Chapter 4 #2
I’m the first to arrive in the conference room the team has reserved for breakfast, team meetings, and watching game film.
It’s not ideal. But they’ve done a good job of making it functional for us.
There are three rows of rectangular tables and chairs to sit at, but I’m willing to bet that over the course of this week we’ll manage to break most of them.
Hockey players aren’t really known for being delicate on our surroundings.
Thankfully, the hotel understood the assignment with the food; there’s a mountain of breakfast options for us to choose from.
Bacon, eggs, biscuits, garlic and rosemary potatoes, fresh fruit, orange juice, and a ton of coffee, plus individual boxes of cereal and some grab-and-go snacks.
I’m tempted to start eating already but choose instead to wait for the rest of my teammates, who are slowly trickling in.
Most of them look like they had a rough night.
Or more accurately, like they’re having a rough morning after a fun night of too much Las Vegas.
I won’t lie. When they announced this was where we were holding training camp, I worried about it looking exactly like this.
It’s to be expected. We’re a group of men, mostly under the age of thirty.
The prime demographic for Las Vegas fun.
Even Coach Chris looks like he had one too many of God knows what last night.
Food, drinks, gambling? The potential for indulgence is endless.
I guess having a miserable dinner with my father has some benefits to it. And besides, as team captain it is up to me to set a good example. Which is exactly what I try to do as I greet them all.
“Fuck off, Skipper,” Bradley Warren growls at me when I say good morning. He’s dragging ass as he walks in, smelling like spilled beer and wearing sunglasses that aren’t hiding the sprinkling of glitter he has on his face, concentrated around his mouth.
“Don’t mind him,” Bouchard says, looking not much better, but at least he’s being friendly towards me… for once. I wonder if that’s Gavin’s doing. “I found his ass down at The Strip’s Strip a few hours ago.”
That explains the glitter.
“Don’t act innocent.” Bradley slings an arm over Bouchard’s shoulders, then rubs his knuckles into Bouchard’s wet hair. At least one of them managed to take a shower. “If it wasn’t for Franklin pouring us into a cab we’d still be there.”
Max Franklin, a left wing who plays for Seattle, shakes his head at them. The motion makes him turn green. “I’m never hanging out with you two degenerates again.”
“Trust us,” Bouchard says. “We don’t want to hang out with you either.” He looks at Bradley and they both grin and dramatically say together, apparently imitating Max, “My wife is gonna murder me.”
Max gives them the finger, then fills himself a mug of coffee that he drinks black.
“Well, well, well. Look who the cat dragged in,” Bouchard says, and I turn to see who he’s talking about, even though I already have an idea who it is. Gavin.
“You’re one to talk,” Gavin says as he looks Bouchard up and down. “What litter box did you get pulled out of?”
“The Strip’s Strip,” Bradley says as he takes a seat at one of the tables with a plate of food. He removes his sunglasses and rubs his temples.
“You should come with us next time,” Bouchard says.
“No, he shouldn’t,” Bradley says and begins eating. “If he shows up, we won’t get any action. He’ll scare off all the chicks.”
I frown and turn away from their conversation to fill my plate.
I get it. Partying and strip clubs and all the rest are par for the course.
I know how it is. There’s always a group of guys on every team who can’t resist the allure of that kind of a good time.
But for some reason, I hate the thought of Gavin being one of them. It doesn’t seem to fit.
“Nah,” Gavin says and steps beside me in the food line to fill his plate.
He’s radiating heat, and he smells like sweat.
“I don’t want to cock block you two. We all know how desperately you both need to get laid.
” The room bursts into laughter, and I feel my shoulders relax. Maybe I thought right about him.
“But seriously,” Bouchard says. “Where did you end up last night?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Gavin says and tosses a grape into his mouth.
I roll my eyes. He ended up in bed at a decent hour like the rest of them should have.
“Come on. Spill it. Who was she?” Bouchard presses for more information. “A man your size can’t hide skulking through the casino at five in the morning.”
Wait. I thought he went to the gym. Annoyance I have no business feeling flares up in me again, draining all color from my face. Did he sneak off to meet someone?
Gavin tosses another grape into his mouth. He bites into it and says, “No one. I went to the gym.”
