6. Crosby
Chapter 6
Crosby
I hiss as I drop further into the swirling jets of the hot tub, leaning back to close my eyes. Training camp has kicked my ass over the last two weeks. Long days, sore nights, and rarely enough time to keep my focus on anything but my spot on first line.
“Holy shit, this feels good.” Obie splashes down next to me, forcing my eyes open as little waves of hot water push against my chest. “Why didn’t you tell us you had this earlier, Gus?”
“Because then all of you would be here all the time,” Gus calls from the back door of the house. The hot tub is situated in a covered corner of Gus’ spacious, enclosed patio. He’s currently on the phone with Carver’s Pizza, securing an order that will likely equal our body weight in food. I certainly won’t complain as long as there’s a meat lover’s thin-crust pie for me. It’s time for this week’s cheat meal, and the idea of gooey cheese and flavorful toppings has me practically salivating.
“Don’t listen to him.” I turn toward Obie. The younger defenseman has been a natural fit on the team, and he’s been a great person to get to know. On the ice, he plays viciously, teaming up with Gus to form a tough barrier for any seasoned professional to go against. The pair have an uncanny ability to anticipate the other during practice, and I’m excited to see how it will impact our play during the season. “He wouldn’t know what to do without all of us every day, no matter how much he complains about us.”
“It’s a nice change,” Obie comments. “I didn’t really fit in with the guys in LA.”
“Probably helps to be home?” I ask. While he’s been getting along with us, Obie is still a little guarded, but I’m not the kind to push. I don’t like it when people do it to me, so I make it a habit not to do it to anyone else. His comment about LA piques my interest but not enough to make him uncomfortable discussing it.
“It does make some of it easier. But I’ve got to find a place of my own. It made sense to crash with my parents since I practically flew here, filled out paperwork, and then started camp. Hasn’t left a lot of time to go looking at places.” Obie leans his head back. “But I don’t think I want to continue staying in my childhood bedroom. God forbid, I try to have a bigger social life than this.”
“What’d I miss?” Gus asks as he approaches the edge of the tub, eyes floating back and forth between me and Obie.
“Obie needs to find a place; he’s sick of staying with his parents,” I tell him.
“Makes sense.” Gus’ smile curls across his face. Then he plants one hand on the ledge and launches himself into the open space of the hot tub. The splash sends water at my face, which I swipe away with my hand. The water settles, and Gus is sitting across from me, a relaxed look on his face. “Move in here. I’ve got an extra room.”
I give him a surprised look. Gus doesn’t share his space easily, but he just continues talking to Obie. “You pay for half the utilities. You’ll also be responsible for any food the nutritionists don’t send over, yeah?”
“Are you serious?” Obie checks.
“Wouldn’t offer it if I wasn’t.” Gus laughs. “Bring your stuff by tomorrow after morning skate.”
“Okay.” Obie smiles.
“Ready for the first game, boys?” Gus asks, the roommate situation easily forgotten.
Our season opener is in three days.
Mixed with a bunch of other emotions is excitement. Camp helped me feel more secure in the changes of the last month. Coach has been resolute in his support, and getting to play with Tex and Bones is always easy. We transition the puck seamlessly while making sure the guy who is best set up for the shot gets it. It’s a selfless thing. Exactly how it should be.
The only drawback to being the starting center has been the increase in media attention. It doesn’t help that The Midnight have been the second or third story on Center Ice and the NHL Network every day since Bridger’s exit.
Bridger ran his mouth when he settled in with his new team two days after the announcement. The dickhead felt it necessary to slam almost every aspect of The Midnight organization, from the locker rooms to the lack of support on the ice from his former teammates. It’s been hard keeping our mouths shut about the negativity Bridger was responsible for during his two-year stint, but Coach asked us to keep quiet. It’s been mildly beneficial to the team’s morale to know his weak ankles and bad attitude will be Miami’s problem. And I’ll officially be allowed to drive him into the boards when we play against each other this season. Then maybe he can fade away.
But the media has been persistent in other ways. I’ve had to sit through my fair share of post-camp interviews in the press room, something that hasn’t been normal for my career thus far. Until now, my only real media interactions have been the few times I ended up in a scrap or during last season’s playoffs when I started for Bridger.
That’s all changed. I’ve been fielding questions all through camp, and there have been moments I’ve felt uncomfortable with the direction the reporters have taken. For the most part, I've only had to talk about the game, shutting down anything that didn’t involve a puck, but I know that’s not always going to be the case. Despite my current single status, I wouldn’t be surprised if my dating life finds its way into an article or blog, which will suck. I don’t want to get asked about my relationships.
I have meetings scheduled after the first game with the head of social media to discuss my promotion in the lineup. Tex assures me it’s all completely normal. As captain, he’s been dealing with it for years. Still makes me itchy thinking about the attention.
“I think it’s going to be great,” I finally respond, setting aside those thoughts and choosing to focus on the game ahead. “New York is always tough, but we’re ready. Coach has set good lines. We’ve got some new blood. Your family coming?”
“Not this year,” Gus says. His parents and little sister have been at every season opener since he was old enough to be in a league. They live in Minnesota but have never complained about the travel. “Maeve has her senior banquet; they can’t miss it.”
“That okay? I know how much you like it when they come out,” I check with him. Gus just shrugs his shoulders. Even with the age difference, he’s always been close with Maeve, and his parents are great people.
“Yeah,” Gus brushes off. “When we play in Minneapolis later this season, they’re going to come to the game. Plus, Maeve is looking at applying to schools out here.”
