Page 33 of Puck, Marry, Kill
Chapter 11
Dominic
Briar didn’t clarify if this is a date or just two friends grabbing food, so I’m trying to manage my own expectations as we park, because Briar is deeper than I ever imagined and I’m drawn to that dark, ooey gooey center inside her as much as I am the brightness she shows to the world.
I wasn’t sure which version of her I’d get today—the silly, whimsical side who spits out animal facts or the layered, hidden treasure trove of emotions. And when she opened her door, looking like sunshine and smiles, wrapped up in skintight jeans, a cropped tank top, and an oversize cardigan that makes me want to crawl inside it and snuggle with her (or more), I didn’t care. I just wanted Briar, however she was coming.
“How’d you find this place? I’ve never heard of it.” She’s looking around the strip center parking lot as I help her from my truck, and every flick of her head sends her dangling earrings swinging. One is a monkey, the other a banana, and both make me smile.
“I searched for protein bowl places and voilà.” I hold a hand out like a car show model, gesturing to the glowing neon proclaiming “Big Boy Bowls,” with a3and aBfashioned into a logo. “This type of place is my favorite back home. Griffin and I have a pregame, postgame, and any other time habit of hitting them up. I wanted to check this one out before the season officially starts.”
The season opener is next weekend and I want to ask Briar if she and Harley will come watch. But I’m waiting to see how today goes.
“Have you talked to him since you got here?” she asks while we wait in line to create our lunches.
“Yeah, several times, but I think he’s getting tired of my bitching and whining about the Blizzard. He told me to fix Kipson’s shit and get traded back or he’d have to fly out here and kick both of our asses himself.” I laugh, remembering the conversation.
We’re like most guys, I guess, communicating that we care by giving each other a hard time, and as much as I complained about being here, he was doing the same thing—grumbling that my replacement is so new, he bleeds green. In guy speak, that translates toI miss youandWish you were hitting the ice with me.
“How’s that going? You said the two of you got into it?” She looks me over, searching for any signs of a fight gone wrong.
“We’re both still alive and kicking, so there’s that.” I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not going to be a quick fix, but I also wish he’d get to the part where he realizes I’m right and starts telling off his teammates for the toxic environment they help foster.
As we sit down with our bowls—mine chicken, hers steak—I say, “Can I ask you a question about Coach Boothe? Hockey related.”
It’s a gamble to use Briar for intel. I don’t want her to feel like this is why I want to spend time with her, but I also want to see if things can be improved for the whole team.
“That depends. Are you going to use it against him or to help him?” she asks, one blond brow arched delicately and her fork poised in the air above her bowl.
I tilt my head, thinking. “Both?”
“Hit me with it,” she says, taking a bite. She pauses, chewing slowly and nodding, her eyes slipping closed as she savors her food. “Uhm, this is delicious.”
I stab a piece of chicken myself and chew it thoughtfully. It is good, a definite upgrade from Chipotle ...ifthe guacamole is goodtoo. Another bite and ... yep, new favorite protein bowl place. At least here. Nothing tops Pro-Bowl back home.
I remind myself to tell Rodney and Tomville about Big Boy Bowls. Maybe I’ll even invite them out for a pregame meal like Griffin and I used to do. I can’t automatically reset the whole team’s dynamics, but I can keep the newbies from going rotten.
“Is he close to retirement?”
She laughs loudly, nearly choking on the forkful of rice she just swallowed. “No! Why?” she asks, covering her mouth.
Sighing, I tell her, “I think the only way to fix Kipson is to fix the whole damn team. If Coach was close to retirement, I could do it without worrying about him. If not, I don’t think your dear old daddy is gonna like the new guy coming in and moving his cheese.”
She props her chin on her palm, looking at me with eager eyes. “Tell me everything.”
I do. I tell her how the guys are the hockey equivalent of finance bros, with too much focus on fucking and fun, and not enough attention on being mentally and physically sound both on and off the ice. I tell her that Coach has created an environment where relationships are discouraged with some bullshit about them being a distraction. I tell her about practices with the new rookies and the way they’re already being brainwashed into the Blizzard’s way of thinking.
“And you want to fix alllll of that?” she asks, doubt written in the lines around her frown as she waves her fork in a circle, indicating everything I’ve listed out. “How?”
“I don’t know yet,” I admit. “But I’ve got to try.”
“Why? You keep saying you’re only here for the short term. Play your best, have a few conversations with Kipson, and move on. Dad will trade you back if you’re not the fix he thinks you are, right?”
I could do that. I’m not a magic pill to be prescribed when someone else is sick or a bandage when someone’s bleeding out. I’m a person. ButI’m not a half asser. And I do think there’s an opportunity here. Room I could shove my way into and improve.
“Knowing that better is possible is a privilege I don’t take lightly. These guys? They don’t know any different than the team they’ve been on, but if I can show them what a team can be ...shouldbe ... maybe we could all be better for it. Because the truth is, this team’s insanely talented. Just think, if things are this bad and they made it to Finals last year, what could happen if they were actually a team. We could win the whole damn thing.”
Briar is smiling at me, her eyes filled with some combination of happiness and respect. “You saidwe, notthem. You, my friend, are afixer.” She bestows the label upon me like she’s figured out my deepest, darkest secret, as though I hide that I’m a mostly decent guy and not a shitstain on society.