Relief washes over me again and my cheeks heat back up with color.
“Bullshit, Marshal,” Bouchard and Bradley say together.
“You can’t hide from us, Gavin,” Bouchard continues. “We’ll figure you out.”
“There’s nothing to figure out.” Gavin laughs and takes a seat in the back of the room away from everyone else. His expression is calm, and he wears a mask of indifference to their questioning as he shovels bacon and eggs into his mouth.
“Alright!” Coach Chris calls out, then takes a sip of his coffee. “Listen up!”
I finish filling my plate then take a seat in the front at the spot designated for team captain.
The seat next to me is still empty, reserved for whoever earns alternate captain.
I hope Coach chooses soon as I’m getting the sense I’m going to need all the help I can get with this group.
There’s a few individual team captains in here who I’m sure are suited for the job. Players Bradley hasn’t called Skipper.
Coach looks at the room, making sure he has the team’s attention. “I think it’s clear by the sorry state of you all that we need to impose a curfew.”
Everyone in the room grumbles except for me and, to my delight, Gavin.
I see him nodding his agreement in the back as he eats his breakfast. It’s the right call.
We’re here to work, not party. This isn’t a mid-season vacation for us.
In fact, I’ll go as far as to say these next few weeks are going to be more intense than what we’re already used to.
“Here’s your new schedule,” Coach Chris continues.
“Eight a.m. breakfast, nine a.m. ice time. We’ll take an hour break at noon for lunch and a video session, then more ice time from one until four.
Dinner, you’re on your own. And everyone needs to be in their rooms by ten.
So get some library books, boys, and get used to reading your roommate a bedtime story.
Any aches and pains, see the athletic trainers immediately.
” He points at the trainers’ table as he says this, and they all lift their hands for the group.
Unlike my teammates, these men look ready to work, dressed in matching athletic gear emblazoned with the United States hockey team logo.
“Any questions?” Coach Chris finishes. He’s met with silence. “Good,” he says and takes another sip of coffee. “Because I have a massive headache.”
Gavin
I know the rest of the team was grumbling about the curfew, but watching these guys attempt to skate through their hangovers has me shaking my head.
They’re a mess. None of them are skating with speed.
They’re all dodging any and all contact—which, sure, it’s practice, we shouldn’t be laying each other out, but we do need to knock around a bit if we want to become a cohesive team.
And not a single one of them except Connor can hit a puck past the goalies, who are barely trying to stop shots into the nets as it is.
Coach blows his whistle, signaling for us to stop. Warren leans over the boards and pukes his breakfast into the trash can. It’s moments like this I’m extra glad I don’t drink.
Connor catches my eye and skates over. Unlike the rest of the team, he’s bright eyed and looks alive on the ice.
The complete opposite of how he looked last night.
I’ve been having far too much fun chasing him down and stealing the puck.
He’s slightly out of breath from our last drill and his hair is dampened by sweat, making it curl around the edges of his helmet.
“This is a bust,” he says, coming to a stop. “We’re the only two out here who can function.”
I swirl the puck I recently stole from him around with my stick. “I’m the only one who can function,” I say, letting the puck slide towards him just so I can steal it back before he snags it.
“Dick,” he says, but there’s a smile on his lips that’s causing his eyes to crinkle.
I flick the puck again, then grab it before he gets a chance. “Calling your subordinate a dick.” I raise my eyebrow. “That’s not very team-captain-like of you.”
“Fuck off.” He laughs and manages to sneak the puck away from me.
I try to snag it back away from him, but he turns quickly with it. Then, with a flick of his wrists, sends it sailing across the ice and into the empty net. He’s grinning at me when he turns back around.
I take a glance around the ice. Nobody, including Coach, looks like they’re going to be ready to start skating again soon. I reach my stick towards the boards and grab another one of the pucks that’s strewn around. “Think you can do that again with me chasing you?”
He bites his lip and does a quick glance as well.
Likely assessing if this is something we’re gonna get yelled at by Coach for.
Of course he’s worried about that. I doubt Connor’s ever disobeyed someone in his life.
Not that this would even count as an infraction, but it’s equal parts infuriating and adorable that he’s concerned.