Chapter 5
Lars
D ylon stretches out next to me on the plane and flashes me a grin that shows his dimple. We are on our way to our first preseason game, and his excitement is contagious. I’m relieved he’s back to his upbeat self.
Ever since the first practice, he’s been subdued and unsocial, not his everyday gregarious extrovert self.
As superstitious hockey players, we sit in the same seats we always do, and the leather molds to my body like an old friend.
Benz and Griffin are across the aisle, bickering about headphones. Dylon leans over me to get their attention. “Boys, pack separate go-bags so you don’t fight like Gray and Ace. Soon you’ll be the It couple.”
His aftershave smells incredible, and his body heat warms my chest. I playfully shove him back. “Leave the kids alone.”
“What’s a go-bag?” Mason asks.
Gray kicks his seat from behind. “Don’t tell me you played college hockey and don’t have a go-bag. Kids these days.”
“Hey, rookie.” Mason leans forward to get Jamal’s attention in the seat ahead of me. “Do you know what a go-bag is?”
Jamal King twists in his seat with his jaw clenched as if he’s sure the question is an insult.
Mason waits patiently, and Jamal finally answers. “Are you for real? I’m not a dumbass. ”
“Someone tell me.” Griff tugs at his tie.
King glances at me, and I shrug as if to say “He’s the idiot.”
“It’s a bag packed with your travel essentials so you’re ready to go at a moment’s notice,” King says slowly, like he’s still not sure if it’s a joke.
Griffin flops back, rocking his seat. “You didn’t know, right?” he asks Benz.
“Didn’t your dad teach you anything?” Dylon asks, and I cringe.
Mason and his famous father don’t have a good relationship. His dad played for Montreal and holds the record for most shutouts as a goalie. He never won The Cup, but it’s unlikely his record will be broken.
Mason made it clear last season that the topic of his father is off-limits, but Dylon wasn’t allowed at practice or games during that time.
Mason’s mouth hangs open as his face gets red. Benz jumps in. “I should’ve explained it to him. I mean, he has a travel bag.”
“It is best to keep separate headphones and travel items in your bag that do not get unpacked. Then you will not forget things,” I offer. Mason nods and turns away from us. I am sure he wants to avoid the topic of his father.
Keeping my voice low, I lean in to speak directly into Dylon’s ear. “Mason’s father never visits, and I am not sure the last time Griff went back to Canada. We avoid bringing up his dad.”
“Nice of you to tell me.” He huffs and crosses his arms.
“Sorry,” I say truthfully. The story is not mine to tell, but I should have thought to warn Dylon.
His eyes sparkle with mischief. “I’m just kidding. Me and my big mouth need to think before we speak sometimes.”
“I can think of better things to do with your mouth,” I say and realize that sounds sexual, but as usual, Dylon does not notice, and I hold up my hard candy.
“Yummy.” He grabs a piece with a sly smile, then changes the subject. “What do you think of the lines this year?” Our heads are inches apart, so the team cannot hear us.
Ace paces the aisle and stops next to us. “You two look like you’re plotting world domination.”
“Oh, I’m all about domination,” Dylon quips .
Ace strokes his chin. “Stop trying to compete with us for best roommate duo. Next thing you know, you’ll be finishing each other’s sentences. Griff and Benz could give you a run for your money, but they’re too young to take the top.”
An inexcusable image of Dylon on top flashes in my mind, and I viciously swipe it out. None of this is remotely sexual, but my brain continually diverts to the base level.
Dylon bounces in his seat. “Lars, let’s practice. We can start dressing the same, and how hard can it be to finish each other’s sentences? I want a plaque with Best Roommates engraved on it.”
“No,” I say simultaneously with Grayson.
“Aww, you can’t do that with Gray. He’s taken.” Dylon pats my arm.
Ace sits back down. “How do I respond to that?”
“Ignoring him is the best option,” I say.
“I’m ignoring you first.” Dylon slips his headphones over his ears but doesn’t turn anything on. It’s his silent protest, and I fight a chuckle.
“You’re the worst,” he grumbles.
“King, why didn’t you tell us we’re playing your stepbrother?” Richardson yells from the back.
Jamal doesn’t stir or respond.
“King, I’m talking to you,” Richardson, my least favorite teammate, says louder.
Either Jamal has noise-canceling headphones, or he’s purposely not paying attention to Richardson. I confided to Dylon that Richardson’s an asshole and a selfish player.
Richardson gets out of his seat, and Ace halts him with his leg in the aisle as if he senses trouble. But Richardson leans forward and shoves the back of Jamal’s seat to get his attention.
