Unrivaled, page 22
“Jesus.” Baller was not having the same issue with fullness Grady was, because he popped in another piece of sushi. When he’d swallowed, he said, “Tell me you at least left him a nasty voicemail.”
No, he hadn’t. Because he was a coward. Grady shook his head. “Blocked his number.”
Baller had been leaning on his elbow, but now he slipped and his hand slapped against the table. “Seriously?”
Grady flinched, but the other diners didn’t seem to notice.
“Seriously?” Baller asked again, quieter this time. “You had feelings that intense and you didn’t even break up with him in person to get closure? That’s fucked, dude.”
“How was I gonna break up with him in person from a plane over the Midwest?” Grady said, bitchy.
“On the phone, then, dipshit. You know what I mean.”
Grady crossed his arms. Suddenly that sushi wasn’t sitting well. “I didn’t want to talk to him after that, okay?”
For a few seconds, Baller quietly sipped his beer. Then he said, “Can I give you some free advice?”
“Are you going to tell me anyway even if I say no?”
“Yeah.” He leaned forward again. “Look, I can’t blame you for not wanting to talk to the guy if he really ran his mouth to his team.”
Grady waited for the but.
Because Baller was a contrary asshole, he went with another word. “However. What if he didn’t? What if he didn’t say anything and you ghosted him and he has no idea why? How are you going to know if you don’t confront him about it?”
Grady flexed his hands under the table as his gut twisted.
What if? That would explain the texts he’d gotten before he blocked Max’s number. None of them struck him as something Max would’ve said if he felt smug about siccing Hedgie on Grady. Or even if he’d done it accidentally and regretted it.
But that could’ve been part of the game, right?
“I’m just saying.” Sometime during the past few minutes, Baller had signaled for and paid the check without Grady noticing. Damn. Now he slid the folder toward the end of the table. “I once broke up with Gabe because he canceled a dinner reservation for my birthday when I had a dislocated elbow. I figured he was still too afraid people would find out and I’d be his dirty secret forever, so I bounced. Turned out my birthday present was my dream couple’s vacation. What if I never found out?”
Grady was used to Baller as a joker, a smiling, easygoing guy who loved hockey and being the center of attention. He could be serious—Grady had experienced it firsthand—but he preferred not to be. Now, he was solemn and even sad. “No husband. No Reyna. Maybe no Cup either. I might’ve been traded earlier if we couldn’t play well together.”
Grady let out a slow breath, but the nausea didn’t subside. Had he made a mistake? The only way to know was to talk to Max. But he didn’t know if he was ready to know the truth. “What if he doesn’t…?”
Baller didn’t make him finish the question, just gave a minute shake of his head. “At least you’ll know.”
Would it be better, though? If Max had loved him and Grady had fucked it up, would knowing be better?
Grady didn’t know.
THE YEAR turned over and Max hit a funk.
He was sure it would be temporary, but in the meantime, he was suffering. He grinded his way through games, but his production went down. He spent a lot of time on his couch with Gru, rubbing the soft places behind his ears.
But today he was on El’s couch with her while Hedgie was filming a promo spot for Gatorade or something. Two days ago the team got test results back for their injured defenseman. He’d separated his shoulder and would be out indefinitely.
Which meant the Monsters were in danger of losing their season, and the internet was abuzz with rumors that management would trade Hedgie for a replacement defenseman.
“I swear to God,” El said, “if they send us to Winnipeg—”
“Why Winnipeg?” Max broke in.
El popped a handful of peanut M&Ms into her mouth, threw the last one at Max’s head, and then drummed her fingertips on the curve of her belly. “This is a worst-case scenario, Maximus. Pay attention.”
Max caught the candy left-handed and crunched down on it. “Sorry. Why’s Winnipeg the worst, though?”
She shot him a flat look. The effect was ruined by the way she was lying, which made her look like her chin came directly out of her boobs. “Imagine being stuck in the house with a baby for six months because there’s ten feet of snow on the ground.”
