Chapter 7
SEVEN
Connor
Practice is weird, and it has nothing to do with Gavin and this unwise flirtation we’ve started.
In fact, it’s possible our brief flirtation is making us the most effective skaters on the ice.
No one else is motivated, and I can’t blame it on everyone being hungover this time.
Maybe it’s because of the brawl from yesterday and the bad press it’s brought upon all of us.
Or maybe we are just a terrible group of players who have all gotten too complacent about being the best of the best on our own teams. I know one thing.
We could all use an attitude adjustment, that’s for sure.
“Good hustle, guys!” I try to rally them with enthusiasm as we run drills, passing the puck back and forth from one end of the rink to the other and then into the net.
There’s a lot of good teams forming around the world, but Canada, in particular, is going to make this tough for us with their collective speed.
“We’ll need to skate harder than the rest if we want to win this! ”
“Give it a rest, Skipper,” Bradley Warren says. God, I hope that nickname doesn’t stick. He sends a slap shot way over the net. It hits the glass with a loud thunk.
“Hey.” Gavin lightly shoulder checks him when he comes to a stop by his side. “Show your captain some respect.”
“Right.” Bradley hits him back but is almost knocked off his feet by his own impact. Gavin, of course, stands there unfazed. “As if you respect the little kiss-ass.”
Gavin uses his stick to slide a puck closer to him, then flicks it towards me. “I respect him more than you, I can tell you that.”
“Yeah, right,” Bradley says. “I’ve seen your highlight reel. You’ve laid him out like roadkill and smiled about it.”
“You sound envious,” Gavin says, and I pass the puck back to him. He swirls it around a bit before he blindly passes it back to me.
“Of you?” Bradley scoffs. “I don’t think so.”
Gavin grabs a second puck and lazily knocks it into an unattended net. He stands still and looks at Bradley.
“Of Connor,” he says.
I pass him back the puck we were both playing with, and he slaps that one into the net as well, punctuating his comment.
He skates away from Bradley, leaving him red faced and angry, and makes his way to center ice. “In fact,” Gavin yells out, “I think that’s everyone’s problem here. None of you can let go of your egos enough to admit that Kennedy’s a better player than all of you combined.”
There’s grumbling from the group. Coach gives me a look and tips his chin towards Gavin, signaling to me that he thinks Gavin is onto something.
I don’t want to agree. This is a team full of world-class players and we’re all stars on our respective teams. But even if Gavin is right, this is something that I, as the captain, should have seen. I frown.
“Since when do you have such a hard-on for Kennedy?” Nichols, a center like me, from Dallas, mocks.
I gulp. This tension I feel in the rink better not have to do with the team realizing that Gavin and I have been flirting with each other.
As far as I know, we’ve kept that off the ice.
No unnecessary touches, no lingering glances, and definitely no sexual innuendos when we banter back and forth.
Well, no more than what comes naturally between all players as we rile each other up on the ice.
“Since we have Olympic gold medals to win,” Gavin says. “Or have you all forgotten that’s why we’re here?”
This elicits more grumbling from the group as they all avoid making eye contact.
He grabs a puck and flicks it down ice towards the net Bouchard is posted up in front of. Bouchard makes the save and Gavin grins at him. He turns to face the group again.
“Here’s the deal,” Gavin says. “For each of you that gets a goal past Bouchard, he owes you a case of beer.”
“Hey!” Bouchard yells, laughing. “What the fuck kind of deal is that?”
“The kind that will get you to stop defending the net like a slice of Swiss cheese!” Gavin yells back.
Bouchard playfully flips his glove hand up at him. I assume he’s holding his middle finger up in there.
“Alright!” Gavin yells and slides another puck over to himself.
He swirls it around for a second, then passes it to me and we skate towards Bouchard.
The rest of the team chases after us and once they catch up in Bouchard’s zone, they begin playing defense to steal the puck and take their chance at scoring a goal.
But they can’t get it away. I’m too quick and Gavin is too strong, and we pass the puck back and forth between each other seamlessly.
It’s like we know where the other is going to be instinctually.
It’s exactly the kind of dynamic I was hoping for when I came here.
I’ve never had a teammate I could depend on like this and Gavin Marshal is the last person I expected it from.
