“To the right of the sink,” I instruct as I plop the pizza on the L-shaped kitchen island.
We load our plates up before moving to the table where our wineglasses are, then spend a few silent minutes stuffing our faces. Willow groans over her first three bites, and I’m betting pizza like this isn’t something she gets often in her travels.
She wipes her mouth, a sparkle in her eye as she peers at me. “What kind of trouble are we going to get into while I’m visiting?”
“Trouble?” I ask, eyes blinking.
“In case you haven’t noticed, you’ve actually become of legal age since the last time we were together. So you and I are going out partying tomorrow night. Dax can come, too, if he wants.”
“He can’t,” I say, knowing his schedule well. We have it taped to the fridge, so I know his travel days. “He has their rookie party to go to.”
I don’t have to explain what a rookie party is to her. When in a professional hockey family, the parties are legendary and widely known about, although I’m sure we haven’t heard the real dirty stuff that goes on at them.
Willow’s eyes practically flash with mischief, and she grins even bigger. “Oh, we are so crashing that party.”
“We’re not allowed,” I say, feeling like a damn nun as the words come out. “I mean… you know it’s only for players.”
“Which is why I said we’re crashing,” she replies deviously, and a tiny spark of reciprocal naughtiness flashes within me.
“Dax will be mad,” I say, although I’m not sure if that’s true.
“Don’t care,” she replies. “It will be epic. We’ll crash, get lots of good free food and alcohol, then you and I can go out clubbing after.”
And it’s at this point I realize my life has actually been quite dull, particularly my four years of adulthood so far. I’d been so focused on school and my relationship with Paul, then my diagnosis and losing Lance, that I’ve just never gone out and done something crazy before. Sure, I’ve gone to parties.
But I’ve never crashed a professional hockey team’s closed-door party before. I’ve never done anything overtly crazy, and right now… I think I need to start living a little bit outside the box. Besides, I’m tired of moping around wishing Dax could be something more to me that he clearly doesn’t want to be.
Yes… we’ll crash the party.
She’s right. It will be epic.
My return smile comes slowly, but it’s just as wide. “All right… let’s do it.”CHAPTER 14DaxRookie parties.
People either love ’em or hate ’em, and most players love them. I think they’re great. Not only because I’m guaranteed an exceptional meal and all the best and most expensive booze I want, but it’s also a way for me to kick back with my teammates and just enjoy being with them. Sure, us veterans like to give the rookies a lot of hell. That’s why we run the dinner and bar tab up as high as we possibly can. It’s an honored tradition on virtually every professional hockey team, and it occurs every year.
They had gone all out and rented an entire restaurant and bar. My belly is happy with the bone-in ribeye with lobster tail I had, and now we are congregating in the expansive bar area with its sumptuous leather seating, dark lighting, and top-shelf liquor.
The bartender approaches me as I step up to the polished wooden bar with brass railing. I scan the bottles on the shelf behind me. “Let me have the Balvenie forty-year-old Speyside.”
One of the rookies, Vance Gather, comes to stand beside me. At the end of the night, all the rookies will pony up an equal share to cover the exorbitant cost of our evening of camaraderie.
I go ahead and rub it in a bit. “How much is that?” I ask the bartender, knowing the answer will make Gather a little green around the gills.
“One hundred and seventy-five dollars, sir,” the bartender replies smoothly. I can see Gather grimace in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar.
“Perfect,” I say with a wide smile.
When the bartender brings my drink, I take a grateful sip, savoring the complex flavor of peat mixed with possible vanilla and a hint of cherry. I’ve got a pretty sophisticated scotch palate for a middle-class dude from Michigan. Lance and I had gone to Scotland over one of our summer breaks. While there, we’d done a scotch-tasting tour. It’d been fucking fantastic—even made the haggis taste better.
I prop an elbow on the bar, surveying the room. The night is just getting started now that the niceties of dinner are done. The drinking and women are next on the agenda. About twenty minutes ago, the doors had opened and scantily clad women started pouring in. Not sure where the rookies got them, and I mostly definitely don’t want to know either.