“You could get a little snowmobile,” he said. “Maybe a dogsled. And at least the baby won’t be a newborn in the winter.” Another M&M hit his forehead dead center. “Ow. Hey.”
El huffed. “You’re not helping.”
You’re not usually this dramatic, Max wanted to say, but he didn’t want to get pegged with another chocolate, so he kept it to himself. El was growing a whole new human. She could be as dramatic as she liked. “Sorry. You know there’s nothing to those rumors, right? Hedgie’s agent confirmed it.”
She sighed and rubbed her stomach again. “I know. But I’ll be on edge until the trade deadline passes anyway. Hormones are seriously the worst.”
“I believe you.”
El turned onto her side and regarded him seriously. “What about you? How are your hormones doing?”
Oh Jesus. “Did I relapse into a teenager when I wasn’t looking?”
“I’m just saying. Pretty sure I heard you blasting early Taylor Swift the other day. If the shoe fits….”
“Harsh, but fair.”
“You still haven’t heard from Armstrong, huh?”
Max reached for the party-size bag of M&Ms and grabbed a fistful. “My last text came back as undeliverable. Pretty sure he blocked my number.” Chocolate might not fill the void inside him, but he’d never know until he tried.
“What the fuck.”
“That’s what I said,” Max mumbled around a mouthful of candy. Depending on the day, thinking about it made him either angry or depressed as fuck. In any case, he needed chocolate.
“Save some of those for me,” El said.
He passed her the bag.
On the television, Hugh Grant and Julia Roberts kissed.
El sniffed. “This is so dumb. I miss action movies. I hate that I’m loving this. I hate that I’m crying about it. I hate that I want to watch Ever After next.”
A bird may love a fish, Max thought, but where would they live? A secret romance story with a happy ending would hurt to watch, but maybe it would be cathartic. “Done.”
But Hedgie came back in before they could put it on. “Hey, turn on TSN.” He sat on the ottoman.
Oh fuck. Max automatically reached for the remote and obeyed before his brain could process.
… replacing Monsters head coach Jason Saunders. New Jersey’s front office released a statement of support for Saunders, who has taken a leave of absence in order to seek treatment for addiction—
“Jesus fuck,” Max said. He snapped the TV off. “Addiction to what?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Hedgie raised a hand to his face and touched the side of his nose.
“Christ.” Max groaned. “Who’s in charge now?”
“Well, if you’d left the stupid thing on—”
Max turned the TV back on, but the program had switched over to something involving a doping scandal. “Damn.”
Hedgie rolled his eyes. “They’re promoting Wells.”
Their assistant coach thought Max’s best use was drawing penalties because his goals didn’t make the highlight reels. Max assessed the M&Ms along with the mounting pile of bad news and made a prediction. “We’re gonna need more snacks.”
“Yeah. About that.” Suddenly Hedgie’s shoulders tensed, and his head drooped between them. He looked miserable. “I got a text from Baltierra while I was out.”
Try as he might, Max couldn’t connect the dots. He glanced at El, who shrugged, then looked back at Hedgie. “Is this you coming out as bisexual and telling us you think he’s a snack? Because I agree, but dude’s taken.”
Hedgie rubbed a hand over his forehead. “No, that’s not…. Look. He said I needed to tell you what I said to Armstrong on the ice.”
Max went cold all over. “What? Why would he say that?”
“Because apparently I’m the reason he’s ghosting you.” He raised his head. “I swear to you, Max, I didn’t do it on purpose. I have no idea why he’d get so….” He spread his hands.
Fuck. Max swallowed. “What did you say?”
“That’s the thing. I barely remember. Like, it wasn’t super memorable to me, but I must’ve set him off somehow. I probably said something about Christmas? Because I knew the two of you spent it together.”
No, that couldn’t be it. “He knew you knew about us. He might not have appreciated it, but he wouldn’t have ghosted me over it.”
On the other side of the couch, El had called up the game on ESPN+ and was fast-forwarding through it. “What about here?”
