3. Hayden
Chapter 3
Hayden
By the time the first game of the season rolls around, I’m in my element. The players I’ve interacted with the most seem to already trust me completely, especially Knut who hasn’t stopped grinning since I told him he could play in today’s game. I’ve also managed to have at least a quick chat with the players who aren’t high-priority, giving them a peek into how I operate and what I can offer them in terms of strength and injury prevention, setting them up well for the rest of the season.
The only player who doesn’t seem to be a fan of mine is Pope. I clearly did something wrong the day he was brought to me after his bad night’s sleep. I don’t know if it was the way I approached our conversation or the mention of his secretive night skates, but whatever it was has earned me nothing but dirty looks and avoidance from him ever since. I won’t push the issue right now, but the minute he shows any sign of need I’ll be shutting the behavior down and making him talk to me.
Ian meets me at the arena bright and early, handing me a supersized coffee while flashing me his best remember that you love me smile. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I grunt, unwilling to agree that it’s a good one. “I reached out to the Devils’ AT about his game day routine and what he suggests for me, and I looked over what the asshole before me used to do, but I wanted to touch base with you before I get started, in case there’s anything specific you want.”
“Jason for the Devils is damn good at his job. Whatever he suggests, go with that. There’s a list of what the guys all want to drink taped to the side of the drink cart. All I have to add is that Knut is a fucking weirdo who wants mustard packets with his drinks and snacks, and Wilson is allergic to tree nuts so make sure whatever snack you toss in his stall is nut-free.”
I pull my phone out, typing the notes one-handed. I have a good memory, but I’m not willing to risk it, especially not with an allergy involved. “Any other allergies I should know about? I don’t think I saw that in Wilson’s record.”
“They only used to make his throat feel a little irritated, but in the last year the reactions have gotten worse. He had one at training camp that made it hard for him to breathe. It was supposed to be added to his chart, but…” He sighs heavily, shaking his head. “Just another thing that fell through the cracks. He does have a pen in his stall for it, though. And I already made sure every kit around the arena is equipped with pens too.”
I feel a little better then, though the anger I have toward my predecessor makes me want to find the guy and throttle him. “You’re going to be letting me choose my replacement after I get you through this season. I’m going to put the candidates through their paces to make sure no more assholes slip in.”
“Right, sure, yeah.” He gives me a cheeky grin. “Or, you know, you could just stay here.”
“Did you see the weather report for tomorrow?” I ask him, already backing away toward the locker room. “Don’t get any sort of hopes up for me sticking around, pal.”
I start where I always start, regardless of sport or location. I tuck my earbuds into my ears and begin preparing the pack I’ll wear all game. I emptied it before moving, so it needs a full restock. There’s something so meditative about the process as I create my own organized chaos within—wraps, tape, and save-a-tooth to the left, gauze, nasal plugs, and steri-strips to the right, cold packs at the back, and gloves, trauma shears, and a tourniquet up front.
Once my pack is set, I focus on the AT room next. Maggie does a great job of keeping it stocked, so it’s mostly just organizing, putting away the clean laundry, checking equipment, and starting up the two coffee pots and the electric tea kettle.
I pass Maggie in the hall as I go to supervise the morning skate. I double-back and get her started on the drink cart, pointing out the taped list and showing her where all of the nutritional supplements are. She laughs at the fact that Pedialyte is something most of the players need added to their waters. I wink at her before hinting that the big, scary hockey players are secretly little boys at heart. Lafferty, a defenseman who is using a foam roller on his left leg, frowns deeply at the comment. He doesn’t argue, however. Probably because if he’s being honest with himself, he knows it’s true.
With a freshly filled mug of coffee, I make my way through the facility toward the ice. Ian is out there with Knut, the two of them talking by the far goal as most of the first and second line run through drills. Wilson, a twelve-year veteran and the team’s quiet but steady captain, watches from a spot near the boards, his eyes seeming to track everything.
My eyes try to do the same, but then I realize that Ethan Pope is out there and I get a little distracted. Thankfully, the morning skate isn’t long, the players all leaving to eat and nap before they need to return for the game tonight.
I spend the hour before Ian’s required team-arrival time getting the players’ stalls set up with towels, snacks, and their preferred drinks from the cart Maggie prepared. I return to find Knut doing some easy stretches on the corner mat of the AT room, his eyebrows pulled in tight. My gut twists with worry. “You feeling okay?”
“I think so.” He rubs the inside of his left thigh. “Think it’s just nerves.”
“Give it a break and I’ll come take a look in a second.”
