due to the hockey themed address plaque near the garage.
At her front door, I take a long, slow, controlled breath – much like I do before a faceoff – ring the doorbell, and brace myself to deal with whatever comes next.
This was the right play…right?
Show up.
Show that I care.
Show that I’m more than just the sniper chasing man slut she’s branded me to be.
That’s three ginos right there.
A fucking hattie.
How often do chances like this come along?
The dark wood front door suddenly opens; however, it doesn’t reveal to me Hoss.
Or a housekeeper.
Or even a fucking human.
No.
I’m greeted by a fucking wild beast charging straight at me, oversized paws popping me directly in my chest. The hard impact stumbles me backwards onto my ass while the bags I was holding launch out of my possession only to land Gretzky knows where.
There isn’t time to track their whereabouts or question what’s broken or salvageable.
Fuck, there’s barely even a second to catch a breath before the monster is pinning me beneath the full weight of its body and snarling so close its spit trickles onto my mouth.
I always imagined I’d have a more heroic death than mauled to death in a Dalvegan suburb.
So much for that, I suppose.
“Atta boy, Bear,” Arden praises upon her arrival beside my sprawled-out frame. “Atta boy.”
“I thought you said his name was Bear!” I cut my panicked glare over to her, refraining from making any sudden moves. “Not that you owned a bear !”
“He’s not a bear,” she informs on a lazy ruffle of what I’m guessing is bedhead. “His kind was initially bred to fight bears. ”
“Why?!”
“To protect the monks.”
“What monks?!”
“The ones in Tibet.” Pride doesn’t hesitate to pump through her stare. “He’s a Tibetan mastiff.”
The black and tan furry behemoth still drooling onto my face deepens his growl, an action that has me nervously murmuring, “Could we…perhaps…maybe…communicate to The Lion King here that I am not a threat he needs to protect you from?”
“Not sure that’s true yet.”
She drops her hands onto her hips, clearly prepared to investigate my presence, yet is abruptly interrupted by my squeaky questioning, “ Is that my signed jersey?! ”
Horror or guilt or possibly a combination of the two cracks her jaw in a speechless fashion.
“ It is …” Despite the snarling beast seconds from eating my face, I cockily coo, “I always sign right across the wing with my name and number.” My smirk deepens. “And I not only see a two but also an eight.”
Her eyes twitch a small glare. “ And? ”
“And that means you’re wearing my number.”
“Point?”
“It means you purchased one of my jerseys at an auction to wear. ” Propping myself up onto my elbows is immediately stopped by the fur monster. “ On. Purpose. ”
Meaning she doesn’t actually despise me.
At least not as a player.
Arden – to no real surprise – avoids discussing her current attire by throwing a question back at me. “Why are you in my grass?”
“I was on your porch.”
“Question remains.”
“You weren’t at the barn today-”
“I’m aware.”
“And I became concerned about your wellbeing when there wasn’t a single dick drawn on any of my gear.”
She does her best not to grin.
“So, I asked around-”
“Who?”
“Everyone.”
“Yeah no, who narced?”
“And when I discovered you were sick-”
“And where I live , like some sort of fucking creeper.”
“Like a fucking teammate!”
Bear growls harder in my face, large mouth displaying teeth to indicate I’ve become too vicious for his liking.
“Right,” I whisper to the drool demon. “My apologies, Cujo. I should not have raised my voice.”
“Bear,” she calls to the canine, collecting his attention. “ Eat. ”
“ N- ” can barely be heard over his loud slurping that begins right cross my open mouth.
Forfuckssake , her goddamn mutt is gonna make out with me before she does?!
Another lick is delivered up my nose.
Cheek.
Ear.
Getting molested by her hound ceaselessly continues until I’m left with no choice but to laugh at her antics.
Alright.
So, she wasn’t expecting me to show up.
It doesn’t mean that she wants me to leave.
“Could uh…” moving my face away from his direct tongue bathing occurs, “Bear tone down the welcoming committee greeting, please?”
“No one said you were welcomed.”
The teasing in her tone has me rolling my eyes. “Am I unwelcomed?”
“Undecided.”
“You’re wearing my number.” It’s my turn to take a playful timbre. “I am most certainly welcomed.”
“ Portero ,” she calmly states prompting Bear to resume his attack position.
Once more, I focus on the wrong topic. “Does that mean protect?”
“Goaltender.”
“Which is the one who protects the net or house …” It’s impossible to not beam brighter. “Even Bear is a hockey fan?”
“Yeah, the bobblehead of you LMC gave out last season is his favorite chew toy.”
I twitch a single glare which gets her giggling, a sound I swear I love more than the roar of a packed barn.
“ Banco. ” Her furry guard abandons his position to sit directly beside her feet. “Now, why exactly are you here?”
“Does that mean heel?”
“Bench.”
“Why are all of your dog’s commands in Spanish?” Finally able to sit up, I do. “Is that your second language?”
“Not exactly,” she innocently brushes off with a small shoulder bounce. “Just know a few phrases. Random words. Dad’s not even fluent anymore despite what he tries to claim when he’s around his cousins.” There isn’t time to comment or ask additional questions. “Explain your presence or I will actually let Bear attack.”
“I came to see if you were alright.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“I don’t have your number.”
“And you didn’t have my address either, yet you got that.”
A small cringe is presented on a muttered, “ Fair. ”
It wasn’t easy.
Getting it from security was quite a feat all on its own.
“And what’s with the littering?” Arden motions to the area around me where a few of the groceries have managed to fly free. “I don’t need a fine. Our homeowner’s association is worse than league with that shit.”
“Soup.”
Her eyebrows pull together in confusion. “What?”
“I uh…I was gonna make you soup.”