I nod at him.
“What about you, Obie?” I ask.
“Absolutely. They haven’t missed a Midnight home game since Coach joined the team. They’ve all been around practically since the franchise started.” Obie laughs at the matching looks Gus and I must be giving him.
“No shit?” Gus flattens his lips and nods, and I bob my head in shared surprise. Obie lets out a pained sigh as he shifts, leaning forward.
“Guess now is as good a time as any to let you in on a bit of history.” Obie sounds serious. I throw a look at Gus, but he seems as clueless as I am. And just as interested. “I’d say I’m surprised it hasn’t been made public knowledge, but Cal has always kept things close to the chest,” Gus mouths the name back to me. No one ever calls Coach by his first name. Especially so informally. “My parents and Cal went to high school together. They were best friends. When I came along shortly after, he became my godfather. I grew up a few streets over from his house, and he helped train me when I took an interest in hockey.”
“No. Shit,” Gus repeats, all traces of curiosity removed from his voice. He can say those two words about a dozen different ways. Silence settles, cut only by the steady bubbling sound of the jets.
“All right. That’s wild. Keep that close to the vest if you don’t want the media to pick you apart,” I say. Family is family, and Coach has never given any preferential treatment to Obie since he joined the team, but it’s also information that could cause a lot of interest in a guy I don’t think likes being in the spotlight.
“Weird,” Gus says, shaking his head at the revelation.
Obie nods absently, but thanks me for the advice.
We sip from our glasses of soda that had been forgotten on the edge of the tub, easing into other topics of conversation. The evening slips away comfortably, my thoughts straying to lacing up my skates in three days.
The club’s bass thumps through my chest as I walk through the side door. Ahead of me, Gus’ head bobs along to the beat of the tune I don’t recognize. Most of the team is inside somewhere. I let the music sink into my blood. It mixes with the endorphins from our win, creating a fuzzy high that will hopefully promise a memorable night.
Our season opener went better than I could have hoped. I scored in the first and third periods, helping propel the team to a 3–1 win. After we finished the post-game press, we decided to celebrate. Usually we’d be at Lowry’s, but Tex suggested this place to mark the occasion. It’s a lively club a few blocks from the arena, but it isn’t too full for a Tuesday night.
There are groups of people huddled around belly-up tables with glasses clinking between them as we make our way to the back. We weave through swaying and writhing bodies on the fringes of the dance floor before finally reaching the bar. I lean over the polished dark oak, lifting my hand to gain the attention of the bartender. With Gus still bouncing obliviously next to me, I order two drafts. As soon as the frosted glasses hit the countertop, I pull down a heavy drink. It’s my first beer since before training camp, and the hops settle perfectly among the post-game adrenaline rushing through my system.
“Where are the rest of the boys?” I shout to Gus as we head toward an empty table opposite the dance floor but within sight of the bar. He indicates the end of the bar where Tex is tucked up with Allison, his wife. I catch my captain’s eye and lift my glass in salute. Allison waves back with a big smile on her face before Tex wraps her up, laying an almost indecent kiss on her. I shake my head at them. Tex met his wife when they were twelve, and the way they’ve navigated life and his career has always been something I’ve envied.
“Nicky wanted to get home to Natalia.” Gus leans over to explain where the rest of our teammates are. “Bones said he was coming, but who knows where he’s ended up. And our Rook was trying to convince his elusive friend to come out tonight.”
“I thought we were his only friends in town,” I joke, scanning the crowd and taking another drink. I’m just about to ask Gus for more information when I spot Obie easily gliding through the bodies on the dance floor. His arm is trailing behind him, hand interlocked with that of a woman. Whatever I thought I was going to say dies on my tongue.
The brunette has long hair curled in an effortless way, porcelain skin, and full lips. She’s clinging to Obie, letting him make a path. Her gaze is sharp as it takes in the club before she lifts onto her toes to pull Obie’s shoulder down so she can whisper in his ear. She’s average height, and I’m drawn to the curve of her hips encased in tight jeans as she breaks from my teammate. Her hips perfectly balance the swell of her breasts covered by a black t-shirt and the narrow waist in between. The brunette slips around a couple, obnoxiously grinding against each other, releasing Obie’s hand and heading toward the bar. I see Obie nod toward our table before he calls back to the woman.
“Thanks, Letty!”
She shoots a hand in the air as an acknowledgment of some kind.
“Who the hell is that?” I yell at Gus quickly. My gut tells me this isn’t a date. Obie said he was bringing a friend, so I don’t think I’m crossing any lines if I go talk to her. I’m still tracking her as she approaches the bar. Before I hear Gus’ answer, I see a guy box her out as she tries to flag a bartender down. Irritation spikes along my spine, and I’m moving, passing Obie without a word.
I’m a few steps away from grabbing the offender’s arm and swinging him around when the woman slides a lean leg in front of his hip and checks him back a step. It’s so similar to a drill I learned at seven, and it freezes me on the spot. With her place at the bar secured and the guy grumbling loudly as he walks away, I hear her call out a sharp “oi'' to get the bartender’s attention.
I spot an opening a little to her right, leaning my hip against the lacquered surface to keep observing her. She places her order, braces her hands on the bartop, and blows out a breath, checking over her shoulder quickly. I can’t tell if she’s looking for Obie or making sure the asshole doesn’t come back, but she turns fully to rest back against the bar.
With the bodies around her cleared, I slide closer.
“It’s Letty, right?”