13. No I in Team
NO I IN TEAM
brETT
Iwoke up this morning wired tight. Had to force myself to eat.
It’s a big night.
My first game with 59 on my jersey.
I’ve got a lot to prove.
The locker room is louder than expected for an optional morning skate. Not optional for me, mind you. Coach Freeson made it clear he wants me in his sights. So here I am.
The scent of sweat, coffee, and freshly laundered practice jerseys hits me as I walk in.
The thrum of chatter and laughter buzzes under my skin.
I mostly tune it out. I haven’t played a game with a new team since I got drafted.
I mean, I’ve had teammates come and go before, obviously.
Rotating lines. Pairing shake-ups. But it’s different being the new guy.
I pull on my gear quickly and methodically. Left skate first, because obviously. I’m taping my socks when Decker and Hawk, who are mid-argument about music—loud enough that it’s clearly not their first round—pull me out of my head.
“Anything with a banjo is an automatic foul,” Decker declares, dragging his jersey over his head. “I don’t care how many beers you’ve had.”
“Bro. I said it was folk-punk. There’s a difference.”
“Yeah. One’s annoying and the other’s unlistenable.”
“Anything’s better than Cowboy’s country schlock,” Kane Carter adds from across the room, leaning back like a king holding court.
The guy’s a natural agitator—chirpy, smooth, and annoying in a way I grudgingly respect. He and Decker are cut from the same cloth. Probably why I like him.
And I definitely agree with his taste in music.
Cody McGillis throws his tape roll like a grenade. “Hey, how’d I get dragged into this? And y’all better watch your mouths. This is Montana, boys. You will respect the fine traditions of the state.”
“Aren’t you from Texas, Cowboy?” Carter ducks the roll with a grin.
Liam chuckles softly from his stall a few feet down. That gets my attention. I’ve only ever seen him playing backup scowler to Gray. Good to know he has a personality.
Decker was right. This is a good group. Easy banter. Solid energy. I can see myself fitting in here. I want to fit in here.
“Alright, focus up. Skates on the ice in five,” the captain calls.
The shift is instant. Even I straighten up, and I wasn’t dicking around.
Fletcher Ryan doesn’t lead with volume; he leads with presence.
Everything quiets.
“This season has been up and down so far, so if we’re going to make it to the postseason, we need to straighten things out and stay consistent. And that starts now.”
Ryan’s attention doesn’t land on me for long as he sweeps the room, but it's long enough. I hear what he’s saying, loud and clear.
You’re here for a reason. Don’t mess it up.
“So finish getting ready and let’s go. I’m saving all the rousing, inspirational shit for the actual game.”
The joke does exactly what it’s supposed to, earning a few chuckles and even more grins, breaking the tension. Ryan likes his team serious but relaxed. It’s a good vibe.
And with that, we head out to the ice.
The rink hums with low-key energy. A couple of flow drills, some passing work, breakout routes.
Nothing too taxing. Just enough to loosen up.
Shep (finally learned the rookie’s name) and I end up together for the early drills, and the kid lets me talk him through positioning as we cycle puck retrievals and outlet passes.
He’s not getting a lot of ice time yet, but there’s potential there.
He’s got good instincts and he’s adapting well to the NHL. Solid dude. I like him.
I also like the growing rhythm in my legs, my timing syncing up with the pace of play. I’m not guessing anymore. I know where the puck’s going. That’s how I like it.
Coach moves us into a light regroup-and-breakout progression. No pressure, just rhythm.
Mason tries to thread a pass through traffic. Kane Carter intercepts it easily and flips it up the boards and back into the zone.
"Heads up, Gray,” I call as we switch out. “That lane’s not there.”
He doesn’t answer.
The next time he’s up, he and Yarrow run the same play, same result. This time Parker Nash cuts it off, skates it in, takes a shot, but The President handles it easily.
This time as he drifts toward the bench for some water, Gray’s stick makes contact with mine.
Not hard. Just a little love tap. But not necessary, either.
Message received. I’ll stay out of his business.
When I’m ready to call it a day, Gray heads for the bench at the same time I do.
How convenient.
He makes sure to bang against my arm as he passes me in the tunnel, and because I wasn’t expecting such a bitch move, my stick falls to the rubber flooring.
I guess we’re doing this now. Fine by me.
“What’s the issue here?”
He turns to face me, muscles strung tight. He’s wound up about something. “I don’t like you.”
No shit.
“You don’t even know me.”
He looks mutinous, and I wonder what’s going on in his head. I haven’t been here long enough to be this deep under his skin.
“If it was up to me, I’d keep it that way.”
Since I’ve been twenty-two and an asshole, I don’t pummel the kid. Not that I’m not tempted.
“Well lucky for me, it’s not up to you, so you’d better find a way to get right with me. I’m not going anywhere.”
He frowns, but his retort is interrupted by whoever’s coming up the tunnel behind me.
“Do we have a problem here?”
