Twenty
Blaine
“That was good, but it can be a lot better. Do it again.” Coach blows his whistle, and we skate back to our positions.
This morning’s practice consists of running through power play and penalty kill drills ahead of tomorrow night’s game against New Jersey.
There’s always a lot of penalty minutes accumulated whenever we play against them.
I don’t know whether it’s because Zach’s older brother, Brody, plays for them, and they purposely try to get under our skin, but whatever it is, it works.
But it also means Coach is putting us through our paces to ensure that they don't get an advantage by sending our asses to the box and that we monopolize every power play opportunity we get.
“That’s it! Great job!” Coach blows his whistle again.
We skate over to him and take a knee, forming a semicircle around him. He gets out his whiteboard and pen, explaining what was good and what needs improving and drawing different plays on the board.
“We need to be more available here.” He circles an area on the whiteboard by the blue line. “And let's work on our speed back to the defensive zone. We’re leaving it way too open.”
Everyone nods in understanding.
We all stand and run through it again and again until our bodies begin to ache. I let out a groan of relief when Coach blows his whistle, “Good job, boys. Hit the showers; we’ve got tape in fifteen.”
We make our way down the tunnel, handing our sticks over to Jordan, our equipment manager, on the way back to the locker room.
“Anyone wanna hit up Gino’s for some wings after tape?” Zach asks.
A murmur of yeses echoes through the locker room as we begin to undress. I can’t wait to hit the showers and stand under the warm spray. My thighs throb under my pads, twinging from the strenuous workout.
“Nah, I gotta go shopping for Katy's birthday present,” Jonathan Peyton sighs, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “She told me that if I don’t spend at least five thousand dollars on her, it means I don’t love her.”
I lift my head. “What the fuck, man?”
“I know.” He sounds defeated.
I’ve only met Katy a few times. She’s often given the impression she’s only with Peyton for his paycheck, but I haven’t had the heart to tell him that. Plus, we’re not as close as some of the other guys on the team.
Since there are at least twenty of us, it’s hard for us all to get along off the ice. With so many different personalities in the locker room, you’re not going to be best buds with everyone, so more often than not, we run in different circles when we’re out of skates.
But the most important thing is that we gel on the ice.
And luckily, we do.
“I never knew having a wife would be so fucking expensive. Every month, she maxes out a minimum of two credit cards, and I have no fucking idea what she spends it on.” He throws his jersey into the laundry basket a little harder than necessary.
“Like last night, she yelled at me because I didn’t notice this new vase on the coffee table in the lounge.
Like, it’s a fucking vase ? I don’t give a shit. ”
Kendrick chuckles from his cubby. “I’m so glad Maria isn’t like that. The most money she spends on is food, and that’s only because I fuckin’ eat all the time!”
The locker room fills with raucous laughter.
Kendrick and Zach are the biggest guys on the team, which means they have the appetite of a pack of rabid wolves. I feel for Maria; it must cost a fortune to feed him. Good thing he earns a lot.
I hook my skates in my cubby and glance over my shoulder, catching Brian Petford glaring at Peyton. He’s grinding his teeth so hard I’m surprised his molars haven’t turned to dust, and he's giving him some serious stink eye, like he wants to Superman-laser beam Peyton into tiny atoms.
What the heck is that all about?
The guy was traded here last season and has failed to make an effort with any of us. We invite him for food, he declines. We suggest drinks after a game, he always passes. Kendrick’s his linemate, and says Petford never engages in conversation; he simply grunts.
I tilt my head to the side like a curious owl, and when he catches me watching him, his upper lip curls in disgust. He throws his pads into his cubby before stomping into the shower.
“So, wings, you say?” I pipe up, wondering if anybody else saw Petford’s childish tantrum parade.
“Yeah, you in? Or you gotta go run to see lover boy?”
A few of them start making smoochy kiss noises, and then Mitch starts to moan. “Ooohhh, Alex! I love you, Alex!”
I fling my sweaty sock at Mitch, hitting him in the side of the face, and he gags before flipping me off.
I snicker. “Yeah, count me in. Alex is working ’til later, so I’m cool to hang out for a few hours.”
After reviewing some tape, we’re chowing down on the best bourbon wings and fries while recapping last night's Minnesota and St. Louis game.
“Did you see that hit from DeLuca?” Kendrick lets out a low whistle. “I don't know how that dude hasn’t received a suspension; the guy’s dangerous.”
“It makes me question how far it’s gotta go before something’s done.” Ethan shakes his head. “I would hate to see someone get badly hurt for him to receive the ban he’s overdue.”
“Are you excited to play against your bro tomorrow?” Mitch asks Zach around a mouthful of fries.
Zach gives a small shrug. “Yeah, I guess so. His teammates are dicks, though.”
“Amen to that,” I scoff.
We high-five across the table.
“He isn’t happy there at the moment; there's some internal drama going on, and I think his coach is worried, too, because he'll be an unrestricted free agent at the end of next season, and he doesn’t want to lose Brody.”
“It would be super cool if he came here.” Mitch’s eyes go comically wide. “Team of bros.”
“No way.” Zach quickly shakes his head. “I love my brother, but we’re better separated. We clash too much, and it’s not good for team dynamics when you’ve got two players constantly at each other's throats.”