“We’re playing your stepbrother. Give us inside info on how to take him out.” He acts like his actions aren’t offensive.
King’s jaw clenches, and he spits out, “I don’t know him. We don’t have anything to do with each other. The media loves exploiting our random association. ”
“Disloyal liar.” Richardson puffs out his chest.
King rises to his feet, and he has an inch or two over Richardson.
“Try to keep up. Theo O’Keefe lives with my sperm donor. We don’t know each other. I’m sure your stupid ass can understand the situation. Don’t ever call me disloyal or a liar again.” Jamal’s eyes blaze with fury.
Someone mumbles, “Burn.”
It’s the most I have heard Jamal speak, and he’s not a pushover.
“Go sit down,” I say to Richardson.
“He must know something.” Richardson won’t back down.
Jamal’s face contorts. “He’s an entitled rich guy who went to an Ivy League school and thinks he’s the best at everything.” He steps into the aisle. “Sound familiar, Richardson?” He says his last name like it’s a swear word.
“Fuck off,” Richardson says with spit flying from his mouth.
“That’s enough. Everyone in their seats,” Coach orders. It’s too late in my opinion. He let Richardson harass King.
After a staring contest, Richardson returns to his seat. Dylon nudges my shoulder, and in an unspoken agreement, we’re going to King’s room to check on him. His family relations sound toxic, and we’ll be playing his stepbrother, Theo, on his home turf.
We need to make sure Jamal is mentally ready for this and that he won’t start something with Theo on the ice. Or worse, off of it.
Our rivalry with Boston goes back decades, and playing here is always tough. But our team is solid, and our bench is deep. Their starting line can compete with ours, but our depth chart is stronger. As soon as the puck drops, everyone dials in.
I control the face-off and pass to Ace since they expect me to pass to Dylon, and we’re off. Their goalie deflects the shot, but it lands near Ace’s stick and the red lamp lights up. They score five minutes later, but we’re controlling the puck .
Jamal’s stepbrother, Theo, gets called for icing, and Jamal cannot hide the smirk on his face. The way our lines are set up, King and O’Keefe should spend the majority of their ice time together, but they don’t. Coach might be avoiding it after King’s outburst, but he cannot control Boston’s coaching decisions.
Next time they’re on the ice, O’Keefe shoves King and takes a swing behind the ref’s back. Jamal skates away, and during my next shift with O’Keefe, he hits the boards hard thanks to my hit.
The games are always physical, but this is preseason. Ordinarily, Coach would only have me, Ace, and Dylon play a few minutes, but because Dylon was out almost the entire season, he wants us to get in sync again.
Griff scores, and I watch Dylon celebrate with hesitation. On our next rotation, he scores, and there’s relief on his face. I have complete confidence in him, and our team hasn’t lost the momentum from last year.
O’Keefe’s on a breakaway, but King flies from behind with an incredible check and steals the puck. He skates like a man with something to prove and fires a pass, racking up an assist. O’Keefe hits him late and swears at the ref, which earns him an additional two minutes in the sin bin for unsportsmanlike conduct. King smiles like he’s auditioning for a toothpaste commercial.
All the rookies play great, and by the middle of the third period, we’re up by three, and Coach puts Benz in goal. Boston’s getting physical, and the refs aren’t calling it.
Coach keeps our line off the ice for the rest of the game, and I cannot protect my teammates. He also pulls Liska, unwilling to risk another hit that might cause an injury. It’s hard to watch the hits from the bench, but the guys are prepared for the physicality and retaliate in kind.
There’s a bloodlust in the air uncommon for this early in the season. The crowd noise fades, and the reality sets in they will not win tonight. I cannot hear the taunts on the ice, but O’Keefe is harassing King.
Despite the tension, Benz stops all their shots, and by the end of the game, I am optimistic about having a season even better than last year.
For the formal post-game interviews, they select Liska, Ace, and Dylon for the formal press interviews, but bloggers and smaller outlets ask players questions in the changing room. King’s surrounded and fending off invasive questions about his father and the check on his stepbrother, which was completely legal.
I step in to tell them to find someone else, and Jamal disappears into the showers, where they cannot follow. We speak to the media as part of the job, but King got bombarded. Finn can help him with some extra media prep, so I text him. Finn, our PR Director, has no filter and would be a disaster on camera, but he’s great at his job and helps a lot of the guys learn how to speak while avoiding answering the question.
My anxiety increases the longer Dylon is gone. This is normal, I remind myself. He’s safe in the building. I am being irrational with my need to see him.