The TV showed the end of the second period, when Grady went down with Hedgie on top of him.
“I was mostly apologizing,” Hedgie said. “I basically tripped over him. I probably made a joke.”
Max needed to understand what had happened to make Grady react the way he did. “Please try to remember.”
El turned the volume up. Neither Hedgie nor Grady had been wearing a mic, but the rattle they made as they hit the boards got picked up anyway. Finally Hedgie’s expression brightened. “Okay, so I was thinking about the sound it made when we collided, and you and Grady, which, sorry bud, but I see your tattoo way too often and know way too much about your sex life. So I said something like ‘didn’t mean to smash you like a lobster.’”
Max’s bile rose. “Oh fuck. No wonder he hates me.”
El sat up and put her hand on his leg. “Hey, come on. He doesn’t hate you—”
“No, he would.” He pressed his balled fist into his thigh to distract from the churning in his stomach. “I know it was a coincidence, but he thinks I told Hedgie something really personal and then he used it against him on the ice.”
Hedgie flattened his lips. “Okay, but he didn’t have to assume the worst and then ghost you.”
No, he didn’t. The least he owed Max was to tell him to fuck off in person, even if he didn’t believe Max’s explanation. “I didn’t say I wasn’t pissed, I said I know why he thinks I’m an asshole.”
His stomach turned over again. He felt like he’d been gut-punched.
Why was Grady so fucking determined to believe the worst of Max? Hadn’t Max treated him well enough to deserve the benefit of the doubt? The least Grady could do was have the spine to tell Max why he ditched him.
Max rubbed his face. “Well. That’s that mystery solved, I guess.” He wished knowing made him feel better.
El picked up the M&Ms bag and handed it over. “You need these more than I do.”
Max already regretted eating so much chocolate. “I think I better eat something more substantial.” With a sigh, he stood up and considered the contents of his kitchen. “Forget the snacks. I’m going to go find myself some dinner.”
El and Hedgie exchanged glances. “We could order takeout,” she offered.
“Thanks.” Max shook his head. He needed to fume in private. “Maybe next time.”
GRADY WASN’T sure how road trips were going to go with his new team—a lot of people had travel superstitions and designated seat partners—but right after he sat down, Mitch took the seat next to him, so he didn’t have to worry about being left out.
Then Farouk took the seat in front of him and turned around, hugging the top of his seat as he put his head on his arms.
“So listen,” Farouk said, “we’ve got a weird tradition.”
Grady glanced from him to Mitch, who said, “It’s not weird.”
From this, Grady gleaned that it definitely was. “Okay.”
“And you’re the new guy, so it’s your turn for initiation into tattoo roulette.”
Grady’s first reaction was no way. He didn’t need another permanent mark on his body.
But he wanted to try to fit in with this team. He didn’t want to spend the rest of his career bouncing from city to city because he didn’t have strong ties anywhere. He’d bought a house in anticipation of signing a contract extension. He could at least hear them out. “Tattoo what?”
“Roulette.”
Mitch took over the explanation. “See, Farouk here is the second-most-junior member of the team.”
If Grady remembered right, Farouk had signed with the Condors in the off season.
“And every time we have a new guy on a road trip, we make a bet.”
Naturally. “‘We’ meaning?”
“The new guy and the second-newest guy.”
At least Grady would only be subjected to this twice. “And what are the terms of the bet?”
Farouk grinned. “Okay, so, if I get more points than you on this road trip, you get a bad tattoo. If you get more points, I do.”
That was so stupid. No wonder the team loved it. Everybody loved a good story, and ugly tattoos made great ones. “Bad meaning crappy or bad meaning, like, ridiculous?”
Farouk rolled up his shirtsleeve to show off a well-crafted image of Baby Yoda drinking a bubble tea.
Grady snorted. “Okay. Before I agree to this… saying I lose—and I don’t intend to—do I get to choose my own dumb tattoo and where it’s going?”
