“Hypothermia is hot.” Beckett gives her another wink.
“I highly advise you don’t stay in there for an hour, Gisele,” I say politely.
“Stop trying to curb my dreams, prom king.”
“Look at you two, with your cute little nicknames.” Beckett grins at us. “You should hook up.”
Gigi coughs into her hand. “Yeah, not going to happen,” she replies, and I smirk at her when Beck’s not looking.
“Seriously, why not?” he insists. “Now that you’ve decided not to ride the Dunne train—”
“Don’t refer to yourself as that,” she orders.
“—this guy’s the next best thing. Plus you’d have good-looking children.” Beckett pauses in thought. “Colson would shit a brick, though, so… Probably a good call not to drink from that well.”
He wanders into the men’s locker room, oblivious to Gigi’s troubled face.
“Does he know?” she hisses when he’s gone.
“I don’t think so. It’s just Beckett being Beckett,” I assure her.
“Whatever. I’m going to change.”
I do the same, changing into a pair of swim trunks while devouring my apple in five bites. I toss the core into the trash can, then slide my feet into flip-flops and head for the tub room. I’m all about cold-water immersion therapy, although it’s not for the fainthearted. The first time you sink into the chilled water, you almost stop breathing. But eventually you build up a tolerance for it. They’re still not pleasant, but a short ice bath works miracles on aching postgame muscles and speeds up recovery times.
Gigi’s already in the therapy room, wearing a one-piece black Speedo that’s modest and shouldn’t be as sexy as it is. The way my body reacts, you’d think she was naked.
Approval flares in her gray eyes as they sweep over my bare chest. But when I turn to set my sports drink on the ledge across the room, she gasps.
“What?” I glance over my shoulder and realize her attention is on my bruise. “Yeah, it’s not great,” I agree.
She sips her water before setting down her own bottle down.
“How does fifteen minutes sound?” I suggest, drifting toward the timer at the door. “I know you’d prefer an hour, but I think fifteen is a solid start.”
“Good call.” Her voice is distracted.
I turn to see her fussing with her phone and a small external speaker.
“Just setting up my playlist,” she tells me.
Dread rises inside me. “No,” I say instantly.
“Yes,” she confirms with a broad smile. “Horizons. Trust me, it’s the best thing to listen to when you’re shivering your ass off in that tub.”
“I don’t trust you and I believe that to be a lie.”
“I’ve narrowed it down to two tracks. I’ll even be nice and let you choose. What’ll it be? The African bushveld or the reeds of North Carolina?”
“I fucking hate North Carolina.”
“Africa, it is.”
A moment later, we’re both sliding into our respective cold tubs. Gigi lets out a shriek of despair the moment her body is submerged.
“Confession,” she wheezes out.
I look over in amusement, resting my arms on the edges of the tub.
“As much as I like to brag about my cold-water proficiency, I hate ice baths with the chill of a thousand glaciers.”
I wholly agree. But the things that make you great don’t always feel great.
“In my early twenties, the African bushveld came calling. She welcomed me on a provocative journey, promising an unfiltered feast for my ears. Even now, decades later, I have never forgotten her raw, distinctive chorus.”
“Oh God,” I groan. “Why.”
“…I remember the trumpeting of an elephant mother, calling to her calf across the savanna. The relentless buzz of the African cicada as I smoked my pipe around the campfire. That night I learned that the hadeda ibis gets its name from the very sound it makes. The haa-haahaa-de-dah…so penetrating and distinct. Making it one of the rare birds to earn itself an onomatopoetic name. I cannot begin to describe the unforgettable symphony I discovered in the African bush. And now…let me take you there.”
We sit there for several silent seconds, the African bush serving as the backdrop for our cold therapy.
“Why do you hate North Carolina?” Gigi finally asks, curious.
I shrug. “I got stranded there once.”
“Care to elaborate?”
“Nah.”
She laughs. “Man, you really hate talking.”
“Thank you for noticing.”
“Sweetie. That wasn’t a compliment. You know who else doesn’t talk? Serial killers.”
“I disagree… Seems like a lot of those crazy fuckers love to hear themselves talk.”
The water laps the sides of the tub as she sinks lower. Her face is pained. Pale from the cold. “Did you see my dad’s show last night?”
I flick her a dark look. “Yes.”
“What’s with the grumpy face? He complimented you.”
“He did not.”
“He said you were effective and praised your stickhandling.”
“No, that was Jake Connelly. Your dad looked like he was holding his nose and forcing himself to go along with it.”
“I promise you, if Jake thinks you’re good, my dad thinks it too. You just need to find a way to make him overlook what happened at Worlds. He has a thing about fighting.” She quiets for a moment. “I don’t know how much you know about his past, but one of the reasons his foundation works with so many domestic abuse charities is because he was a victim of it.”
I nod slowly. “Yeah, I did know that.” A lot of articles were written about that situation, particularly since Graham himself hailed from hockey royalty. His father, the abuser in question, was a legend in his own right.
“I think where his concern lies is that you weren’t fighting on the ice,” Gigi tells me, her expression serious. “It wasn’t part of the game, where you’re dealing with…controlled aggression. Athletes can let out their aggression within the confines of rules, you know? But you did it in the locker room.”
“Yeah, I did.” I keep talking before she can push for details, which I know she’s clamoring to do. “Maybe you can put in a good word for me with Connelly instead,” I say dryly. “’Cause I’m starting to think your dad is a lost cause.”
“Sure thing, kid. I’ll be seeing his family for the holidays, so I’ll make sure to talk about nothing but you.”
Hearing it brings a rush of envy that I try to ignore. Not because she’s surrounded by famous people. It’s the family part that activates something painful deep inside me. I didn’t have any of that shit growing up. Always wondered what it’d be like to have a real family.
It sounds nice.
She shifts in the tub. The water sloshes over her, and she shudders.
“God, this is cold,” she gripes.
“One might think it’s an ice bath.”
“Listen, as much as I’m digging the sarcasm. Can it.”
“I can’t win with you. If I don’t say anything, I’m a serial killer. If I do say something, you tell me to can it.”