Chapter 2
TWO
Connor
I still have a vivid memory of the first time I laid eyes on Gavin Marshal.
We were sixteen and had just arrived at a junior league development camp being hosted in Ann Arbor, Michigan over the summer.
For most of the junior hockey players in that room it was the official start of their potential professional hockey player trajectory.
The best of us would end up on teams that would feed us into the draft or head on to college for further development.
Unlike the rest of them, my path had been laid out for me at birth, so I was already familiar with the process and everyone in that room. Everyone, that is, except for Gavin.
He was an anomaly, and he stood out, looking like a man in a sea of boys.
Even at sixteen, Gavin was big. He was easily the largest player at camp.
He stood tall and broad, carrying a beat-up hockey bag full of secondhand gear and an air of suspicion, like he was ready to bolt out of the exit he stood near.
I remember noticing he had stubble. A full-on five o’clock shadow at two in the afternoon.
It showed off his sharp jaw and contrasted enticingly with his permanently tanned olive skin that was framed by longer strands of deep, dark hair.
Some of my friends in the group who I already knew from playing traveling hockey for years had taken notice too.
“Where the fuck did they find that guy?”
“I thought this was a junior league.”
“Yeah, he seems ready for the prison league.”
“Don’t start, you guys,” I said, even though they weren’t exactly wrong.
It was clear from the beginning he didn’t fit in.
To start, he arrived on his own when everyone else’s parents had brought them here.
He was a mystery that no one had ever heard of.
But the thing that drew me to him was there was something in his eyes that gave away his actual age.
The man standing by the door, poised to make a quick exit if he needed to, looked nervous and utterly alone underneath his rough exterior.
I excused myself from my friends and approached him. “Hi. I’m Connor. Is this your first time at camp?”
He nodded at me, then stuck out his hand and said his name was Gavin Marshal.
I barely heard him, too distracted by the way his hand felt in mine.
It was rough, heavily calloused, but not in a way I was used to as a hockey player.
His hand felt like it had been roughened on wood instead of ice.
He was far too rugged for a sixteen-year-old.
A fact that my newly discovered homosexuality took immediate excited notice of.
I swallowed as I pulled my hand away and looked him right in the eye. “Let me guess,” I said, smiling. “You’re a versatile forward, but often used as an enforcer.”
He nodded again, but a slight grin pulled at his lips. “And you play center.”
“Oh, come on.” I laughed. “It can’t be that obvious.”
“You’re Connor Kennedy,” he said, looking me up and down. When his eyes met mine again, there was a hint of teasing in them. “Oh.” A look like he won something crossed over his features. “You didn’t think I knew who you were.”
I hadn’t, which was my own naivety and ignorance. Sure, I knew everyone in the room besides him and they all knew me, but it shocked me that he knew who I was since he looked like he wasn’t from this world.
He gestured around the room, then put his hands into his pockets and leaned against the closed door. “I know who all of you are,” he said. “I had a long flight from Alaska to study everyone’s name and position.”
My eyes lit up. “Alaska!” That explained a lot. “I don’t think we’ve ever had a player from up there at this camp.”
“You haven’t.”
I looked around, trying to spot anyone else who didn’t look familiar. “Is there anyone else from your junior league here?”
He laughed bitterly. “There is no junior league where I’m from.”
No league? Curious, I narrowed my eyes at him. “Then why are you here?”
“Because it was either here or a fishing boat.”
Gavin
Stepping onto the ice for the first team practice I can see not much has changed since my teen years.
Connor Kennedy is standing in the middle of the crowd and I’m alone on the outskirts by the net.
Well, not entirely alone. Ander Bouchard is here with me, eyeing up the rest of the team as they jostle each other and congratulate Connor on being named team captain.
A few of them tug at the captain patch on his practice jersey.
Even from across the ice, it’s clear they’re all engaging in the ritual of sucking up to the golden boy.
I wonder how many of them actually like him.
There’ve been rumors around the league that his teammates in Chicago find the whole father-son schtick to be tiresome and unfair.
