Seven
EZRA
There’s a morning press conference the day of the next game, the first since the trade, so up there on the podium are Moreau and Hayes next to Coach Stephenson and our GM.
I’ve snuck in the back, behind all the media, because I can’t help myself. That and we have our morning skate right after this.
Anton looks too damn good in his suit, his black hair parted and styled in that perfect way he has it after games. His smiles are easy, and his answers are short. He’s the walking definition of perfect PR.
Unlike me. Exhibit A: I’m attending this press conference in jeans and my B’s jacket. Big no-no, but the plan is to go unnoticed. That lasts all of two minutes until someone asks about the rift between Hayes and me.
Then suddenly cameras are pointed in my direction and toward the front.
Anton smiles again, still unflustered, and says into the mic, “Ezra Palaszczuk and I have only ever come to blows on the ice.”
Hey, I’d offer to blow him off the ice, but he’s adamant about pretending he doesn’t want me.
“We’re actually great friends,” he continues.
I bet that was difficult for him to get out without wanting to hurl.
“Now that we’re on the same team, there’s no reason to be fighting over plays. You might not know it to look at Ezra, but he has a big heart and has even volunteered to help me with my latest charity campaign at the local animal shelter, Boston Paws. We’re having a volunteer day this weekend, and he’ll be there with me.”
I’m going to be where with who now?
His dark eyes lock on me, along with every camera in the damn room, and suddenly his smile isn’t so easy. It’s downright evil.
I wave it off, acting like a good sport.
He’s going to pay for that.
As soon as the press conference is over, I approach him in the locker room. His jacket and tie have been discarded, his suit shirt is unbuttoned, but that’s as far as he’s gotten.
The other guys are only starting to arrive, so it’s still practically empty when I shove past Anton and send him flying into his cubby.
Anton rights himself and advances on me, only stopping barely a foot away.
I pump my eyebrows. “You know, if you wanted to spend more time with me, all you had to do was ask. No need to steamroll me into going on a date with you.”
Moreau steps behind his old Philly teammate, but Anton holds him back.
“I got this,” Anton says.
Then his dark and broody stare is back on me. “If you think spending any time outside the rink with you was by choice, you’re more egotistical than I ever thought.”
“That’s your problem. Always underestimating me.”
Anton licks his lips. “I can’t wait to see you on Sunday at the shelter. Rumor has it you have this weird fear of cats.”
My eyes widen.
“Guess what I signed you up for?” he continues. “Cleaning out all the little kitty cages. You’re welcome.”
I turn to the few guys who are here. “Which one of you ratted me out?”
I might have an irrational superstition about cats—not fear. Which everyone knows about after a stray black cat was found outside the arena one day. Larsen had brought it in to find a box for it, and we lost the next game. And the one after that.
“If we lose the game against Philly on Monday, we know who to blame.” I glare at Anton. “Will you be able to remember whose side you’re on?”
“Worry about your own game.” Anton turns his back to me and finishes getting undressed.
I stand here and watch because while he’s still and always will be an asshole, his body is divine.
He does have a point though, because later that night when we play against New Jersey, I take more penalties, more hits, and let way too many shots on goal happen.
It’s a shutout, and we leave the ice with our heads low.
“Should’ve gone with the dirty socks,” Larsen says as we head down the chute.
“Should’ve never traded and messed with our team dynamics.”
Anton, who’s in front of me, takes his glove off and throws me the finger. “I was nowhere near the worst out there tonight.”
“Oh, did I miss where you scored?”
“At least I didn’t spend more time in the sin bin than on the ice.”
“Cut the crap,” Coach says behind me. “The media is watching.”
A few reporters are hanging around outside the locker room waiting for sound bites and after-game interviews. Anton and I close our mouths like good little boys, but I bet Coach is already having regrets about the trade.
My alarm goes off at dark o’clock so I can get my ass to the fucking animal shelter to do this charity shit because fucking Anton Hayes is a fucking fuck fuck asshole fuck.