Page 24 of Trick Shot (Bainbridge Hockey #4)

Pete

I t’s been three days since Claire’s article threw Bainbridge University into a frenzy.

In a lot of ways, we’re a campus divided.

She’s got supporters, that’s for sure. But she’s also got enemies, and they’re powerful ones.

Her article pulled no punches, as expected, but Bainbridge wasn’t ready for that kind of honesty.

I’m not sure I was, either. The whole thing has me feeling rattled and betrayed.

When we sat together at the coffee shop the other day, she accused me of trapping her.

It was a baseless accusation, but I can’t help wondering the same thing: did she ever want to be with me at all?

Or was I just a convenient source for information?

Granted, we barely talked about the program when we were together—hell, we barely talked when we were together—but I still wonder if she was subtly pumping me for information.

I’d hate to think that, but when I replay our interactions in my head, there are two distinct themes: lust and hostility. That doesn’t boost my confidence.

But I can’t worry about Claire right now.

I’m not even too worried about Ma. She had a good day and the blood tests the docs ran this morning showed that her levels are stabilizing, which is progress.

We’re no closer to solving the mystery of what’s making her so sick, but she’s getting her energy and her appetite back. A win’s a win.

Speaking of wins, we play Mountville next week. “You think we’ll be ready to kick some Mountie ass next week?” I ask Van as we walk into Wolfie’s. Practice just ended, but we’re the first ones here so we’ve staked out our favorite table in the back.

No doubt,” he answers, setting his crutches against the wall and taking a seat in one of the worn wooden chairs.

I scoot an extra chair next to him so he can prop his leg up.

When Van took a nasty hit two months ago, we all knew his hockey career was over before it officially started.

He was devastated, like anyone would be, but he spiraled so far down that he wrecked his relationship with Josie.

He thought it was the right thing to do, that she’d be so much better off without him.

He was dead fucking wrong of course, but it took him a couple weeks to see the light.

His leg will never be able to handle the demands of being a pro hockey player, but that doesn’t mean he’s washed up.

Take tonight, for instance. He’s not officially coaching for BU just yet, but the little tweaks and improvements he suggests are exactly what’s going to give us the edge we need over some very tough opponents.

Van has an instinct for the game and we’re all better players when we follow his advice.

“Incoming!” Ollie’s voice booms through the bar and I look up to see him walking toward us carrying a giant wooden plank. Mickey’s bringing up the rear because whatever they’re hauling is at least as long as this table.

What the hell is that?” I ask, surprised they were allowed to troop through the bar like that .

“You don’t recognize it?” Dean asks, genuinely offended.

Why would I recognize a giant slab of—oh, damn. It takes a few seconds for my brain to put the pieces together. “Is that?—”

“The thermo-mo-dick?” Ollie supplies with a shit-eating grin on his face.

“Why yes, it is.” A few months ago, some of the guys got the brilliant idea of putting a giant thermometer on display in our house so we could chart our wins and keep our momentum going.

It’s one of those things that’s great in theory.

Unfortunately, the guys’ artistic skills are pretty much nonexistent, though they do love some glitter.

And instead of using poster board or even some blank wall space, they decided our worn wood floor was the ideal canvas.

Mickey, Dean, and Ollie put their heart and soul into the project, but the actual result was a far cry from the intended outcome.

The long tube and bulging base look nothing like a thermometer, but they sure do look like a dick.

And that monstrosity that used to be the floor in our kitchen is now propped against a wall at our favorite bar.

“Why’d you bring it here?” Van asks. “Is Wolfie’s gonna, like, put it in a glass case or something? I know restaurants like that kinda stuff, but I’m not sure an enormous glittery dick is the vibe Wolfie’s is going for.”

“They damn well better not be,” Mickey says with indignation. “This is our dick. They can paint their own.”

Rosco rubs a hand on the back of his neck as he takes a seat.