I look at Mason. He looks at me. He doesn’t want to let it drop. Animosity rolls off him in waves. Kid’s looking for a fight. But he thinks better of it. Steps back from me.
“Nah. No problem, Cap.” Mason turns and heads for the dressing room.
Fletcher watches until he disappears around the corner, then looks me over.
“Do we have a problem here?” he repeats.
I bend down to pick up my stick. “I’m working on it.”
“See that you do.” There’s a pause before he adds, “Nice read on that breakout.”
I fall into step beside him and we make our way to the locker room.
The nap portion of my game day ritual is going horribly.
I’m fucking nervous.
I’ve been tossing and turning for the last thirty minutes. My brain is racing thanks to the skate this morning. The reminder that I’m the outsider is shaking my confidence.
Conceding that sleep’s not happening, I head into the kitchen to grab a coffee. There’s about an hour before I have to get to the rink.
I thumb through my contacts as I boot up the Keurig, picking Cooper’s number out of my contacts and putting him on speaker.
“Why are you up?” My brother-in-law is a straight shooter, I’ll give him that.
I shove a mug into place. “Can’t sleep.”
“Things aren’t going well?”
“They’re fine,” I say. The machine gurgles and starts trickling and the scent of coffee soothes my senses a little.
It’s nothing compared to the caffeine we used to get at Black and Brew, this little hole in the wall a couple of blocks from the Portland rink, with strong coffee, worn-in booths, and a no-fuss vibe.
Coop and I used to grab our game day caffeine there before heading to the arena. I miss that. Him. The ritual of it.
“You know you can’t lie for shit, right?”
Maybe I don’t miss him that much.
“Most of the guys are great,” I hedge, grabbing the mug and heading for the living room.
“That most is doing a lot of heavy lifting.”
“Yeah. Well, I walked into their barn and onto the first line. I expected some pushback.”
“This pushback got a name?”
“Mason Gray.”
There’s a moment of silence.
“Kid’s got a future in the game.” That’s a pretty effusive compliment coming from Coop. Which isn’t what I want to hear right now, even if it’s true. I know Mason’s got talent. I like his style. Honestly, we play a similar game, me and him. Too bad he’s such a dick.
“Yeah, well, he’s also got a shitty attitude and something to prove.”
“Hmmm.”
“Hmmm? What’s hmmm?”
“Sounds familiar is all.”
I frown. “I was not like this when we met.”
I don’t appreciate Cooper’s silence.
“Whatever, man.” I’m annoyed. And I’m annoyed that I’m annoyed.
“You’re not a rookie anymore.”
My eye roll is unstoppable. Why did I think calling him would help again? “I’m not in the mood for the wise-and-mysterious-mentor-hints-at-the-path-to-enlightenment bullshit today. Just say what you mean”
“Get your head out of your ass.”
Well, okay then. No misinterpreting that.
“You know why the Wolfpack picked you up?”
“Desperation?” I take a sip of caffeine.
“You’re a good, solid D-man. You have experience. You know how to anchor a line. You know how to read the ice and you don’t chase hits. When you’re on your game, at your best, you’re steady.”
What I am is shocked. Steady? After the shitshow my life has been over the last two years... okay, three years... maybe longer... that doesn’t sound like me at all. And coming from the man I respect more than anyone on the planet? Well. I don’t quite know how to parse that.
“They picked you up because they’ve got things dialed in up front, but their defense is in shambles. All their real talent is young, and their veterans are mid. Nobody’s stepping up. They picked you because you have what it takes to lead. So lead.”
“What if I’m not that guy?”
“Then you’re not the right guy for the Wolfpack.”
The words linger, blaring in my brain, poking at all my sore spots.
Not the right guy.
That basically sums up my whole life.
“But Brett?”
The sound of my name pulls me out of my head, and I take a gulp of coffee to give myself a second before I answer. “Yeah?”
“That smart ass punk who believed his own hype and had more money than brains? You haven’t been that guy for a long time. Don’t let him fuck this up for you, okay?”
The words blindside me. Lodge deep. Stir up some shit I like to keep buried.
“You’re a hell of a hockey player.”
That quiet praise calms my racing brain. Loosens my muscles. I needed to hear it. Because I haven’t felt that way about my game for a while.
“Jesus Christ. I wasn’t expecting a therapy session when I called you.”
Coop huffs a laugh. “Yeah, well. It’s not my fault you still have more money than brains. Figure this shit out on your own next time.”
We chat for a few more minutes while I finish my coffee. Mostly picking holes in Wyoming’s game, and how to best shut down Pavelec tonight. It’s not quite our Black and Brew pregame ritual, but it helps.
“Coop?” I say, putting my empty mug in the sink.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks.”
He grunts something unintelligible. We’ve definitely hit our emotional limit for the next two years. “Don’t take any shit from Gray.”
I feel a lot better after I hang up the phone than I did before we talked.
And as I’m gathering up my stuff before I head to the rink, something else occurs to me.
This isn’t a tryout. I’m on the damn team.
And tonight, I’m going to prove it.