Chapter 2
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The locker room smells like expensive cologne mixed with the faint, permanent undertone of sweat that no amount of cleaning crew magic can completely get out. The scent of success, of the show.
I sit at my stall, staring at my knee pads.
Custom-molded, lightweight in Sasquatch blue and green with red accents.
My leg bounces against my will. I’ve been here a few months now, but my anxiety is still waiting for the other shoe to drop and for all this to be yanked away from me.
I clamp a hand over my thigh to stop it, but the energy just transfers to my jaw instead.
Today’s a light practice day, which should not make me nervous, but tell that to my brain.
Morning skate will be followed by a few hours off before we fly to Calgary this afternoon for tomorrow night’s game against our divisional rivals.
But there’s no such thing as a “light” day when you’re the twenty-three-year-old rookie gunning for the job of one of hockey’s top goaltenders.
The other guys are starting to trickle in. Charlie Reese-McLeod’s British accent reaches me from down the hall as he raves about some bakery in Pike Place Market that sells scones “bigger than a baby’s head.” A few guys laugh. Everyone’s laid-back and chill.
I don’t do laid-back.
I reach for my skates. Top-of-the-line, as you’d expect for an NHL player.
My first pair of skates was three sizes too big and held together by duct tape and hope.
My grandpa picked them up at a garage sale.
I remember him handing them to me, a wide grin on his face, while telling me it’s not the skates that make the save, it’s the goalie in them.
Grandpa was the one who taught me to love hockey.
My mom traveled often for work when I was growing up.
She was a sales rep for a paper products company; think Dunder-Mifflin, but way less funny.
Because she was away so much, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents.
She hit her head on the glass ceiling more times than I can count, but once it became clear that I had some talent, she always did everything she could to make sure I was able to keep playing this expensive sport.
I’m not going to let her down. I refuse to be the guy who got his shot at the show and blew it because he wasn’t focused or didn’t put in the work.
Suddenly, a deep voice booms through the room. “Good morning, sunshines!”
Louis Tremblay.
I don’t look up right away, trying to focus on my routine, but our number one goalie has a gravitational pull, and it’s impossible not to know when he’s nearby. He sucks all the oxygen out of the room and replaces it with chaotic energy.
When I glance over, he’s standing in front of his stall, holding a coffee cup that seems absurdly small in his giant hand while he chats with Gino Santucci, one of our defensemen.
His dark, shaggy mop of hair is a mess, as usual.
He looks like he just rolled out of bed, and if I were a betting man, I’d bet that bed wasn’t empty.
Lou’s always got a different girl on his arm or, more accurately, in his bed.
He’s incredibly attractive in that annoyingly effortless, “I woke up like this” way.
From the other side of the room, I catch the glint in his chocolate-brown eyes with the little crinkles at the corners because he spends so damn much time laughing.
He catches me looking, and his grin widens as he zeroes in on me and strolls in my direction. He’s obviously been here a while. Probably interrupting the trainers or eating all the bagels in the player lounge while I’ve been sitting here mentally calculating save percentages.
“Hey, Sinc,” he calls out, leaning casually against the stall next to mine. “You okay?
“Just focusing,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Visualizing.”
“Visualizing? Before a practice?” He chuckles as he pulls off his hoodie. Underneath, he’s wearing a tight gray Sasquatch T-shirt, and the way it clings to his chest is borderline obscene. “You know they don’t give out trophies for ‘Most Intense Guy in the Locker Room,’ right?” he says with a wink.
“They don’t give it out for treating practice like social hour either,” I mutter under my breath.
But he hears me and laughs, a bright, unbothered sound that grates on my nerves. “Touché, kid. Touché.”
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have to. He’s Louis Tremblay. He’s won two Cups, plus two Vezina Trophies for the best goalie in the entire league. He can afford to be the class clown. I can’t. I’m the guy from the farm team who still needs to prove he belongs at this level.
I turn back to my gear, sliding my left foot into my skate. It’s comfortably tight. I yank on the laces, starting at the toe and working up, tightening until the boot feels like an extension of my leg.
I finish lacing up, throw my mask on top of my head, and grab my stick.
My heart does that little flutter it always does right before I step out there.
The ice is the only place where things always make sense to me.
Angles. Trajectories. Velocity. The math of stopping a puck doesn’t care if you’re insecure or anxious, straight or queer, or rich or poor.
The only thing that matters is being in the right position.
I stand, stomping my feet to settle into my skates. I feel strong and ready. My legs are still warm from the light squats I did earlier, and I’m primed to play my best. I know it’s only a practice, but every moment on the ice is a chance to show my coaches what I can do.
“See you out there, boys!” Charlie shouts as he heads for the door.
As I pull open the door to the rink, the cold air hits my face, sharp and clean. Here we go. Another day for me to prove to everyone that not only do I belong here, but I’m ready for the number one job.
I step onto the ice, expecting the bite of my blades as they slice into the surface as I push off, but I get nothing.
My feet shoot out from under me like I stepped on a cartoon banana peel.
“Whoa!”
My arms windmill, desperately flailing as I try to regain my balance. Unsuccessfully. For a second, I’m suspended in mid-air, staring at the rafters as I realize with crystal clarity that I am about to land flat on my ass in front of the entire team.
SPLAT.
I hit the ice hard. The impact jars my teeth and knocks the wind out of me. My stick clatters away.
