Chapter 4
Dylon
T he locker room buzzes with electricity before our first team practice. Loud, excited voices are music to my ears. The team’s larger-than-life purple-and-black logo takes up an entire wall. Black benches dot the room in front of white lockers with purple accents.
The rookies had practice last week and a tournament over the weekend, and now we’re ready to rock and roll. I played a few games in the hunt for The Cup last year, but this feels like a new start.
It’s impossible to eliminate the underlying odor of sweat in locker rooms despite scrubbing with bleach and polishing. The smell seeps into the walls and floor. It’s the same everywhere and brings me back to when I played as a child in Mites, when there was no pressure and I played because I love hockey.
This practice feels as momentous as my first in the NHL. I wasn’t playing at my full potential last year. In the offseason, I skated daily and hired a coach to do extra practices so I was ready.
Last year, one game stood between us and holding The Cup over our heads. We’re achieving that goal this year. By the end of the season, we’ll be the victors. I can feel it in my bones.
The music’s blaring, and Caleb Benz bounces into the middle of the room, his butt pumping in time with the bass.
“Luckkkkyyyyyy, don’t leave me hanging.” He twerks in my direction with a boyish grin over his shoulder. Benz, last year’s rookie savior, knows how to pump up the team. He’s a blast for morale, and he is a team player, never getting upset about his playing time or lack of once Patrik Liska came back.
Joining him, I bump his big ol’ butt with mine. Most hockey dudes have great asses, and if the media ever filmed our locker room when we all got in on the action, it would be a viral thirst trap for the ages.
Ace joins us, and half the team gets in on the impromptu dance party. Lars never dances with us, but he bobs his head in time with the music. I count that as a win. None of the rookies participate, but they watch with wide eyes and a cross between curiosity and trepidation—probably afraid of being forced to dance in the middle.
An unpopular assistant coach slams a locker. “Enough of this shit. I expect you to act like professionals and take practice seriously.”
“We take practice seriously, but we’re having fun before it starts,” Baby Benz says, unaware he’s made a huge mistake.
“Fun?” The coach gets in Caleb’s face. “This is hockey. It isn’t fun.”
This is why we refer to the guy as Coach Ass.
Benz opens his mouth, but Ace steps in between them. “We play for the love of the game. If you have a problem with our performance, address it with me.” Ace is giving don’t fuck with me vibes.
The door busts open, and Grayson’s eyes sweep over his angry roommate and Coach Ass, breathing like a bull. “This is cozy. What’s going on?”
“Be ready on the ice in ten.” Coach Ass stalks out.
I hum to break the tension. “Are we all going to ignore the fact that Gray and Ace are twinning again?”
“Griff and I never twin, and you guys give us so much shit,” Benz pipes up, referencing his roommate Mason Griffin, our second-line right winger, who replaced me while I was in rehab.
“Because you were rookies,” Lars says in his monotone voice, which makes everyone laugh. “Don’t worry, this year we’ll have mandatory dress codes, so you won’t be able to share each other’s clothes,” he lies with a straight face. Griff and Benz snip at each other constantly for wearing the other’s clothes. Always a laundry mishap .
Liska pulls Ace aside, and his Czech accent makes his speech pattern recognizable, even though I can’t hear his words. He sends me an up nod as a thanks for refocusing the team.
The music plays again but at a lower volume, and everyone seems to shed their tension.
Until I notice one of our actual rookies, Jamal King, in the far corner, trying to act invisible: no eye contact, facing his locker, small body movements.
“Hey, Jamal.” I slap a palm on his back, startling him. Not the best way to start an introduction. “I’m Dylon Felix, but the guys call me Lucky.” I’m staring at rows and rows of tight braids on the back of his head. After an extra beat, he turns, and I’m struck dumb by his vibrant blue-green eyes glowing against his warm, light-brown skin. His eyes are gorgeous. That thought is so far out of left field it confuses me.
“I know who you are.” King rattles off my stats and percentages from last season and the season before, but I’m only half listening while I question why I noticed his eyes.
It has to be an objective thing. They stand out like Lars stands out as a good-looking Swedish warrior type with broad shoulders and a menacing glare. Except I’ve seen the depth in Lars’s bottomless blue eyes, and they’re far more interesting.
I shake my head for noticing King’s most interesting feature. Nothing more. Nothing to see here.
Jamal eyes me warily, and it’s probably my turn to talk. It’s like I’ve forgotten how to welcome a rookie and make a new friend.
“Damn, kid.” I good-naturedly punch his arm. “It’s good to meet you. With your smarts, I’m glad we play on opposite sides, so you’re not trying to take my job.” My intent was to lighten the mood since new blood can cause a stir with veteran players, but the wariness in his eyes gets deeper.
“Just here to play great hockey.” He offers a weak smile. I’m making him uncomfortable. The opposite of my goal.
Ace depends on me as the unofficial welcome committee to the team, and I failed epically .