“The rumor is that they’re going to tear down the Hockey House, so we went over there today to get some…

souvenirs. I had the thermo-mo-dick in the back of my truck, but it nearly fell onto the road while we were driving over here, so the guys decided to walk it in. ”

“You should see what else we got. A bunch of it’s at our place. You guys need to come over so we can hand out all the good stuff we saved from certain doom. It’ll be like Christmas,” Dean says.

I’m wondering who the hell gets Christmas presents at an abandoned, condemned property, but I decide to keep that thought to myself.

Our server comes over and we place the same order that we do every time we’re here.

You can’t beat dollar wing night and half price appetizers.

Wolfie’s might be a little dim and dated, but the food’s good and cheap, so we keep coming back.

Once the whole gang is settled in around the table, Ollie clears his throat and wields his rolled-up knife and fork like a gavel. “I know this is a subject nobody wants to talk about, but it’s not going away, and we’ve got to deal with it.”

Van shoots a questioning look in my direction and I brace myself for a full-blown dissection of Claire’s article.

While the majority of athletes at this university want her head on a platter, no one on our team has been especially vocal about it.

I’m guessing that was for my sake, since I spilled my guts and told the guys about our arrangement down in Florida.

Rumors were flying around campus today and at least a couple teams are organizing a formal complaint against both Claire and The Howler .

My best guess is that Ollie wants to gauge our opinions. He’s not officially a captain, but he’s our self-appointed media specialist, social event coordinator, and matchmaker. If I’m the dad of the team, Ollie’s the busybody aunt who needs to be in the know.

I have my opinions about the article and the woman who wrote it, but I’m curious to hear what everyone else has to say first. I tune into Ollie’s speech, but instead of bringing up the topic that has been the talk of campus for the past few days, he surprises me .

“It’s a sensitive topic for a lot of us, but we need to face facts,” he says, and I swear to god his voice cracks.

“We know the powers that be are demolishing our beloved home. They haven’t said anything official, of course, but I can see the writing on the wall, dammit.

There’s no way they’re gonna rebuild, and if they do, I can guaran-fucking-tee, they won’t let us move into the brand-new property. ”

Rosco and I share a “No shit,” look, and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing out loud at the idea that the college would drop hundreds of thousands on a brand-new house and hand it over to the heathens who destroyed the first one.

“We’ve all got places to stay for this year.

Big ups to Santos for making sure we all got housing and a huge shout out to Deano’s girl, Annabelle, for hooking a couple of us up with the sickest fucking suite.

” There’s a round of hoots and cheers before Ollie smacks his plastic silverware gavel and continues.

“The thing is, Will can’t pretend to be a drama major forever, and even if he decides to embrace his thespian side, it’s just not the same as all of us living in one place.

And for those of you who chose to live in sanitary, structurally sound apartments, well, fuck you all anyway…

So, we need to make a decision, but is there really any choice?

I think it’s crystal clear, gentlemen, we must rebuild! ”

A few of the guys have caught Ollie’s enthusiasm, but some are looking hesitant.

I’m taking myself out of the vote because even though I won’t graduate in May, my four years as a hockey player at Bainbridge are just about up.

I’ll be living at Gramma’s in the fall while I do my student teaching.

I’m earning a double certification in Biology and Chemistry education, and it’s costing me an extra semester.

I don’t mind, though, because there’s no way I could meet the demands of student teaching while also playing hockey for the school.

“I abstain from the vote since I won’t be playing next year,” I say, taking a basket of wings from our server as she passes them around the table.

“But you know I’ll always be a wolf,” I add, tossing in my signature howl.

A few howls echo through the bar, and Van clears his throat next to me.

“Samesies. I won’t need team housing next year, but if everything goes the way I hope it will, I’ll be seeing your ugly asses every day at practice. You know what I need? A whistle. Santos, you should get me a whistle for graduation.”

“Noted,” I say, pretending to type out a reminder in my phone.

Will’s ears and cheeks turn pink as he drums his fingers on the table.

“I have loved living life as a thespian this week, but my plans for next year are out of my hands,” he says, alluding to the fact that there’s a good chance he’ll be called up to the pros before next school year starts.

“If I’m sharing the ice with you guys again, then yeah, I think we need to find a place that can hold us all. ”