Chapter 4 Skyler
Skyler
Murph had struck again.
I was already awake. Years of early practices had ruined my ability to sleep past seven, so I had a front-row seat when Erik’s door burst open and six-foot-three of furious Swedish muscle stormed into the hallway wearing nothing but boxers and a look of pure murder.
“MURPHY! GOD DAMN IT!”
Erik’s hair was . . . wrong.
That was the only way to describe it.
He kept his head shaved close to his scalp, a practical choice for a guy who spent half his life wearing a helmet; but now his entire head gleamed under the hallway lights, sticky and amber-colored, and plastered to his skull.
I stepped into the hallway as Tyler emerged from his room, phone already raised.
“Please tell me you’re recording,” I said.
“Way ahead of you, Cap. I won’t miss a deliciousminute of this.”
Erik pounded on Murph’s door with both fists. “Open this fucking door, you tiny skitstovel! I know you are in there!”
“What the hell’s a skitstovel?” Tyler whispered.
I shrugged. “Maybe one of those meatballs at IKEA? No idea.”
The door cracked open, and Murph’s round, innocent face appeared in the gap. “Oh, hey, Erik. Something wrong? You’ve got a little . . .” He gestured at his own head. “Something in your hair.”
“YOU PUT MAPLE SYRUP IN MY SHAMPOO BOTTLE!” His voice boomed so loud I worried someone might call security.
“Did I?” Murph’s eyes went wide with theatrical confusion. “That doesn’t sound like me.”
“It sounds exactly like you, you little shit turd!”
“I’m offended by this accusation. I would never waste maple syrup. That’s . . . un-Canadian.” Murph paused. “Was it at least the real stuff? I only buy authentic Quebec maple—”
Erik lunged.
Murph yelped and tried to slam the door, but Erik’s massive hand caught it. What followed was a brief and undignified scuffle that ended with Murph in a headlock.
“How do you like it, huh? How do you like being sticky?”
“Tastes like love to me,” Murph wheezed. “You look like a giant breakfast mascot. Maybe you could do this on game days, you know, for the kids. Or you could get a sweet sponsorship deal!”
By now, half the team had emerged to witness the chaos.
Tyler started live commentary to complement his video. “And here we see the Swedish Viking extracting his revenge on the Irish Gremlin. Nature is beautiful, folks, absolutely majestic.”
Coach Rodriguez appeared at the end of the hallway in a hotel robe, coffee in hand. He took one look at the scene, with Erik still headlocking Murph, both of them now covered in maple syrup. He sighed and turned around without a word.
“That man deserves a raise,” I said to no one in particular.
“He deserves a medal,” Tyler agreed.
It took Erik forty-five minutes and an entire bottle of dish soap borrowed from housekeeping to get the syrup out. By the time we assembled for the team breakfast, he had shaved his head smooth and was radiating the kind of cold fury that only true Scandinavians could achieve.
Murph, to his credit, had the good sense to sit at the opposite end of the table.
“I want everyone to know,” Erik announced, stabbing his scrambled eggs with unnecessary violence, “that I am not angry.”
“So . . . this is Viking joy?” Tyler offered, earning more than a few snickers.
“I am not angry. Vikings do not get angry. We plot. We plan. We prepare.”
“Plan what?” I asked, almost too afraid of the answer to finish the question.
Erik’s smile was terrifying. “Murphy will find out when he least expects it.”
From his end of the table, Murph raised his coffee cup in salute. “Looking forward to it, big guy. You okay if we rub your head for luck? Be a shame to waste a spit shine like that.”
Even the coaches, smart enough to sit at a distant table, doubled over at that.
“Your life will be interesting when I hide fish in your equipment bag.”
Murph raised both hands in surrender. “That’s biological warfare, Erik. The Geneva Convention—”
“Does not apply to hockey pranks. I have checked.”
The table devolved into laughter and perpetual retelling of each man’s version of the antics.
In barely a few minutes, even Erik’s death glare had softened into something approaching amusement.
This was how it always went: attack, amusement, escalation, much more amusement, retaliation, near-bladder-emptying amusement .
. . and then . . . the coach’s hammer ending whatever tit-for-tat had started with whatever prank-for-prank had started the whole thing at a time none of us could recall.
