Make Me Whole

Chapter 05

Chapter 05 ‐ Felix

First in, last out. That's what I've always done regarding training, what that actually looks like is just get there early, stay late. There are some certified psychos in the team that I don't think sleep.

One of them being Theodore Calloway, he's always training. It varies in insanity, from an amount that even professional athletes would cringe at, to an amount that should put him six feet under. Currently, he's in a six-feet-under stage, something to do with his unstable ex-girlfreind.

For someone who looks like they can and will beat the shit out of you, he's quite reserved. Grumpy as all shit, impossible to have a conversation with that he doesn't want to be having and a beast if you push him far enough. Not only is he covered head to toe in tattoos, but he's the tallest on the team, having a few inches in me at six-four. Through the years, we've become somewhat friends—all that means is he actually talks to me, not just grunts, glares and gestures.

Apart from Theo and myself, Finn is also someone who works his ass off. Sure, he just occasionally gets sidetracked by the figure skater that he doesn't realise is completely in love with him; if Finn ever quits ice hockey he could go for a figure skating career, he's not half bad.

Last year we got a pair of boys drafted in, a nineteen-year-old know-it-all who hooks up with every puck bunny he can get his hands on. And a twenty-year-old who isn't capable of having an opinion that isn't copied from the person next to him. They drive me up the fucking wall, they think they're all that because they've gone pro, but they're surrounded by people who've been playing longer than they've been able to tie the laces on their skates. They're surrounded by people who have been inducted into the list of ice hockey greats.

Coming to practice hungover, forgetting gear and arriving will catch up to them. They're on borrowed time, especially Thompson—the ninteen-year-old. He hasn't been pro for a year and he's already garnered a less-than-stellar reputation.

Walking into the changing room I spot a few people surrounding Thompson's phone, amused looks on a few faces. Especially Thompson's, he looks like a kid at Christmas.

"'Rome Douglas spotted after months out of the spotlight' I woulda' betted she died–" Thompson gets a shove from Smithe, a decent enough guy. "'The supermodel, who has reportedly pulled out of all of her booked shoots, hasn't been seen since a party in her home city of Bord...' how do you ever fucking say that?"

Smithe scoffs. "Bordeaux, dipshit."

"How was I supposed to know? I didn't take French. Back onto Rome who apparently wasn't born in Rome, kind of a dumb name, don't you–"

My blood begins to boil. Watching the men laugh and joke about a woman clearly trying to stay out of the spotlight. Dodging cameras and prying eyes for months isn't easy, and can't be done without effort. Fuck, she looked like she was about to go skiing at the last game, I didn't even realise it was her for a good few seconds. She's dyed her hair, doesn't look like a strong breeze will snap her in half and has ditched the short skirts and low-cut tops she always looked so uncomfortable in. She did look good, though. My dick can attest to that.

The fact that any self-respecting person could ever photograph someone walking out of a hospital, clearly in said hospital because of either their own health issues, or health issues from someone they love, is beyond me. Providing so-called evidence to give an answer to the burning question: What Happened to Rome Douglas? Even months later it hasn't died down. People seem to think they have some kind of right to know.

They now know something bad happened, and I hate that they know. It'll only prove to add fuel to the fire of question.

"Do you ever shut the fuck up, Thompson?" I snap loudly, my voice echoing around the room which quickly falls silent. "I can't speak for everyone, but I cannot stand the sound of your shrill voice cracking every three seconds. Not only that, but every time you do squeak something out it's not useful, intellectual or even funny. It's just utter brain-rotting shit. Maybe shut the fuck up until you can provide the world with something other than reading an article shitting on a woman—the last thing your reputation needs is another claim that you're not just a misogynist, but a raging misogynist." The words simply tumble from my mouth, annoyance having clearly brewed silently.