Page 46 of Hooking
Life is good.
“Hey, did you guys hear who we traded for?” Polston asks as he rips his practice jersey over his head.
“What are you griping about, Polston?” Powell says as he unlaces his skates.
Trades are no small thing in the NHL. They can happen at anytime to any player, unless you’re one who’s locked in of course. No one wants to be traded and have their whole life uprooted. But it’s the territory that comes with the job.
Polston sits on the bench, his hands on his knees as he leans toward the center of the room, as if what he’s about to say is some big secret. “I heard we traded a third-round draft pick for none other than Mitchell Tremblay.”
“You’re shitting me,” I say, followed by a chorus of remarks from guys on the team.
“Shit.”
“No fucking way.”
“Anyone tell Cap yet? He’s going be pissed when he does find out.”
Mitchell Tremblay plays for the Anaheim Sterlings. We’ve always had beef with the team, but the true beef is with Brooks and Mitchell. They played junior league together, and their rivalry extends from there. Regardless though, he joining the team can’t be good for our team dynamic. Sometimes I wonder what management is thinking.
Before anyone has time to respond, Brooks walks in with a scowl on his face that I haven’t seen since he started dating Hayley. Polston opens his mouth to say something, but Brooks raises his hand, stopping him instantly. “Before anyone says anything about the current trade news, I’ve known all about it. Management talked to me weeks ago, and though I told them my opinion, it seems they know more than me,” he says, standing in the middle of the locker room. “They want me to be a leader. So, as much as I would like you all to side with me and treat Tremblay like the trash he is, I won’t allow it. Form your own opinions. He arrives tonight, so do with that information as you wish.”
Brooks walks back to his locker, stripping out of his gear. I can tell he’s not okay. I don’t know what the history between him and Tremblay is exactly, but I know nothing good can come from him joining the team.
“You okay, man?” I ask curiously.
His jaw ticks. “No.”
I know when Brooks gets that look in his eye, to leave well enough alone. Showering quickly, I make my way to Cassidy’s office. She’s sitting at her desk, balancing her Stanley on her belly as she reads something on her phone.
I tap my buckles on the door frame, causing her to jump. “Jesus Christ, Channing. You’re going to give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry,” I say, sheepishly. “I was wondering if you wanted to get lunch?”
She pushes to stand before shutting the top of her laptop and coming to me. “I’d love to.”
We walk down the sidewalk to a little café near the arena. We’re greeted by the hostess who clearly can’t contain herself as she tries to make a pass at me. She seats us in a booth toward the back of the café, leaving us to peruse the menu, but not before sliding me her number.
I look at the sheet of paper, crumbling it before looking at Cassidy. “Sorry,” I say, suddenly feeling self-conscious about everything.
“It’s okay,” she says, glancing up from her menu. “Vince used to get hit on every time we went out. He was always getting numbers passed his way. Who know how many he actually called.”
I internally cringe every time she brings up that asshole. He was a dick in how he treated her… He didn’t deserve her. I’m not much better. It makes me wonder what I did to deserve her. But I know, regardless, I will do everything I can to prove to her that I do.
“So, I was thinking I’d hire someone to come in and design the nursery,” I say, just as the server comes over to take our order.
She nods before taking a sip of her ice water. “Sure, if that’s what you want.”
“No. It’s not what I want. It’s what you want. I want you to make my house a home for the both of you,” I say, looking into her eyes. “I want you to tell me a decorator isn’t necessary, and you’ll handle the design yourself.”
“I’ll handle the design myself,” she says, staring at me with a goofy-ass grin. “So bossy.”
“Believe me, baby. You’ve only seen part of it.” It’s the truth.
The server comes over to take our order, and I can’t contain my smile as I listen to Cassidy order almost one of everything on the menu. I’m glad she’s enjoying her pregnancy and not being one of those women who only worries about what they eat so they don’t get fat.
“What?” she says, as soon as the server leaves to enter our food.
“Nothing.” I smirk. “So, have you looked into any new OBs? I emailed you a list this morning of ones I find more than highly qualified.”