This time her shoulders noticeably soften. “ Why? ”
“Need the whole team healthy for the first game.” I reach for the nearby bag of produce. “I understand it’s just an exhibition; however, I want you there.” Diverting my attention away from her sweetening stare over to the can of black beans I need to grab is done out of precaution. “We uh…we all need you there.”
Exactly how long the lull lasts between us is unknown.
How long does it feel, on the other skate?
Like I’ve just entered double OT in game seven of The Cup playoffs.
“I won’t miss the game, Tanner,” promises Arden, pulling my gaze up to hers. “And I would help you pick shit up, but the ear infection I’m currently facing off against is already up on points.”
“Go back to bed,” I warmly insist. “Just leave the door open for me, aye?”
She simply nods.
Which is still a yes.
An invitation.
A welcome.
Holy Hull .
She’s actually gonna let me into her home.
Arden along with Bear return to wherever they were, leaving me to finish collecting the remaining scattered items on my own. Afterward, I verify that the crockpot is still usable, grab it, and follow the same path they took to the last place I ever expected to actually get to see.
I mean I hoped I would.
I planned like I would.
However, just because you plan a shot, wind up for a shot, and then take the shot, doesn’t mean it’s going to go in.
Especially not with a metaphorical tendy like Arden Hoss.
Much like the exterior, the interior is almost a total shock.
It’s quite open yet oddly empty.
Sure, there’s furniture, but it all looks more decorative than practical.
Staged.
Almost as though we’re in a designer home used to give homeowners an example of the floor plans offered.
Walls are all neutral shades, and if it weren’t for the random hockey décor scattered through the space I cover, I’d question if she even really lived here.
The large open kitchen connects to a wide-open living room that’s backed by beautiful floor to ceiling windows which reveal a literal breathtaking backyard. “ Wow. ” Placing the bags on the empty island bar precedes me actively pulling my attention away from the lush outdoors to where she’s curled in a ball, resting her head on Bear like he’s a pillow. “Your home is gorgeous.”
“You’re just saying that because you live in an apartment.”
Chortles are attached to my search for the nearest outlet. “Perhaps.”
“Probably.”
“Likely.”
“ Most definitely. ”
The smallest pause is taken to veer topics. “Did you just move in?”
“Nope.”
“So, the minimalistic look is…?”
“What happens when your mom says ‘Happy Birthday. New Year, New Home’.”
“Is your birthday on…New Years Day?”
“ Unfortunately. ”
Wow.
Cannot imagine how wild it must’ve been to have twins on New Years Day of all of days.
Finding exactly where to plug in the crockpot unveils another unexpected surprise on the plate covering. “Are these rubber duckies?”
Arden tosses me a deep scowl over her shoulder. “ Do not judge my ducks. ”
I let my stare sweep the kitchen area spotting a pair of chef ducks beside the stove, a rubber duck themed hand towel, and a “Release The Quackin” coffee mug in the sink. “You like rubber duckies?”
“What did I just say?”
“You…” I snicker a little louder, “Miss Brewskies and Pucks Deep Or Die…” plugging in the appliance is completed, “like rubber duckies ?”
“You may exit the way you entered.”
“Not happening.” My palms plant themselves firmly on the counter. “This is basically a Trojan horse operation. The chicken tortilla soup got me in. And only death will get me out.”
“Chicken tortilla soup?” Her face remains angled for our gazes to stay connected. “In a crockpot?”
“Do not give me lip, Ducky.”
“Do not call me Ducky.”
“Do not tell me how to cook.”
“I’m not telling you how to cook. I’m telling you how not to cook,” she sassily sneers. “You’re gonna have my ancestors shitting in their graves over that play.”
Against my own volition, I chortle once more, “Is it that hard to have a little faith in me?”
“Yes.”
“Wow,” leaves me in an airy laugh. “If that answer were any faster, it’d break Chara’s NHL All-Star record for fastest slapshot.”
“Still slower and less impressive than Bobby’s.”
Smirking yet again can’t be stopped.
To the Lords of Blades who blessed this broadskie with the ability to talk hockey to me…I’ve got two words.
Thank.
You.
“How about you …” I casually begin at the same time I move towards her off white couch, “resume watching Gladiator while I ,” my frame pauses behind the piece of furniture, “focus on my second favorite sport?” Reaching for the black and white Mighty Ducks blanket to cover her with is effortlessly done. “Proving you wrong.”
She groans in displeasure; however, it’s unclear if it’s over my comment or her ear, given the way she’s fiddling with her hearing aid.
“You alright?”
“I need to…” Arden wiggles the device around, “take it out in case this stupid head cold really does lead to an ear infection but…”
“But what?”
“But then I…” concern as well as what appears to be embarrassment cakes her vision, “can’t really…hear…you out of that ear.”
“Are you completely deaf without it?”
“Not completely,” she confesses, pausing my movements. “But like enough.”
Swallowing my own apprehension is difficult yet done. “What is…um…your condition exactly?”
“I’ve got otosclerosis.” Additional shame shades her beautiful brown stare. “Abnormal bone growth in one ear which can – or in my case has – led to significant hearing loss.”
“Anything they can do?”
“Surgery.”
My mouth lowers to speak only nothing comes out.
Perhaps because I don’t know what to say?
Or what I should say?
Should not say?
Verbally sparring with Arden is one thing, getting her to believe anything remotely real from me is next league up shit.
And currently?
I just left the beer leagues.
“Hand it over,” I command with an open palm. “I’ll keep it on the bar while the food cooks.” Offering her a crooked grin mindlessly occurs. “Play a little D in case Bear mistakes it for a snack.”
“He’s never done that before.”
“Doesn’t mean it can’t happen.” An almost shy snicker precedes more hesitation, an action that pushes me to add, “ Let me lace up, Arden. ” I instinctively lean over the couch’s edge and plead, “ Just this once. ”