It’s been hard enough keeping it from McGinnis. I haven’t spent the night in Knox’s bed since that first time, and he never stays over at my place. It’s too risky with McGinnis coming and going at all hours of the day and night. The rookie doesn’t seem to have a routine, despite every serious athlete I’ve ever known—including Knox—having almost ritualistic habits that revolve around sleep, exercise, and fueling the body.
“Are you playing?” Dvorak asks, grinning up at me from the stall next to Knox.
“It’s really an activity for the team,” I say, hedging.
He looks around the room, the picture of innocence. “Ava’s part of the team, right guys?”
“Hell yes,” agrees Hardy. “Coach is playing, you should too.”
“What he said,” Smitty chimes in. “After all, you’re the one who said we need to build trust.”
They’re messing with me. They have to be. They don’t actually expect me to join in…do they?
I catch Knox’s eye and one of his brows wings up in silent challenge.
Fine. I’ll play. It can’t hurt, and if it helps me gain even a modicum of trust, I’ll take it.
I quickly jot down three facts about myself and when I’m done, I explain the next step.
“I’d like each of you to crumple your paper into a snowball.” I demonstrate, balling up my sheet of paper. “When I blow the whistle, you have sixty seconds for a locker room snowball fight.”
That gets their attention. The guys ball up their papers, trash-talking as they do so. I notice some are balled up far tighter than others. It’s just paper, but…should I make them put theirhelmets on? It would totally be my luck that someone would get a paper cut to the eye.
No, that’s ridiculous.
I shove the thought aside and blow my whistle.
All hell breaks loose.
Paper goes flying and there are whoops and shouts and McGinnis gets pummeled with an onslaught of white paper balls. He throws his arms up to shield his face, dropping his own snowball in the process, as a flurry of paper rains down.
There’s a brief pause—a moment of silence when all the snowballs have been thrown—and then McGinnis dives on the floor, scooping up as many as he can before he starts winging them back at his teammates.
I toss mine into the fray, not aiming for anyone in particular. It bounces off MacKenzie and lands on the floor.
The team is caught up in the moment. No one is thinking about their losing record or personal grievances or the pressure to win.
When time is up, I reluctantly blow the whistle. There are snowballs everywhere, but there are just as many smiles, including my own.
“Now I want everyone to grab one snowball and we’re going to take turns reading them aloud. The goal is to guess the player based on the clues.” They quickly collect the crumpled paper and there isn’t a single protest, which I’m counting as a win. “Who wants to go first?”
“I’ll go,” Bouchard offers, raising his hand tentatively. He uncrumples his paper and begins to read. “I am good with ladies, I like real vodka, and—” He snickers, the paper shaking in his hand. “I hate when Bates does not wash his socks.”
The entire group bursts into raucous laughter, and Dvorak buries his face in Knox’s shoulder, his entire body vibrating.
“Screw you, Fedorov!” Bates glares at his winger, but there’s no malice in it. “You know it’s bad luck to wash’em when I’m on a heater.”
Fedorov shrugs. “I suppose athlete’s foot is good luck too.”
A grin tugs at the corner of my mouth, and I press my lips flat to suppress it.
“That was too easy. Let’s see who’s up next.” Knox flattens his own paper. “This player attended University of Minnesota, his favorite meal is something called a tater tot hotdish, and he likes wildlife documentaries.”
A quiet murmur makes its way around the room.
Johnson jerks his chin toward Smith. “Didn’t you go to Minnesota, Smitty?”
Smith makes a face of disgust. “Fuck no. I was a Wolverine.”