“I love how they act like it’s a surprise,” Bouchard says.
“Yeah,” I agree with a half-hearted shrug. “Even if his old man isn’t GM-ing this thing, it’s not like they were going to choose anyone else for captain.”
Bouchard hits me with his heavily padded elbow. “They could have chosen you.”
“I’m still surprised they chose me to be here. I think being named captain would be pushing it.”
“Ye of little faith in yourself. You’re the best damn enforcer in the league. It would have been stupid not to pick you for the team.”
I look over my shoulder at him. “Does it look like they wanted to pick me?”
He grins at me. “Does it look like they wanted to pick me? We’ve been out here for ten minutes, and no one’s even noticed.”
“Oh, they’ve noticed,” I say as I feel our new temporary teammates’ eyes occasionally flick towards us as they skate in casual, nonchalant loops greeting each other.
Bouchard grins at me. “They’re trying to gauge if you’re going to knock any of their teeth out for saying hello.”
I shake my head at him as I take my stick in both hands and hoist it over my head to rest on my shoulders so I can stretch out my chest by straightening out my arms. “It is tempting.”
But truthfully, it isn’t. Despite my grumpy exterior, I genuinely want to be here.
Just like I genuinely wanted to be at that junior hockey camp that summer.
You’d think things would have changed in the nine years since we were sixteen.
You’d think things would have changed in my near seven full seasons in the league.
But they haven’t. I’m still an outsider.
An outsider with a Stanley Cup win, but an outsider just the same.
“Hey,” Bouchard says with another jab of his elbow into my ribs. “Fuck all of them. You know they’re only mad because us Blizzards are the reigning champs. And they’ll come around as soon as they realize they need us more than we need them.”
“Yeah.” I bring my stick back down over my head and play with a nearby puck, flicking it around in close movements.
Coach Chris from the Chicago Broad Wings, who was selected to lead this team—gee, I wonder why—steps out onto the ice.
He gestures for me and Bouchard to come join the group and we do, taking our time as we glide towards the rest of the team.
To be fair to us, all the gear Bouchard has to wear doesn’t make him a fast skater.
But it does allow him to be effective where it counts. In front of the net, deflecting pucks.
“Alright, boys! I see you’ve discovered your captain.” Coach Chris pauses and holds up an A patch. “I still have this one to pass out. Whoever wears it is going to have to earn it.”
“Unlike Kennedy,” Bouchard says to me under his breath.
I look at him and stifle a laugh.
Coach Chris continues. “We have one week to get used to playing with each other. That’s not a lot of time, but this is an elite group of players and I have faith we can come together.”
“I didn’t think it was gonna be that kind of camp,” Bouchard says for only me to hear. “I wasn’t prepared for a circle jerk.”
This time I can’t help it and I laugh out loud.
“Something funny?” Connor Kennedy asks me.
I clear my throat. “Nope. Nothing funny at all.” I spin away from Connor, look right at Bouchard, grin, and give him the finger.
“And that brings me to my next announcement,” Coach says.
“In an attempt to build team unity, tonight we are cutting out half of your rooms. You’re all getting roommates.
And no…” He pauses and looks pointedly at me and Bouchard.
“You do not get to room with a member of your own original team. I need you boys to work together. And fast. So find someone new to spend time with.”
A series of groans ring out around the group. At least I’m not the only one who objects to this idea.
Coach blows his whistle. “Now. Let’s shave some ice.”
Connor
Practice is grueling. Even more so than I’m already used to with Coach Chris.
I thought coming into this I’d be at an advantage, already knowing his system and the drills he likes to run, but I was wrong.
He’s pulling out all sorts of new formations and testing every combination of players he can to form our lines.
Then, without much rest, he’ll blow his whistle and round us up for speed runs in the form of suicides.
Each of us is a sweaty mess. Even our two goalies are red in the face.
Though I can understand why. They’ve both taken at least a hundred shots on goal from us in the last ninety minutes.