2. I thought hockey players were a bunch of tough guys.
2
"I thought hockey players were a bunch of tough guys."
Aaron Miles
James and I spend the hour before practice doing some stickhandling drills, which forces me to work on my wrist agility. I feel good, really good. Injuries are frequent in hockey, but thankfully, this one was minor. There’s nothing I hate more than riding the bench. Ever since I started playing, I’ve craved every second on the ice. It’s always been my safe place. The one thing that kept me out of trouble.
“Hey!” Maxime Beaumont calls, skating onto the ice, Caleb Hawthorne gliding after him. “Are you guys having a little practice date without us?”
I roll my eyes. This kid has way too much confidence now that he’s dating the woman of his dreams. “It’s called ‘honing your skills,’ Frenchie. That’s how you stay at the top of your game.”
“I’m already at the top of my game.” He smirks, and we all laugh.
Hawthorne shakes his head and mumbles, “Kids,” then shoots a puck across the ice.
Beaumont kneels down to stretch. “I’m only a few years younger than you.”
“Exactly.” Adler nods, ruffling Beaumont’s hair. “You’ve got a lot to learn still.”
The rest of the team arrives one by one, followed by the coaching staff, including Lars Martin, head coach of the New York Raptors.
“All right, gents. Let’s have a short practice this morning. Warm up, then start with some double pass transitions. After that, I want to see a few gap drills.”
Once everyone gets into position, we give it our all. It may only be practice, but the entire team is determined. We’ve had a great season so far, and the playoffs are right around the corner. We lost in the finals last year. We’re not making the same mistakes again this season. This time, we win it all.
Finally, we break for lunch. Coach has already left by the time I come out of the locker room. I exit the arena and walk across the street to the small restaurant we go to for our bi-monthly family lunches. Because that’s what Marissa and Lars are to me: family.
I amble into the restaurant, greet the owner, and walk to our usual table where they’re already seated, drinks in front of them.
“Hey,” Marissa calls, her light-blue eyes sparkling.
“Good job today, son,” Coach adds, slapping my back as I take a seat next to him. I may not be his biological child, but he’s been calling me “son” since the day we met. He’s been like a father to me, after all. Though I can’t fathom calling him anything but “Coach.”
We start talking hockey, and Marissa is very much engaged in the conversation. This girl breathes hockey, and she loves the game probably as much as we do. I guess it’s only natural when your dad is a hockey legend. But no matter how much Coach Martin loves the sport, she has always come first for him. His wife died during childbirth, and he retired early to take care of his newborn baby. He put himself back in school to teach PE, then eventually got into coaching. He coached kids at first, then college, and now he’s right back where he b elongs—in the NHL. He made the transition with so much grace. He’s truly the best role model a guy could ask for. Especially someone like me, with no biological family. Not that my foster parents weren’t nice people, but they had a bunch of kids to take care of and I was an angry kid who resented them from day one.
“Okay, kids. I need some help,” Coach says after we order our food. “Jenna from PR asked for my input on charity ideas. We need to raise money for the Creating Smiles Foundation. They’re really struggling, and we want to help them.”
“Good idea.” I nod, always down to help people. That’s what I love about hockey. It’s not just a sport, it’s a community, and there’s a strong give-back culture. “A charity game?”
“That was my first idea too,” he says. “But the schedule is packed, and putting this together with such short notice is complicated.”
“What about a polar plunge?” Marissa suggests, sipping her drink. “It’s February. What’s more entertaining than witnessing a bunch of athletes freezing their butts off in the Atlantic Ocean?”
I can feel my eyes widening. “Or not. Thanks, but you’re not one of said athletes.”
“Fine,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Forgive me. I thought hockey players were a bunch of tough guys.”
I scoff. “We’re still human!”
“With fake teeth.” She grins, exposing her own set of very real pearly whites.
Coach barks out a laugh. “All right. Let’s think of something else.”
The waiter brings us our food, and we keep brainstorming, but Coach shoots down all Marissa’s crazy ideas, thankfully for me.
“So, are you dating anyone?” Coach asks, changing the subject. His gray eyes narrow on Marissa like two slits.
She rolls her eyes, like she does every time he asks. Which is every time he sees her. “No, Dad. I’m not.”
“Good. Less for me to worry about. Am I right?” he jokes, slapping my back and forcing me to swallow my chicken in one bite.
“I will date again,” she says, giving him a pointed look. “Someday. It’s not like I’m completely undatable.”
My heart twists in my chest. Far from it. Every part of Marissa Martin is breathtaking. From her smile to the subtle freckles on her cheeks and her irresistible curves.