It was the endless prank war that had been raging since Murph’s rookie year, and half the team had been caught in the crossfire at various points.
Last season, I’d opened my locker to find it filled with packing peanuts. While immediate suspicion always fell on Murph, I still wasn’t sure which of them was responsible for that one.
“Okay, okay,” I said, trying to restore some semblance of order. “Can we focus? We’ve got a game tonight. Save the revenge plotting for after we win.”
“Always so responsible, Cap,” Murph said. “It’s exhausting.”
“You’re exhausting, Murph,” I said with a grin. “Besides, someone has to be the adult in this relationship.”
“I love it when you get all stern, Daddy. Can I have a spanking later?”
The table erupted at that.
“He’s got a point, Shaw. We’re professional athletes. We get paid to play a game.” Tyler shook his head and leaned back, grinning. “Adulthood wasn’t in our contract.”
“God, not you, too. Ty—”
“My contract says I have to show up and play hockey. It basically commands me to score goals. It says nothing about being mature.”
I wanted to throw something, but I couldn’t argue with his logic, mostly because I didn’t want to. The truth was I loved the banter, the chaos, and the way these guys could drive me insane and still be the people I trusted most in the world.
We spent more time together than most married couples. We’d seen each other at our worst and our best. And we were family, for better or worse.
Mostly better.
Even when someone’s head was covered in breakfast cereal and Canada’s finest.
We won that night, 4 to 2. I had an assist on Tyler’s goal and laid a hit in the second period that sent the “bad guys” forward spinning into the boards and out of the game. It was the kind of performance that left a player buzzing, high on adrenaline and team energy.
Afterward, knowing our next day held nothing but air travel, we found a steakhouse near the hotel that could accommodate twenty-three hungry hockey players and a handful of our braver coaches and staff on short notice.
The hostess looked terrified when we strode in, but the manager was a fan, so we ended up in a private room in the back with a dedicated server who kept the drinks and appetizers flowing.
“To Erik’s hair,” Murph announced, raising his glass. “Gone but not forgotten.”
“I will show you Valhalla, you f?rskalle,” Erik said pleasantly.
“Did he call him a fudgesicle? I haven’t had one of those in years,” one of the guys to my left whispered.
“To Erik’s future revenge,” Tyler amended, raising a bottle of Dos Equis. “May it be creative and well documented.”
We clinked glasses and bottles, and the evening’s relaxation began in earnest. A stream of servers brought steaks the size of my head, loaded baked potatoes, and enough sides to feed a small army. For a glorious few moments, conversation gave way to the serious business of eating.
Then Murph decided to retell the story of the syrup prank to the guys who’d missed the morning’s hallway showdown. Tyler, never one to be left out, passed his phone around so they could see the video, noting how many likes and shares it already had on Insta.
“. . . had to source authentic Quebec maple, right? Because if you’re going to commit to a bit, you commit fully. I’m not using some corn syrup knockoff. That’s amateur hour.”
“How did you even get it in his shampoo bottle?” Kowalski asked.
“Trade secrets, my friend. A magician never reveals—”
“He bribed the housekeeping staff,” Erik said flatly. “Twenty dollars and a signed puck.”
“Erik, you’re ruining the mystique!” Murph protested.
“There is no mystique. You are a chaos goblin with too much free time.”
The table roared.
I leaned back in my chair, nursing my drink, and watched the scene unfold.
Tyler challenged the team to calculate the total dollar amount Murph had spent on pranks over his career.
Erik grudgingly admitted that the Froot Loop detail had been “a nice touch.” A couple of rookies at the far end of the table were cracking up at Erik’s cereal-encrusted fury on their phones but slammed them on the table the moment the giant brute snarled in their direction.
This was everything I loved about road trips, the insulated bubble of team life and the way nothing outside this room seemed to matter. Tomorrow we’d fly to Edmonton, do a light practice, play another game the next night, then fly somewhere else to do the whole thing over again.
The server came by to clear plates and offer dessert menus. Most of the guys declined, but Murph ordered a slice of chocolate cake “for the table” that he clearly intended to eat by himself.
“No shame,” he said when Tyler called him out. “I earned this. Do you know how much planning went into this morning? The logistics alone—”
“You are unwell,” Erik said, but he was smiling.
