Puck Buddies (6 page)

Chapter Five

Borrowed whores

Matt

Manhattan

August,
2014

The place looks the same. The minor
renovations haven't changed it much.

I stroll out onto the deck and take in
the view of the city. I’ve missed it. It’s been eight months since I was here
last.
A long, hard eight months filled with school and hockey
and training.

I’m mentally exhausted but the next part
of the ride is about to start.

The card and bottle of scotch on the
table next to the window make me smile.

The congratulations from my family are
fake
and the handwriting isn't even my dad’s.

It’s our butler Benson’s.

He probably felt bad since they didn't
even care that I was added to the roster for the New York Rangers. But Benson
cares. He always has. I would know his traditional cursive anywhere. It’s
impressive to see someone master the art of calligraphy because he wanted to.

I don't think I’ve ever done anything
because I wanted to, except play hockey. That is the one thing in my life I do
because it brings me happiness. Most of the guys I play with are excited to be
in the big league.
For them their lives are being made by getting
picked to play
. That’s not why I play. I have the luxury of playing
because I love the sport.

Even if my family doesn’t.

If anything, I’m risking a lot by being
here. Hockey is a sacrifice.

“Mr. Brimley, you have a call. It’s Mr.
Bellevue.” Benson walks in with my cell phone.

“Oh shit, I didn't realize I left my
phone in the kitchen. Thanks.” He nods, as I take the phone, and leaves the
room. “Hey, Bellevue.”

“Dude, I haven't physically called anyone
in like a year. I forgot how to make a call. I texted you like eight times. You
can’t answer a text?
Too high and mighty as a big bad Ranger?
You guys circle jerking it at your place right now as an initiation rite?”

“Yeah, I just finished. Your mom was
spectacular. What’s up?”

“My mom isn't spectacular. Your mom told
me what a dead lay she is.”

We both laugh. Our moms are a running
joke we’ve had since we were kids, and we don’t know how to stop. That, and his
sister, a girl I couldn’t be attracted to if my life depended on it. She’s
another Sami Ford.
The classification for bullshit snob in my
mind.

“We on for tonight or what?
Hot club near Chelsea Park on the corner of Tenth and West
Twenty-Seventh.
I sent the location in a text.
It’s
pretty much invite only tonight, some special DJ is there. I got the owner to
put your name on the list.”

“Sounds good. I’ll bring a friend, okay?”

“Girl or guy?”

“Guy. A friend of mine from Michigan
might be coming up. Why, you interested?” Even though we never discuss it, I
know about his bisexuality. As far as our world goes, he’s still in the closet
about it. But it’s a walk-in with feather boas and
Gone with the Wind
posters. It’s something he will never come out
about. We all know what happens when someone like us comes out about being
anything close to different. It’s worse than eloping with a stripper. I am
basically living that life by doing something so pedestrian as playing hockey.

“No, I don't want more competition for
the ladies. For whatever reason, money doesn't bring the pussy the way hockey
players do.” He says it exactly the way a snobby rich kid should.

“Try having a personality. It’ll get you
further than your bank account. See ya tonight.” I laugh and hang up, shaking
my head.

My phone vibrates with several messages,
escalating in disturbing content. The last message makes me wince.

Sami Ford will be there. Maybe she’ll let
you carry her home, like her little blue- collar bitch again.

He still torments me over being thrown up
on and called blue collar. It’s technically the worst insult Carson could be
given. He doesn't know that in the real world it’s not even an insult. Most of
the guys I play hockey with come from blue-collar families. Their parents have
sacrificed like mad to get them to where they are. Most of them are the nicest
people I’ve ever met, until the money gets to their heads. Then they change and
become more like the people I’m used to hanging with.

People like Sami Ford.

Snobs who can’t get over themselves and
abuse everyone they know.

My brain slingshots back to the night
that has haunted me for years.

How on earth had I been so wrong about
her being so cool?

She did me a solid that night though.
She’s out of my system for good, flushed by the stench of gin and vomit.

“Matthew!” My mother’s shrill voice makes
me jump and spin around.

“Yeah?”

“Don't say ‘yeah,’ darling. It’s rude,”
she huffs. “Are you coming to brunch with us?”

“No. I didn't even know you guys were
here.”

“We aren't really here. Your father
needed to come to town for a quick meeting, and now we’re grabbing a bite to
eat and then going home.” Home being Southampton.

“I can’t come. I’m heading over to the
training center. We have some meetings with the coach to go over our own skill
assess—”

“That’s nice,” she interrupts without
lifting her gaze from her phone. “Well, if you change your mind, you know where
to find us.” She turns and leaves, clicking her way out the door in her
Louboutins.

Change my mind?

Their lack of interest in my career is
mind-boggling.
Every other parent in the world would be
excited that their
kid made the NHL.

Benson gives me a look from the doorway
where he followed her in. “Might I suggest a deep breath, sir?”

“And a shot of whiskey, or is that a bad
idea before someone works me out for the next six hours?” I laugh.

“I would suggest the whiskey
after
the six hours, sir.”

“Sound advice, as always.” Taking his
suggestion, I sigh a couple of times. “I better get going.”

“I’ll have one of your favorites waiting
for you when you arrive back.
Best of luck with your first
practice.
Charles is bringing the car out front.” Benson gives me a
loving smile and leaves me to my thoughts.

