Chapter 3
August
August was frustrated for several reasons.
One: They had barely won against Minnesota.
Two: He continued to fail his assigned job of making friends with Niko Cote.
Three: His captain had been giving him looks ever since the first intermission, and the first intermission had been two days ago.
August wasn’t sure who was more pissed off at his performance right now: himself, his captain or his coach.
Coach Nazar Fedorov was exactly what one would expect a former Russian hockey player and Olympian to be like. He was about as warm as a swim in the Arctic Ocean and as friendly as a polar bear.
Coach knew he was dealing with dumb hockey players, most of whom were from North America and couldn’t find Moscow on a map, so he liked to shout things at them when they were acting like dickheads.
Things like, ‘You think this is hard? In Russia, we had to build hockey rink before we played every morning!’ And other winners included, ‘In Russia, we don’t cry.
Tears freeze to face, and then everyone knows you are crybaby bitch,’ and ‘Oh, you want a break? In Russia, I started working at four years old. Never had day off.’
He wasn’t cruel, but it was an interesting way to show tough love.
Callahan insisted that the man would go to bat for any guy if he believed in them, and maybe that was the problem when it came to August; no one believed he could be anything more than a scary defenceman on the ice.
If he tried to exceed his own expectations, he knew he would only end up disappointing himself and his team.
August’s thighs were burning so badly that he could barely make it to the bench to sit. He reached for his water bottle, choking down the bile that threatened to rise from his empty stomach.
Nothing like suicides on a Saturday morning to motivate everyone.
Someone slid to a stop on the ice in front of him, and August didn’t have to look up to know it was Coach.
“I don’t get it,” the older man said, his voice making his accent sound gruff. “You have potential to be top defenceman in the league, but you refuse to push yourself.”
August was still gasping for air, so he chose not to answer and continued chugging his water.
“I get you Cote, a kid who can keep up with your long stride and your quick passes, and I barely see teamwork. Why?”
Glaring at the floor, August fought back more bile.
“Cote spent season catching trick passes from Bracken, so now, I feel I’m wasting his potential when you continue to disappoint me, Snow. Get out of funk and put more effort into making friendship with Cote. You need bond. I know you can do better, so show me.”
Coach said nothing else as he skated away, joining Callahan and Cote where they were bent over and gasping at center ice.
August slammed his water bottle into the holder and gripped his stick.
It wasn’t like he hadn’t tried making friends with Niko Cote.
He certainly hadn’t been rude to the kid, but what was there to talk about with a nineteen-year-old?
Cote was barely legal to drink, and he wasn’t legal when they left Canada to visit their southern neighbours for away games.
What did anyone talk about when there wasn’t liquor involved?
He couldn’t even be Cote’s wingman. He didn’t know the first thing about wingmaning for a gay guy.
Maybe the real reason Coach was pissed wasn’t that August was slacking; it was because he didn’t want Cote to feel unwelcome enough that he asked to be traded.
Cote was the Coach’s golden boy after all.
His Willy Wonka golden ticket that he’d gotten in a trade with the Toronto Sunbursts, fresh off their Stanley Cup win, where they’d beaten the Bigfoots.
August didn’t know what dark magic had been pulled to get Niko Cote to the West Coast, but according to TSN, it had something to do with a sick family member of Cote’s in British Columbia that he wanted to be closer to.
His rookie contract had ended, and he had been free to barter with whoever he pleased.
Gaining Cote had been the perfect move for their team, especially now that they were done rebuilding and getting ready to make their second big play for the cup.
And even with August not at his best, he was still a top defenceman.
Cote was his ideal match, but August had separated himself from his teammates so much that he wasn’t in sync with them anymore.
It was stupid to think that things could decline so fast over the summer, and now he had to push himself to get back into the mindset he had been in during the playoffs.
Hence, the real reason for the suicides: he was playing like shit. He hadn’t connected with the team mentally during their first game, and he’d yet to earn a single point.
It was one game. One game. But it still fucking sucked.
A cheer echoed, and someone whistled from the stands. August looked up, forgetting that this was an open practice, and there was a full house of fans watching him come close to losing his breakfast.
August scowled and left the bench, gliding over ice to meet up with Cote, who was standing straight again and no longer green.
“Hey,” Cote greeted. “You good, man?”
August forced a smile on his face. “Yeah, I love this fucking job. Best career in the world.”
Cote blinked, staring at August long enough to make things uncomfortable before he shifted his attention to their captain.
Why did he even bother trying to talk?
Coach finally cut them loose an hour later, and August gladly wobbled off the ice like a newborn deer and headed for the chute. Before he disappeared into the tunnel, he made eye contact with a man in the stands, in the seat above the chute.
The guy was overdressed for a Saturday morning practice, but what really caught August’s attention was how he avoided eye contact with him. His cream-coloured cheeks pinked up when their eyes met, and then he hid his face behind his phone.
Whatever.
August took his gear off and worked through his cool-down routine, thoughts of the man in the crowd lingering all the way to the showers. Others joined him, chattering loudly about their lives and their plans after practice, distracting him until the stranger faded from his mind.
They were going up against Calgary next, which was exciting for most of his teammates, but August was indifferent. He didn’t have anything to add to the conversation because he didn’t care about the next game, so he kept his mouth shut and got ready to leave.
No one looked or called out to him as he re-entered the locker room and began dressing, thankfully in his casual clothes since it had only been a practice day and not a game.
Out of curiosity, he took longer than necessary, wondering if someone would offer to hang out, but no one said anything. Niko was the only one who made eye contact, only to quickly look away and answer whatever question Callahan had asked him.
August gave up and left the locker room, not bothering to say goodbye. He didn’t want to get angry at others or himself, so it was better for everyone if he just left. He could stop and get greasy takeout, go home, and watch shitty TV until he passed out on his couch.
He was turning the corner when he crashed into someone. August barely swayed from the force of it, but the person he hit gasped loudly and lost their balance, taking several steps back.
August was about to apologize until he realized it was the same man from the crowd—the one who had been blushing and avoiding his gaze.
“How did you get back here?” August asked, way harsher than he meant to.
The man’s eyes widened, and he scurried away, avoiding August as if he might kill him.
Sighing, August continued toward the exit, stopping to let security know that there was a fan wandering the chute.