For one heartbeat, the only sound is the hum of the compressors.
Then the laughter begins.
It starts as a snort and erupts into a chorus. I lie there, staring up at the ceiling as my face burns hot enough to melt the ice I’m lying on.
I sit up quickly, but my skates still can’t get any grip. I contort myself to look at my blades, and when I see them, my jaw clenches.
Clear tape, neatly applied along the full length of the skate.
Rage flares in my chest, hot and bright. Are you kidding me? This is peewee-level garbage. This is—
“Careful there, Bambi.”
Lou is towering over me. His mask is pushed up, and he’s grinning like the cat who not only ate the canary but thanked the chef afterward.
“Ice is slippery, eh?” he teases. Then he winks at me—winks at me—before extending his gloved hand to help me up.
I stare at it, the urge to smack it away almost irresistible. I want to yell at him that this is my job, that I’m trying to be professional, that I don’t have time for his frat-boy nonsense.
But then I look him in the eye. He’s laughing, yeah, but it doesn’t seem like he’s mocking me. Not really. His eyes are… warm? Friendly?
There’s a sparkle in them that hits me right in the chest, and my anger dissipates. A little.
I take a breath, swallowing my pride. I’m a team player. I can take a joke. I have to take a joke.
“Ha ha,” I say drily as I grab his glove.
He hauls me up with surprising strength, and for a second, we’re almost pressed chest to chest. He smells of coffee and mint toothpaste with the slightest hint of goalie pad funk.
His gaze drops to my mouth, then flicks back up to my eyes. What was that? Maybe I hit my head harder than I thought when I went down.
“Gotcha!” he says, and is it my imagination, or is his voice an octave lower than usual? “Always remember to check your blades, Rook.”
He winks again and releases my hand before skating backward toward the net, still wearing that shit-eating grin.
I quickly grab the boards so I don’t wind up on my ass again before gingerly stepping off the ice and sitting on the bench. My heart hammers as I peel the tape off my skates.
I’m pissed because he embarrassed me. But more than that, I’m pissed because for a second, when he pulled me up, my hand in his, I didn’t want him to let go.
Practice is a grind. I spend the next ninety minutes playing angry. I make save after save, fueled by humiliation and rage.
By the time we wrap up, I’m exhausted. I shower quickly, keeping my head down, and pack my bag. I just want to get to my car, blast some angry music, and analyze every save I didn't make perfectly today.
I hoist my gear bag over my shoulder and push through the heavy back door of the facility, squinting against the gray Seattle daylight.
“Mr. Tremblay! Mr. Tremblay!”
I pause near the exit.
A kid, maybe eight years old, is running toward where Louis is standing beside his car, across the aisle. He’s wearing a jersey that’s three sizes too big with Lou’s number 1 on it. His mom trails behind him, an apologetic look on her face.
Louis glances up as the little dude approaches, and the broad grin that spreads across his face makes something low down in my gut flutter.
He's unfairly gorgeous, his hair still wet from the shower, his gray t-shirt stretched tightly across the broad muscles of his back and wrapped around his massive biceps.
“Hey, buddy,” Lou says, crouching down so he’s eye level with the kid. “Nice jersey. You play?”
“Yeah! I’m a goalie! Like you!” The kid is almost vibrating with excitement.
“A goalie, huh? The toughest job in the world.” Louis says solemnly. “You keeping your stick on the ice?”
“Always!”
“Good man.” Louis stands up and reaches into the back of his SUV. He rummages around for a second, pushing aside gym bags and what looks like a pile of takeout containers. He pulls out a stick. One of his, probably game-used.
He grabs a Sharpie from his pocket, uncaps it with his teeth, and scribbles on the blade.
“Here you go, killer,” he says, handing it over. “Don’t let any soft ones in, okay?”
The kid looks like he just won the lottery. “Whoa! Thanks, Mr. Tremblay!”
“Call me Lou.” He fist-bumps the kid, then flashes another smile at the mom, whose eyes are wide with shock.
“Oh my gosh, that’s too much. He just wanted to see if you would sign his jersey! We didn’t mean to—”
Louis interrupts her with a wave of his hand and another smile. “It’s nothing, honestly. That stick’s been hanging around in the back of my car for a few weeks.”
“Wow, thank you so, so much, Mr.—Lou!” the kid says, his eyes bright as he jumps up and down with excitement.
“Yes, thank you. He’ll treasure it,” the mom says.
Standing in the shadows, I tighten my grip on my bag as they chat for another minute before the mom and the kid head across the parking lot, and Lou gets into the driver’s seat.
Man, this would be a lot easier if Louis Tremblay were nothing more than an arrogant, bullying prick coasting on his natural talent and charisma. It would fit my own narrative perfectly: the hardworking underdog versus the entitled star.
But he didn’t know I was watching him with that kid. He wasn’t acting. There are no cameras here, no one else around. It was just Louis being a good guy.
I unlock my own car, toss my bag into the trunk, and slump into the driver’s seat.
“Dammit,” I whisper, resting my forehead against the steering wheel.
He’s the jerk who pranked me and made me look stupid in front of everyone. But he’s also a hero who makes little kids’ dreams come true.
He’s the only person on this team I can’t stop watching.
And I have to take his job if I’m going to be the Sasquatch’s starting goalie.