“Talking about teammates being at each other's throats, did you see Petford giving the evil eye at Peyton earlier when he was talking about Katy?” Elliot chimes in. He’s got sauce all around his mouth, even a bit on his forehead.
I’ve no idea how my brother can rival a toddler with the mess he gets into when he eats.
“He was looking at him like he had kicked his dog.”
“Yeah, I have no idea what that’s all about.” I sigh.
“Do you think he’s just jealous? I mean, who would want to marry him ? The guy's a douche canoe,” Mitch says.
Ethan slaps his hand around the back of Mitch’s head. “You don’t talk like that about your teammates, no matter what their problem is. I’ll deal with it.”
From Ethan’s tone, he’s putting an end to the conversation, and while I trust him to dissolve any bad blood before it can escalate, there's something about Petford that makes me uneasy.
One bad apple can make a bad bunch, and Petford is just that.
Nobody trusts him on the ice. He’s unpredictable and doesn’t seem to work well with his linemates, no matter how hard Coach tries.
Let's just hope he pulls his head out of his ass soon, because we can’t afford to make any mistakes. The playoffs are in our sights, and we can’t allow one person to diminish all the hard work we’ve put in this season.
* * *
Hopping from skate to skate, I drop down into a few squats to keep my thighs warm. At the end of the tunnel, bright lights glisten against the ice, and that's our cue. It’s warm-up time.
We slap hands and trade fist bumps and ass slaps as we make our way down the tunnel. “Thunderstruck” blares throughout the arena’s sound system, and fans cheer and bang their palms against the boards when we jump onto the ice.
If there’s one feeling I’d like to bottle up for others to experience, it would be this.
The fan's sheer adrenaline and excitement. Their passion, their love for the sport, for the team. Their need for a win is just as prominent as our own.
It makes me feel alive, and I’m the luckiest motherfucker in the world to be able to live my dream—to play my favorite sport with my best friends in the best league.
Pucks are knocked off the bench wall, and I take one on my stick, bouncing it a few times on the blade before shooting it at the empty net.
I run through my routine; three laps clockwise, behind the goal, then take a slap shot.
I finish it off by skating to the blue line to stretch.
Resting my stick down on the ice in front of me, I get down onto my knees in a frog pose to stretch my groin, kicking my legs out to stretch my hips, then lay on my back to work on stretching my glutes.
When I hop back onto my skates, I scan the crowd to look for the face that has been at the forefront of my mind for the last three weeks, and the second I see him, I skate over to the boards.
It's like deja vu. I pick up some speed, then turn on my blades, slamming my body sideways into the boards. He laughs, tipping his head back and exposing that silky-smooth column of his throat that’s begging for my lips.
I want to mark him as mine.
Because he is.
I texted him yesterday morning to let him know I’d put two tickets at will call for him, but he wasn’t sure whether he was going to make it with Jacob still sick. He’s been manning the bakery single-handedly the last few days, with Nate stepping in to help on occasion to ease some of the pressure.
As much as I want to hate the guy for being able to spend more time with Alex than me, I’ve got to hand it to him: he's a solid friend.
I also feel a tiny bit guilty that since my appearance in the hot-as-fuck apron the other day, word has spread, and Alex said there’s been an actual line of people down the street waiting to get their hands on the baked goodies.
I’m really happy it’s brought in more business, given what Alex mentioned about the money struggles he and Jacob are dealing with. It's just unfortunate that it comes at a time when they’re short-staffed.
If it had been anyone else, alarm bells would have been ringing like crazy in my mind, thinking Alex was only interested in me for my money, just like the rest. He's not like them, though. His reaction to me paying for our date snuffed out that worry, and I want to help them. I just don’t know how.
Because I have a feeling that if I offered to help them with money, Alex would shut down that suggestion quicker than I could say the word “please”.
“How are you?” I shout through the boards.
“Good!” He smiles. “How are you feeling?”
I raise my hand, tipping it from side to side like a scale. “Better, now that you’re here, but it’s going to be a tough game.”
He gives a nod of understanding.
This is something I didn’t know I would appreciate when it comes to dating a fan.
He gets it.
He gets my schedule. He gets my different moods depending on what team we’re playing. He gets my diet and how I have to take naps and stick to a grueling routine because he’s been watching the team for decades.
I’m about to tell him how hot he looks when I catch the “ C” on his jersey.
Again.
Um, what the fuck?
Why the fuck is he not wearing my name?
“Why the fuck are you wearing that for?” I point an accusing finger.
He looks down at his jersey, and when he lifts his head, he’s wearing a mischievous grin as he shrugs. “You haven’t given me one of yours.”
I open my mouth to argue, but he has a point. Taking off my glove, I hold up one finger, letting him know I’ll be back in a minute. I quickly skate over to the bench where the team’s equipment manager, Jordan, is organizing her case of blades.
“Can you arrange for one of my jerseys to be delivered to my seat, please?” I point over to where Alex is sitting.
Jordan gives an exasperated sigh. “What am I? Your PA?” She snorts. “Sure, you got it.”
I thank her and skate back over to where Alex is waiting with a beer in hand. This time I don’t slam into the boards with my body, but I slap the plexi with my hand to get his attention.
“I don’t fucking like you wearing another man’s jersey.”
“And why is that?” I know he’s baiting me.
“I want you to wear my name because you’re mine . I want everyone in here to know you’re here with me. For me.”