Page 6 of Pucked Together
I, on the other hand, am trying to figure out a way to get out of this little weekly routine the guys have going on.
Somehow Keelan’s sister has been able to evade his 'my house, my rules' roommate dinner tonight.
Apparently, there’s no set day of the week for when it occurs. But if you’re in the house, and he feels like gathering, you’re stuck participating. I plan to find as much to keep me busy outside of the house as I can.
Yesterday, Izzy passed out after meeting everyone and hasn't seemed to emerge from her room since.
As if she hears my thoughts, the feisty, dark-haired siren appears at the bottom of the stairs. She has her hair in a high ponytail, and she's wearing a crop top that reveals a little glint on her navel. She really should reconsider wearing those yoga pants in a house full of literal and figurative players.
Keelan follows my line of sight. When he clears his throat, I realize I've been staring.
"Izzy McGuire! Come join us. We've got pad Thai, red curry, spring rolls...and get this— some of it doesn't even have meat."
"Please don't call me that," she deadpans at her brother.
"Wait, you don't eat meat?" Fergie asks between sips of his soup.
"Nope," she answers. "It's disgusting the things they do to those poor animals."
All three guys glance down at their plates as if imagining the horrors their meals must've gone through to get here.
I pick up the last of my steak with my fork and pop it into my mouth. Guilt-free.
“Well, there’s plenty of non-once-breathing options,” Fergie says.
"And the seats empty next to me," Hicks adds, patting the vacant chair.
I look at the three of them beckoning her and refuse to join in.
She's going to learn the hard way that this isn't the place for her. They're on their best behavior right now. But I've seen these guys get wild. And she can't be more than what? Nineteen? Twenty years old? No, definitely not the place for a little thing like her. A house full of rowdy hockey players should send her packing her bags back to whatever hipster town she came from in a heartbeat.
I give her a week. Tops.
"What are you eating, Goalie-zilla?" She asks me, eyes searching my prepped meal sitting in the glass container in front of me. The only thing left is the disgusting Brussels sprouts my chef decided to surprise me with.
But now that I know she’s a vegan. I won’t be touching them on sheer principle. That and they are disgusting.
"Balinger's a total buzzkill," Keelan cuts in. "Always on his strict diet to stay in tip-top shape. Ain't that right, Balsy?" He reaches over and slaps me on the shoulder playfully.
“Ball-sy?” Izzy laughs, mostly to herself.
“It suits him. You should see him on the ice. Seems pretty ballsy to me,” Keelan says.
"Well, that’s because I don't fuck around like my cohorts at this table. I got one thing on my mind."
"First of all, jar," says Fergie, pointing at me. "Second of all, can we go one meal without you mentioning that dang cup?"
Michael Ferguson is the son of a well-known local pastor. His dad's only stipulation when he decided to play professional hockey instead of taking his place at the church was that he wouldn't embarrass him with sailor talk like the rest of us heathens.
Hence his other nickname.
"I might carry the team, but I don't carry cash for your fucking vacation fund, Preacher Boy." I grin, and the guys throw pieces of their food at me like we're in high school.
It's been five years since the Heatwave became an NHL expansion team. Keelan and I were both brought in that first year from our old team. Being a veteran player on the team can have you feeling the senioritis really quickly.
My usual life is pretty quiet these days. I live alone...typically. Between practices, gym sessions, rest, and recovery, I don't have much time for messing around with the guys. Not that I ever did. But these fools, they live like they'll be playing forever.
I know better.