“I know,” Coach says, forking a piece of meat. “As long as he’s not a hockey player—or any other athlete, for that matter. I see enough of them, and I know too much.”
“Aw, shoot.” Her shoulders fa ll. “And I really wanted to date a Raptor.”
I lose control of my fork, and it drops to the floor in a deafening clatter. I dive to retrieve it, heat coursing through my veins.
Coach is as white as his napkin.
Marissa laughs, the sound both soothing and unnerving. “I’m kidding. I love hockey. The last thing I’d want is to date a player and have him ruin the sport for me.”
We all chuckle, and I pretend like I’m perfectly fine with the situation, when in reality, I’m burning inside and my fists are balled under the table. The same reaction I always have when I imagine Marissa with someone else. We’re just friends, and it’s better that way, but sometimes I wish the three of us didn’t have such an amazing bond. If she was just a girl and I was just a guy, things could have been different. But Coach Martin saved me, gave my life purpose. And for that reason, Marissa and I can never be more than friends. These two are the only two constants in my life. Losing them is not an option. Marissa is my best friend, the only daughter of my mentor, father figure, and coach. No one is more off-limits than her.
After lunch, it’s hard to pull myself back into focus. I barely listen when we’re watching game tapes, and I toss and turn during most of my nap time. I should be used to repressing these feelings for her, but somehow, it’s getting harder and harder. Living together again doesn’t help. She moved in with me when I started with the Raptors last season, and as much as I love having her there, it’s putting my heart through the wringer. I couldn’t say no, though. She’s my best friend, my family, and I love having her close. It would have felt like a step backward for her to move back in with her dad. Plus, I could never refuse her anything. The fact that I sang the backup vocals for her karaoke rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” at the talent show is proof of that. And that cost me. Still does.
I shake my head as I enter the arena. Only a few hours left before game time. I need to focus and stop thinking about my best friend. I start with some mobility exercises with the physical therapy assistant to prove that my wrist and I are game ready for tonight. Turns out, my body is ready, but my brain is a different story.
I walk past Hawthorne and Coach in the media room on my way to the exercise room, then start on my warmup. I go for the long warmup routine even though I don’t need it. With my headphones on, I blast some music and work myself hard.
An elastic band whips my back, and I wheel around, protesting. “What the—”
“What’s with you?” Beaumont asks, taking a swig of his drink. “Why are you all work and no play today?”
“What, you miss me making fun of your hair, Frenchie Boy?” I snicker, making Hawthorne and Adler laugh. “Because it is really awful.”
He rolls his eyes, then turns to the guys. “At least we know he’s fine.”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, hands on my thighs.
“Wrist is good, then?” Hawthorne asks.
I wave a hand in dismissal. “Oh, that. Yeah. All good there.”
“What do you mean, ‘that’?” Adler asks, his forehead wrinkling. “What else is there?”
My face warms, and I take a sip of my electrolyte drink. “Nothing. It’s just so insignificant that I almost forgot I injured it in the first place.”
“Okay,” he says, still eyeing me suspiciously. “So, should we kick some ball?” He nods to the other end of the room. “Wally is looking way too broody over there. That should cheer him up, remind him of his root s, his family, and all that.”
Wilcott is British, and even if Cricket is technically England’s national sport, soccer—or football as they call it over there—is far more popular. Including in his family, with his brother playing pro.
We all walk up to him, and minutes later, we’re playing our usual two-touch game, a way to both focus and release the pressure before we hit the ice.
Finally, I’m game-ready, mentally and physically. And as I tape my stick in the locker room, all I can think about is tonight’s game and how we’re going to win it.
“All right,” Coach says, marching into the locker room. The chatter dies down. “We have everything we need to win this game. Dominate your shifts, play fast in the neutral zone, and get the puck to the net early.”
Everyone claps and cheers. Then, Coach hands Adler the piece of paper where he wrote down the starting lineup. Adler’s been having fun announcing lately, and Coach is keeping it going.
“Rrrrraptors,” Adler booms, walking to the middle of the room. “We have Cap, Beaumont, and me in the front; Miles and Kraz in the back; and Wally kicking in the net. Let’s have some fun, boys!”
Wilcott was nicknamed “The Wall ” last season, but we thought the cute nickname “Wally” was more fitting given his lovable personality.
More cheers erupt as we all stand up.
“Let’s go!” Hawthorne bellows, tapping the “C” on his chest.
We bump fists and share high fives, pumping each other up as we file out of the locker room and into the tunnel. Every game counts. Every minute spent on the ice must be geared toward that same goal—winning. No matter what it takes. Hockey is my life, what gave me purpose, a family. So, I play every game as if it was my first and my last.