My only response is to skate around him, easily stealing the puck resting between his skates. Weston responds with a ‘Sonofabitch,’ chasing me in earnest in an attempt to steal it back.
We skate down the center, and I check him with my elbow, grinning broadly. “Try and keep up, son.”
I change directions, heading back towards the opposing goal, the small round puck slicing back-and-forth in front of me in the precise, clipped, rhythmic motion that’s made me famous.
We cat-and-mouse like this until we’re both breathing hard, and I feel a sense of superiority that he hasn’t managed to steal the puck away. Leaning up against the boards by one of the penalty boxes, I take off my glove, grab a sports bottle and squirt the cold water down my throat, gulping half its contents in one swig.
Weston extends his hand, and I hand him the bottle. He guzzles it until it’s empty, hands the bottle back, and wipes his mouth with the back of his red and white jersey.
“So? How does it feel?” He stares at me, his intense blue eyes boring into me inquisitively. God, he’s as nosey as my sister. Worse, even.
I roll my eyes. “Cold. Refreshing.”
“Ha ha, real funny smart ass. You know I’m not talking about the water. Come on, come on, spill it before everyone shows up for the team meeting,” he says, referring to the Badger Hockey team’s imminent arrival for a post-game recap meeting. We arrived early and suited up solely to put together a few plays for the Lightening.
I rest my elbow on the wooden wall and sigh. “Do you have a vagina somewhere under your pads that we don’t know about? Christ, you’re worse than my mom.” This does nothing to deter him. In fact, I think it only encourages him more.
He presses on. “Just repeat the part where Cecelia tells you to shut up.”
Glaring at him, I shove off the boards and skate towards the door to the locker room, my skates cutting into the ice in fluid motions, leaving shavings in wake. I hold my arm in the air, raising my middle finger in a solute.
He trails after me, his laughter echoing off the high rafters in the ceiling. “Oh come on baby, don’t be like that,” he croons.
My skates stop on a dime, and he almost slams in to the back of me as I spin around to face him. “Jesus Christ. What is wrong with you?”
He shrugs, and I fight the urge to punch his well-defined jaw.
Defeated, I sigh again, propping my stick out, jut my hip for balance, and lean on it. “I don’t know where to go from here. I laid it all out there and now I guess it’s her decision.”
Weston scrunches up his face in thought, then slowly asks, “But did you bring it up to her before, or just that night at Starbucks?”
“What do you mean?”
He rolls his eyes. “Did you just spring it on her out of the blue, or have you had an actual conversation about it. One where you laid out all the facts?”
I wipe away the sweat that’s dripping down my forehead under my helmet, give my hairline a scratch, and let out a confused “Er…”
“Er? Is that your answer? Man, no wonder she got pissed.”
“What the fuck was I supposed to do?” I yell, flapping the free arm at my side in frustration.
“You were supposed to sell her on the idea, dipshit. Give her the reasons she should go with you. Fuck, dude, are you that clueless?” He watches me for a few seconds, assessing, then blows out a stream of breath. “Look man, I’m hardly the one to be giving you advice - this one might be way over my head. My advice: you either wing it and try your luck again with Cece, or, call your sister.”
“Why do neither of those options sound appealing?”
Weston shakes his head and nods towards the locker room. “It’s your call but you need to decide, quick.” He gives his pits a hard whiff and makes a face. “The shower is calling my name and the meeting starts in twenty. Let’s not be standing here like a couple of girls at a slumber party when everyone gets here. We look like goddamn Sally’s.”
I hate admitting when I’m wrong, but in this case… Weston may have had a point; I needed to get this shit figured out, and quick.
Hopping out of the shower in my condo, I stand on the terry cloth floor mat, running a white towel up and down my arms to dry off, debating my options.
I look at myself in the mirror, gazing back at my reflection, taking in the hard edges of my mouth, the deep scar above my entire left eyebrow, and the crooked bridge of my nose.