When the cake arrived, Murph made a show of savoring every bite while the rest of us watched in disgusted fascination.
“You know what this reminds me of?” Tyler said. “That dessert thing they had at that bar in Tampa. What was it called? The—”
“Barbacks,” I said. “They do this fried cheesecake thing. It’s ridiculous.”
“That’s the one! We should go back there when we’re home. That place was fun, and the food was insane, not like any bar I’ve ever eaten in.”
“The gay bar?” Jankovic, one of the quieter rookies, perked up. “You guys went to a gay bar without me?”
“Janky, it is a sports bar that happens to be gay-owned,” Erik clarified. “They have great food, and Lightning basically adopted it after that news thing last year. The sliders might be the best I have ever eaten.”
“I feel personally betrayed that I wasn’t invited,” Jankovic said.
“You were doing . . . something,” Tyler said. “I don’t remember, probably trying to guess who you’ll be traded to next season.”
The kid’s face fell. “You think I’m getting traded?”
“No, Janky, just no,” I stepped in before irreparable emotional damage could be inflicted. “As surprising as this may be, Ty was being a dick.”
“I was not!” Tyler snapped. “I was talking about guys who like dick. There’s a difference.”
Several guys groaned.
Murph laughed.
I shrugged. “Jacks would get a kick out of meeting you, Janky. He’s turned into quite the hockey fan this season.”
“Who’s Jacks?”
Something seized in my throat.
Why had I brought up Jacks? It was like his name flew out of my mouth without my permission. Then, as I was spiraling about bringing up some random dude’s name, my mind decided to spin about spinning in the first place.
Fuck me. What was all that?
“He’s a barback there. Fuckin’ stud linebacker at FSU a few years ago.” I realized I was sitting up straighter and talking a little faster, so I forced myself to slouch and slow my roll. “Cool guy. I bought his jersey back when he played.”
Tyler and Erik exchanged a glance.
“What?” I asked.
“Nothing,” Tyler said. “Just . . . you’ve mentioned this Jacks guy a few times.”
“Have I?”
“Once or twice. No. Definitely more than twice.” Erik’s tone was neutral.
“He’s cool. We talked football and shit.”
“Nobody said otherwise,” Murph said, watching me with an expression that reminded me of a nature documentary narrator observing prey about to be eaten.
In fact, the whole team was watching now, and I felt the urge to slink under the table and never return to daylight.
Then my rational brain slapped my silly brain for being so ridiculous when all I’d done was talk to a player about his sport.
“So when are we going?” Janky snapped me out of my double-spiral. “Sounds like I need these sliders in my life.”
Others, sounding more like needy stomachs than grown-ass men, groaned their agreement. Nothing unified hockey players like food.
“When we’re back. Next week, maybe. Whenever.”
“It’s a date,” Janky said.
“It’s not a—” I stopped, catching Erik’s shit-eating grin. “Fuck off, Piglet.”
“Aww, a pet name. And here I thought we were being all casual,” Murph chimed in.
The others howled.
Murphy could do that, turn a simple conversation on its head and have the whole team in stitches without even trying. God, I hated—and loved—that little munchkin.
The conversation moved on, something about our upcoming Edmonton game and predictions for the third period, but I found my mind wandering.
I kept thinking about Barbacks, about the last time we’d been there.
I couldn’t stop replaying the chaos of game night, Benji’s insane glitter drinks, and the way Jacks had lit up when I’d mentioned his Miami game.
For no goddamn reason, I wondered what he was doing right then.
“Shaw. Earth to Shaw.”
I blinked.
Murph was waving a hand in front of my face.
“You zoned out, bro. You good?”
“Yeah, sorry.” I shook my head, clearing it. “Just tired. Long day.”
“Uh-huh.” Murph didn’t look convinced, but he let it go. “Well, wake up. Erik’s about to tell us about his revenge plan, and I need witnesses in case I have to file a police report.”
“I have made no threats,” Erik said serenely. “I am . . . how do you say it? Brainstorming.”
“That’s exactly what a supervillain would say,” Murph countered.
The table dissolved into laughter again. I grabbed my drink and rejoined the conversation, pushing aside all thoughts of Barbacks or sliders or curly brown hair.
It was fine.
I was fine.
Everything was fine.