When I get downstairs to the street,
Charles has the Bentley pulled around. I contemplated taking a cab like a
normal human being, but I’ve got an hour until we start and it’s a half-hour drive
to Tarrytown.

“Good morning, sir.” The older man sees
my expression when I give the car a once over. “Your mother’s suggestion, I’m
afraid.”

“I suspected.”

He gets the door and I climb inside,
fighting hard not to enjoy the smell of the car. It’s my favorite in the world.
Riding with my dad in the Bentley was a special treat. I grew up rich but my
dad didn't. He was raised in Kentucky; his parents have a farm. But he worked
hard and made something of himself and married rich. He prides himself on being
a self-made man.

Something he wishes we shared.

Fortunately, he has my older brother to
groom and focus on so I only get about twenty-five percent of his judgment. If
it weren’t for Tony, I would be forbidden to play hockey. But having him take
over the family business distracts from my failures. Plus, my father believes
this is a phase. Something I will do while I’m young, before I choose a real
career.

“Are you excited for your first practice
as a Ranger?” Charles asks softly, smiling at me in the rearview.

“I am, thank you for asking.” What I mean
is thank you for caring enough to ask.

“We are all quite proud of you, sir.”

“Thanks.” I pull on my headphones, not
really in the mood to talk about it all.

It’s a pleasant drive, one I enjoy. I’ve
always liked Tarrytown and especially Sleepy Hollow. I read the book when I was
eleven and forced Charles to bring me to the village. My mother had said it was
a waste of time. So I convinced Charles to take me in secret, under the guise
of going to the American Museum of Natural History. It bought us an afternoon
to roam the graveyards and look at the village. He agreed, I think secretly
enjoying sticking it to them.

When we get close I turn off my music and
smile at the scenery. I love being out of the city.

“Do you recall that time we came to
Sleepy Hollow and did the lantern tour through the cemeteries, sir?” Charles
smiles wide.

“One of my favorite days. I won’t ever
forget it.”

“Nor I. I feared I might lose my job
every time we snuck off on one of those tours or trips to sightsee whenever you
came to the city.” He laughs, making me smile.

“You were a convincing liar, Charles.
Mother never suspected a thing. The English accent and the gentlemanly nod wins
her over every time.”

He raises a bushy eyebrow. “The convincingly
good liar was you, if you’ll allow me the liberty to say so. For such a
pleasant boy, you lie like a rug.”

“I learned from the best.”

The comment is offside so he doesn't
agree, but he also doesn't disagree. Twenty-five years of working for my parents
has shown him my comment may be rude, but it’s accurate. My father has had a
record number of mistresses and my mother has houses filled with clothes and
shoes my dad doesn't know about.
Neither one of them spends
much time with the other, and
yet they have a blissful marriage. Our
life is perfect . . .

Charles pulls off the main road and turns
into the parking lot of a nondescript training center. “It’s smart to have such
a plain building house some of the country’s best athletic teams. No one would
guess it’s the training center for the Knicks or Rangers,” he marvels.

“Yeah, I like it.”

Before I realize he shouldn't, Charles
gets out and opens my door for me. “Here we are, sir.”

Assistant Coach Reynolds is standing on
the sidewalk, talking to one of the female players for the New York Liberty.
Both of
their
gazes drift my way as I climb out,
looking like a visiting dignitary, not the new rookie.

“Your bag, sir.” Charles smiles and hands
me the massive hockey bag loaded with more of my practice gear.

“Remember when I said we should lose the
sir and you should call me Matt like everyone else?” I mutter, taking the bag.

His dark eyes narrow.
“Remember when I told you
English chauffeurs do not address anyone, not even the cockiest of boys, by
their God-given names?”

“I think asking to be normal dudes around
each other makes me not cocky.”

“Your cockiness makes you cocky.” His
expression doesn't budge.

“Can we just agree that here, you’ll lose
the sir? Just around the team?” I plead. “I will suffer harder if they think
I’m a soft rich kid. Trust me.”

“They’ll see there’s nothing soft about
you.” He tries but then concedes, “Fine.” He turns on his heel and heads for
the car.

“Don't wait here for me, just go do
something fun. Seriously.”

He gets in and drives to a parking spot
and turns the car off, ignoring me completely.

Coach gives me a grim nod, obviously not
prepared for the new guy to pull up this way. “Brimley.”

“Sir.” I nod back, avoiding the dirty
grin coming off the cute brunette.

“Better hustle and get ready.” He turns
back to the girl and continues his conversation.

“Yes, sir.” I try to relax so I can enjoy
every moment of this walk.

It’s only the culmination of my entire
life’s work.

Each step into the building is important
and I need to pay homage to it.

It’s like walking the red carpet. Of
course the journey, your life, flashes before your eyes.

Every hard moment and battle fought has
brought me here.

It’s something I’ve earned.

I didn’t have to do it. I did it because
I wanted it.

My father might not see it, but we’re the
same. I fight and work as hard as he does; we just had different dreams.

When I get inside the training center, I
can’t help but sigh at the smell in the air. I breathe it in deeper, savoring
the scent of success.

The air here is made up of blood, sweat,
and tears and it’s everywhere, even in the foyer with the trophies.

I linger, staring and smiling like a
moron.

In the hallway I meet up with several
people I recognize from the New York Knicks. It’s surreal. I don’t normally
feel short but as they pass by I’m the smallest man in the hall, at six foot
three.

I head for the hockey locker rooms, which
are something out of a fantasy.