He flicks the puck to me one last time after battling it away from two players at the wall. With a flick of my wrists, I send it over Bouchard’s shoulder and into the net.
Coach blows his whistle. “Run it back, boys!” he yells and signals for the team to skate back to the other side of the rink again. He points at his assistant coach. “Keep a tally. That’s one case of beer for the captain.”
“Kennedy better be in the mood to share!” Bouchard yells across the ice. “Because that’s the last goal that’s getting past me today!” He taps the posts of his net with his stick, then crouches down, his eyes focused on the twenty bruisers poised to rush and take shots at him.
Coach grabs a puck with his stick, then flings it towards the first blue line when he blows his whistle.
We take off, all jockeying for our place and trying to reach the puck with our sticks.
I grab it, but I’m immediately knocked to the ground.
I jump back up, not surprised after yesterday’s brawl that this team can play rough.
Within a few seconds, I’m back in the pack, but quickly knocked to the ground again.
Gavin circles around me. His eyes ask if I’m alright as I rise.
I nod and try to catch up with the team, but I’m stopped when Coach blows his whistle.
“No goal!” he yells and signals for us to go to the other end of the ice. “Let’s run it back again. We won’t stop until one more of you flicks one into the net.”
“Hey! Have a little faith in me!” Bouchard yells.
“I do have faith in you!” Coach yells back. “That’s why I’m predicting it’s going to be a long night!”
Gavin
Coach blows his whistle and tosses a puck to center ice again.
We all take off, but I’m not focused on the puck.
I keep my eyes on Connor instead. He got knocked down twice on the last run and I don’t think it was an accident.
Both hits looked deliberate and made my hackles rise unconsciously under my skin.
There’s a difference between roughing each other up trying to go after the puck and full-body checking your own teammate onto the ground during practice.
This isn’t ever going to be a game where players don’t play rough, but deliberately trying to hurt a teammate is a line that should never be crossed.
Hell, even in regular season play the last thing you want to do is seriously injure another player. A few bumps and bruises, sure, but a season- or, worse, career-ending injury. No way. That’s over the line.
Which is exactly what I see when Bradley Warren hooks the blade of his stick around Connor’s knee. It causes him to twist awkwardly on his ankle before he hits the ground. I skate to him and offer him a hand up. “You alright?”
“Yeah.” He knocks my hand out of the way and jumps to his feet. “I’ve got it.”
I skate away from him and head towards Warren. I press him against the boards with my stick across his back. “Try that again and I will end you,” I growl.
There’s hundreds of other players that would kill for Bradley’s spot. There isn’t a player in the league who wouldn’t jump at the chance to go play for their country at the Olympics. I’m not opposed to opening it up for them.
Yeah, yeah. I know what I just said. But messing with your own teammate is an unforgivable infraction.
The role of the enforcer is to remind your opponents of the rules of the game.
But the role of the alternate captain is to keep your own teammates in check.
Even if that means sending a toxic one to the bench.
Coach blows his whistle. “Again!” he yells and we all skate back to the beginning.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” I ask Connor when I reach him.
He grins and nods at me. “I’m good,” he says. “Now let’s show these guys how it’s done.”
“Deal.” I grin back and ready myself for the Coach’s whistle.
It blows and we take off at full speed. Connor reaches the puck first and I play like I’m his bodyguard, keeping everyone away from him, giving him all the space he needs to dance with the puck.
He fakes left, then right, then left again, sending Bouchard back and forth and leaving the right side open for Connor to slip one right past the post and into the net as he skates by at full speed.
Coach blows his whistle again and I slap Connor’s stick blade he has raised high above our heads with mine.
“That’s enough for today, boys!” Coach says. “Bouchard! I expect you to hand deliver two cases of beer to Kennedy and Marshal’s room before curfew.”
“Actually,” Connor says, “I’ll match him, and we can buy a couple cases for everyone to split in the team meeting room tonight. I think everyone earned it.”
Bouchard claps Connor on his helmet with his gloved hand and gives his head a shake. “Sounds like a deal,” he says. “It’s about time we all saw the golden boy get drunk.”
Connor
“Have fun, boys!” Coach Chris says, depositing a few extra cases of beer into the team room. He cracks one open and takes a long, deep pull off the can. “I’ve ordered dinner for us all, but curfew is still in effect. All of you need to be back in your rooms by ten. No excuses!”