I shovel in a forkful of scrambled eggs and look around the kitchen. Ollie’s doctoring his coffee with a stick of butter, Van’s plowing his way through a stack of microwaved pancakes, Dean-o’s at the stove, and Mikalski’s next to me, inhaling cornflakes.
“Uh, yeah, Boss, we do remember last night. Because it was, like, twelve hours ago,” Ollie answers before hitting a button on his tiny blender that melds coffee and butter into some thick, oily drink that he swears is the greatest breakfast on the planet. I’ll stick to eggs and orange juice.
We may live like slobs, but we love to eat, so we can all cook well enough to get by.
“And we played our asses off,” Van adds. “We beat Claybrooke 5-0 because Norris over here is a goddamn brick wall.”
“Truth,” Mikalski says, his mouth half-full.
“Not for nothing, but as a team, we were on fire. Those were five beautiful shots,” Ollie says, and he sounds a little wistful. “Two goals and an assist your first night out, Franconetti? You keep playing like that, we may just skate all the way to the finals.”
I smile, because honestly, I’m proud of the way I played last night. After a slow start, I kept my focus on the ice and did what I was born to do. It helped having Mel in the stands, cheering us on. Mel has become important to me over the past few weeks—maybe more important than a fake girlfriend probably should be, but I push that thought aside. My team came out swinging last night, and they rallied around me while I sorted my shit so I could have a great first game.
“Thanks, man,” I acknowledge. “But Booker and Van were serving up shots and nailing them left and right. So did Haines and Jenksy. Plus, you and Santos kept Claybrooke at bay.”
“We played as a team, a well-oiled machine.” Santos adds. “And that’s what we need to keep doing for the rest of the season.”
We all nod because he’s not saying anything earth-shattering or revolutionary. Of course, we have to play like a team. Wearea team. I’ll be on the second line soon since Rosco’s X-rays looked good last night, but still. That’s my place and I’ll do my part. Honestly, it’ll be a bit of a relief. Playing first line was intimidating as fuck, and I’m proud that my nerves didn’t get the best of me, but I also know damn well I have Mel to thank for that.
Santos clears his throat before continuing, “Just got a text from Coach. The X-ray at the arena last night looked clear, but Rosco’s hand was as big as a fucking bear’s paw when he woke up in the middle of the night with pain. His girlfriend flipped and took him to the ER. They sent him to the orthopedic center in Annapolis. His hand is broken in two places, so he’s out for the next four to six weeks. You’re staying put, Franconetti. Same with Haines and Jenksy. We’ll keep last night’s rotation as long as it’s working. But given the way we played last night, I have no doubt we’ll make Rosco proud until he’s back.”
The guys keep talking about last night’s game and speculating on Rosco’s recovery. I don’t join in on the chatter because my mind is working overtime. If I was freaking out last night, I’m fucking spiraling now. Yeah, I got my head together, but damn, play moves fast at this level and I’m going to have to put in the work if I want to keep playing the way I did last night.
I don’t even think. I just pull my phone out of my pocket and fire off a text to Mel. She’s the first person I think of when things are good or shitty, or when I just need someone in my corner. I hope it’s the same for her. I mean, I know it’s fake and all, but I hope she knows how important she is to me.
Will: Rosco’s out 4-6 weeks. Broken hand. I feel bad for the guy because being sidelined sucks.
Mel: Damn. Poor guy.
Will: I know. He’s gotta be hurting right now in more ways than one.
Will: And since he’s out, I’m in.
Mel: You’ve got this.
Mel: And that’s not just me being a good girlfriend—I’m 100% serious.Watching you play last night was awesome. I’ve been to games before, and I’ve always enjoyed them, but watching you out there? It was amazing. You play hockey like you were born to do it. You’re effortless out there. You belong on that ice with Booker and Norris and Van and the rest of them. You’re gonna be great. And I’ll be right there in your corner, cheering you on when you light up that lamp.
I read the words over again. Damn. Nobody’s a better girlfriend—fake or otherwise—than Mel Cohen. I silence the part of me that wishes like fuck that all of this was real instead of just a charade. Because even though the relationship is just for show, I know her support is genuine. And that’s what lets me voice my biggest fear.
Will: What about when I don’t, though?
Mel: Oh, that’s easy. I’ll be right here, bitching about what a bunch of douchebag cheaters the other team is and how you were robbed—fucking ROBBED, do you hear me?
I can picture it: Mel in the stands in her jersey. And yeah, in my daydreams, the back of the sweater’s got my name stitched across it. I can see her shouting at the refs though they can’t hear a damn thing she’s screaming.
And I can see her curled up next to me on her sofa after the game, bitching up a storm about how those refs need some goddamn glasses. I can see myself leaning into her touch, brushing a kiss across her perfect lips, using my hands and lips and tongue to make her feel good. Because I have a feeling that there’s no better distraction from a shitty game than the feeling of Mel’s body against mine.
Will: You’re the best, you know that?
Mel: I am pretty fantastic…but I like it when you remind me of that fact.
I stare at my phone, unable to wipe the smile off my face.
“You in?” The question comes from Santos, and it takes a minute for my brain to realize it’s directed at me. But he’s one of my captains, so whatever he wants me to do, I’m up for it.
“Yeah, absolutely,” I answer.
“Great. Coach wants us all at the arena by one, but if the six of us can suit up a little before noon, we can work on our rhythm a bit. We were in sync last night, no doubt, but we also had adrenaline on our side.”