Farouk and Mitch had a silent conversation. Mitch eventually answered, “Subject to approval as sufficiently stupid, yes.”
Fuck it. “Why not.” He and Farouk shook on it. “You’re going down, though.”
Farouk laughed at him. “We’ll see.”
Three minutes later, a WhatsApp message came through from Hedgie.
Grady almost didn’t open it. He couldn’t imagine it said anything he wanted to hear. But curiosity got the better of him, and eventually he opened it.
Max had no idea why you were mad at him. Whatever I said to you that pissed you off, it was a coincidence. He didn’t tell me shit.
Then: PS you’re a dick.
For a few heartbeats, Grady stared blankly at the messages. Then questions started to creep in. How did Hedgie know why Grady was mad, if Max hadn’t told him?
Baller, of course. He loved to meddle.
But did Grady trust the three of them?
And did it matter? At the end of the day, if he gave them the benefit of the doubt, then he and Max might still have a chance. That was worth the leap of faith. Grady might like his new team, might even like his new life, but he missed Max. He missed the person Max made him want to be.
Max had given him permission to be the kind of man who could make a bet about a stupid tattoo. But he also accepted Grady as a petty asshole who judged people for serving palm oil dessert and calling it ice cream.
Maybe Max was innocent and Grady had fucked up. If that was the case, he had to figure out how to fix it, if he could. How could he apologize?
But that wasn’t even the first question. The first question was how he could get Max to hear him out when they both knew he didn’t deserve it.
The Condors didn’t play Newark until the end of the regular season, three months from now. Grady would never forgive himself if he didn’t attempt to clear this up before then.
With nerveless fingers, he navigated to his contacts list and scrolled down to Shithead.
God, he’d been such an asshole. He made himself sick.
Grady unblocked Max’s number. Then he hit Edit Contact and erased the name. Max didn’t deserve that, and Grady was past caring what other people thought.
He entered Max’s full first and last name and touched Save.
Now for the hard part.
I fucked up.
No shit. But what else?
He took the rest of the flight to figure it out.
MAX CONSIDERED himself an easygoing guy. He got up, he worked out, he ate, he played hockey, he went to bed. The circle of life. He left work at work. He had, like, Zen chill or whatever.
But Coach Wells was an energy-sucking vampire who consumed all Max’s chill and fed it back to him as distilled rage. Considering Max was already having a certified Bad Time, he didn’t need Coach Wells in his life.
They were halfway through the third period, trailing 3–2 in a game they had no business losing, but Wells had his idea of what each player’s strengths were and didn’t care about reality.
When he finished telling Hedgie to make a play that was way more in Max’s wheelhouse—Hedgie had good hands but Max had him beat for speed, which this plan called for—he turned to Max. “Lockhart—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Max said. “Tie up the third man and piss him off so he takes a penalty.” He bit down on his mouthguard hard enough that he heard an ominous crack.
That was the second one this week. Max was going to have to see a dentist if this kept up.
Nora would gloat. Horrible.
Wells gave him a look that said Max would pay for his insubordination after the game, but Max didn’t care. If Wells scratched him, at least he’d have a game off to rest. Max had taken more retaliatory hits in the past two games than in the two weeks before that. Bruises marked his skin from elbows to shoulder and down his flanks. He’d even taken a spear under his ribs, and the skin there had turned a mottled purple.
But he did his job. He got up in that third man’s space and took it away. He got in the way. He didn’t worry about making plays, but he made sure this guy couldn’t even look at the puck. Finally, in frustration, the guy slashed Max’s legs—at least he’d chosen a place Max wasn’t already black-and-blue—and Max exaggerated enough to get called for embellishing.
Oh well, he thought as he skated to the box, maybe Wells would stop asking him to do this.
Needless to say, the Monsters did not pull off a surprise win. Max did his media duties as blandly as he could, even when a reporter tried to bait him into criticizing Wells. Max had been in the league ten years. He knew a trap when he heard one.