“Welcome.” I slap his back again. “We’re excited to have you. I’ve seen your tape, and we need depth since we plan to win The Cup this year.” His posture softens, and because I can’t quit while I’m ahead, I don’t shut up. “Hope we’ll be great friends.”
Someone should punch me in the face right now. I’m acting like an idiot. This isn’t grade school where we have to be friends; it’s the goddamn NHL. But there’s something about him that makes me think he needs a friend. Like Lars did. It took me longer than it should have to notice Lars had teammates yet no friends. I wore him down a day at a time and made him my best friend.
I gotta slow my roll and figure out if King is an introvert and needs to warm up or if he could use a friend to take him under their wing.
“Hope our dance-a-thon didn’t scare you.” I walk away without waiting for a response.
I’m the first on the ice and inhale deeply. The cold air tickles my lungs, and I get that feeling of destiny waiting for us. As the guys skate onto the ice, I stand at the door, fist-bumping them, and say, “Give it all you got. Trust the process.”
Coach gives us one second to reflect before we’re doing fast-paced drills, and I’m amped up for the season. I’m impressed with King. The rookies had to win a spot on the roster, but a couple are struggling to keep up. Jamal sails through the drills effortlessly.
In a year or two, he’ll be challenging Ace for his starting position.
I’m flying. All my hard work over the summer has given me an edge over my teammates, who are sucking wind. It’s as if I have wings on my back.
“Looking good.” Lars nods in approval, which means more coming from him than anyone else. Since he spent most of his summer working out with me, he’s more dangerous than ever. His shots are rockets, making Liska and Benz contort themselves to stop them.
We scrimmage with last year’s offensive starting lineup since we all returned. Lars takes the face-off as the center. I’m the right winger and Ace the left winger. Lars and I have telepathy when we’re in the rink. We don’t need set plays or hand motions. His eyes tell me where the puck’s going, and I get there. Austin was our leading scorer last year in my absence, so Lars and I pass back and forth to distract the defense until he’s in a position to fire it in.
Of course, Coach needs to test the line chemistry, so I play with King and our backup center, Richardson. Jamal and I don’t have the same innate play together, but we gel. Neither of us can connect with Richardson. Coach throws in our third-line center, and our play is elevated.
When I’m subbed out, I watch Mason Griffin take my place. We joke that there’s something in the water in Vermont where he and Caleb Benz played. Griffin lived with Benz while they went to college together since Griff is Canadian. Then they got drafted to the same NHL team at the start of their rookie seasons. The chance of that happening is so astronomically low that they’re media darlings.
And they’re inseparable, a package deal to all events. Which is funny since many times the D-linesman and goalies keep to themselves. They don’t care.
The team is still in fighting shape after our success last year. With last year’s rookie starters now veterans, our chance of winning is even greater.
I fucking love these guys and want to help them bring The Cup home. Liska will probably retire in the next couple of years. He doesn’t talk about it, but last year’s concussion changed him.
Lars skates up to King and says something to brighten King’s face. Suddenly my gut twists, and I have the urge to rip Lars’s gloved hand from Jamal’s as they fist-bump. It startles a laugh out of me. Random physical contact is out of character for Lars, so my reaction is pure surprise. I watch them play together, and for the first time since joining the team, I’m envious of a teammate playing with Lars.
My reaction has to be leftover anxiety from being on IR last year because King isn’t a threat to my position.
If I were to guess about our line configuration for the season, Coach will keep line one the same. He’ll move our third-line center up to line two to play with King and Griff. Our defensive pairs for one and two will stay the same, and Coach will work the rookies into the others.
Liska will keep the starting job, but Benz is ready to step in .
Our team’s set up for success.
After practice, I’m sweaty, exhausted, and ready to kick back and relax. The atmosphere is more subdued, so I crank the tunes and get the party started. We should be hyped and thankful we’re beginning the season with all our starters healthy and in a good headspace.
In the showers, I stand under the spray next to Lars and hold out my hand for a bare-knuckle fist bump. His gaze focuses on the tile in front of him, but he doesn’t leave me hanging. I’ve never been shy in the team showers. Being naked with dudes has been as much a part of my life as eating bread. It’s a normal, almost daily occurrence. Not everyone feels the same, and I notice Jamal uses a private shower.
I’ll talk to Ace and Lars about making him feel welcome. At this level, the difference between winning The Cup or not could hinge on the trust of teammates.
Liska invites all the guys who live in the city to his place for dinner. Most of the rookies prefer the city, while the vets and their families live in Perrytown near the practice rink.
Besides being an All-Star goalie, he’s like some genius investor, so his place is insane. His boyfriend, Trevor, moved in and transformed his minimalistic, soulless place into a great condo for entertaining.
The young guys, including King, accept his offer. Lars shoots me a worried glance when I decline. I’m usually the first to suggest team bonding, but tonight I’m in the mood to chill with Lars. Take advantage of his calm demeanor and the quiet time before we’re nonstop surrounded by everyone else while traveling.