Chapter 2 #2
By the time Jax had finished discussing Mooney’s homesickness for Southern California—a little ridiculous if you asked Jax, he lived in the same damn state—they’d gotten cold standing on the ice, gabbing, and had to start running laps, which turned into racing.
Going against the Crow proved a challenge, but one Jax welcomed.
He loved the burn in his thighs and the pounding of his pulse more than anything.
If he didn’t, he’d never have been stupid enough to pursue this career path.
The rest of the team trickled in slowly.
Mooney joined them for a while, but he struggled to keep up.
The solid third-line winger had been promoted to second line a bit too early in Jax’s opinion.
He had to slow down when he centered Mooney, and it was messing with his game.
He held out hope Coach Morris would see it and promote Jax to first line before he had to say something himself.
Practice went well, at least for the forwards.
The offensive coach, Edwards, was pretty laid back as far as Jax could tell.
Maybe he benefited from comparison; Jax’s offensive coach in Philly had been a fucking psychopath who yelled “BAG SKATE” if you so much as breathed wrong.
Edwards liked to do finicky passing drills and give speeches about teamwork.
They only really started to sweat when Morris rotated through their section of the ice, asking for sprints and footwork drills, seemingly at random.
Even better than a solid morning on the ice, Crowler kept his word.
In the locker room afterward, he sought out Howie and spoke to him, ending with a clap on the shoulder.
Jax watched the interaction like a hawk, including the way Howie’s eyes lit up afterward and how he held his shoulders a little straighter on the way to his stall.
But Crowler wasn’t finished yet. Next, he got up on his bench and whistled for attention.
“Team barbecue,” he announced. “Phil’s place, Saturday before the next roadie. Bring a side. I’ll get the drinks.”
Breezy whistled and clapped because Breezy was a bro at heart and bros loved nothing more than a barbecue in fucking November. At least a California November was significantly more livable than a Philadelphia winter.
Jax grinned wide, thrilled at the invitation.
Not because it sounded fun—it sounded excruciatingly awkward—but because he would be granted another opportunity to understand Crowler’s deal.
After showering and changing, he returned to the sad, pathetic hotel room the team arranged for him while he slowly considered getting his ass in gear to sell his place in Philly and buy an actual apartment.
He tossed his bag into a corner and his phone onto the scratchy, olive-green bedspread, where his lock screen (his baby sisters pulling identical faces) blinked up at him.
Jax expected Breezy to make good on his threat to invite him over for video games or maybe his agent sending some new interview to make Jax seem like a totally respectable, upstanding citizen.
Instead, he found the Sea Lions leadership group chat packed with messages.
It had been dead silent since he’d joined the team.
East: I did not ask to host a barbecue.
The Crow: I don’t have the space
East: So move out of your bachelor pad, that place is depressing anyway
The Crow: Not by Saturday
Hayesie: why is it so important we do this saturday?
The Crow: Apparently I’ve been slacking on my captain duties
Hayesie: ???
East: bbq is a captain duty?
The Crow: Social stuff. Team bonding.
Hayesie: I have been on this team for five years bro. this is the first time you wanted to bond
No responses followed Hayes’s last message.
Jax typed out half a dozen answers, from “he’s trying to prove he doesn’t hate me” to “I think he’s been replaced by a pod person”. In the end, he sent an offer to help with drinks, which Crowler turned down immediately.
It still felt wrong. So, all Crowler needed to completely change his attitude about how he ran the team was to catch Jax sleeping with another dude?
Unlikely. Or had he actually paid attention at one of those nondiscrimination seminars the NHL sometimes held as lip service to all the people who rightly called the whole sport a classist, racist, sexist, homophobic clusterfuck?
He did seem to be the kind of Goody Two-shoes who would.
Which Jax wouldn’t disagree with. He could fuck with a good seminar more than the next hockey player for obvious reasons.
He’d met a lot of people who could do with having that brand of kool-aid poured directly into their ears and noses and mouths, like some sort of super-PC waterboarding.
But Crowler hadn’t given an inkling he cared about inclusivity in the month or so Jax had been here.
His sudden heel-face turn the instant he found out about Jax being gay had to be fake and covering for something, and Jax planned to figure out what.