He nods, letting his body relax as I tape a left wing’s wrist, a defenseman’s knee, and give the second line’s center some medicine for a migraine and a warm compress before sending him to my office to rest with the lights off. Then I settle on the mat with Knut, making a mental note to get myself a third cup of coffee as soon as possible.
“Get into a butterfly for me,” I tell him. “Gently.”
He does as told, his expression going from worried to relieved. Even though I have a feeling I know the answer, I still ask, “Feel okay?”
“Feels great. Not even sore.”
“Good. I still want you to avoid a full butterfly tonight, okay? Play as much hybrid as you can. Coach is going to make it clear to your defense that they need to be working hard at keeping your area free. If a shot looks too out of reach, let it in. This is the first game of a long season. I’d rather us lose it than lose you for a few months, understood?”
He doesn’t look nearly as happy as he did before, but he mumbles an, “Understood,” and lets me help him back to his feet.
I leave Maggie behind, giving her the order to send anyone that needs more than some medicine or stretching to come find me, as well as to wake up the migraine player in my office in fifteen minutes. Then I head to the dressing room with my bag, ready to help anyone who might need it as they get ready. I pass through a crowd of players playing hacky sack in the hall. They try to pull me into the game, but I tell them they wouldn’t want my clumsiness involved. When that isn’t convincing enough, I ask them if they all took their pre-game vitamins and supplements. That has them mumbling excuses and breaking eye contact, the lot of them turning into overgrown children worried they’re about to be scolded by their mother. I’m free to go after that.
There are already a few players in the room when I enter, including Pope.
He’s sitting in front of his stall, dressed in nothing but his compressions and a backward Red Sox cap that has his hair curling up around the edges. His stick is settled between his knees, most of its weight resting on one of his thick thighs. The pink tip of his tongue can be seen peeking out between his lips as he watches his big, capable hands. I’ve seen plenty of players tape their sticks before. Most of them do it mindlessly, usually without even watching their work. Not Pope. If I had to guess from the way he’s so entirely focused on the task, pausing every few turns to smooth the tape and check alignment, I’d say this is one of his superstitions.
My guess is confirmed when a player whose name I can’t remember at the moment—but who had a knee injury last year that I want to keep an eye on—plops down beside him and teasingly asks, “What happens if it’s fucked up?”
Pope ignores him, finishing his wrap job with two more loops of tape before carefully ripping the tape from the flare and smoothing the final piece into place. He runs his thumb over the edge once, twice, three times, before finally looking at the guy who sat beside him. “Then I’d have to start all over.”
“Is that your only super?” he asks.
“Usually.”
The guy whistles low before turning away to dig in the stall next to Pope’s. It’s labeled JULIAN DANIELS, further jogging my memory of him. He had asked me to call him Jules, saying that’s what he goes by. I had noted it in my file along with his willingness to work with me on a prevention plan for his knee. I had liked him. He had been funny.
I’m not entirely sure Pope agrees.
I tear my gaze away, tucking my curiosity into the back of my mind as I notice my migraine-player is sitting down on the bench to my right. I head over to squat in front of him. “How are you feeling?”
“Better. Enough to play.”
I smirk, but keep the thought of that’ll be up to me to myself for now. “Any nausea? Dizziness?”
“No. Just a regular headache. My shoulders and neck feel a little stiff, but that always happens when I get these.”
“Alright.” I dig in my bag for an instant heat pack, putting it on the bench beside him. “Gear up as much as you can, but keep the back of your neck exposed. Activate that when Coach starts giving his speech and let it sit until it’s time to get going. Lots of water tonight, alright? I’ll give you more meds before the third if you need them, too. Any dizziness, nausea, or ringing in your ears and I want you off the ice, understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Since I don’t know him well enough yet to trust him, I make a mental note to keep a close eye on him while he’s playing. At least all of my problem players for the night aren’t on the same line, giving me a chance to actually watch all of them equally. I already have a little bit of a headache just thinking about it though. Maybe I’ll give myself a migraine med too.
Fuck me, this is going to be a long season.
The hype of the crowd is unreal as the clock ticks down to puck drop. The announcer yells into his microphone, getting everyone to rise to their feet and cheer. All of the lights go down, encompassing everything in darkness for a few seconds before coming back with a soft purple glow just above the ice. The opening notes of “Thunderstruck” by AC/DC begin to play.
The crowd roars, the music building as projected purple and black lightning bolts zip across the ice. People are stomping their feet along to the steady base of the song, making the stands vibrate like it’s just as excited as the rest of them.
With the first, “Thunder!” white flames spark out of the machines placed on either side of the opening at the end of the tunnel. Wilson, the team’s captain, surges forward to lead the others onto the ice.
I swear, you’d think it was an NAPH game tonight with how wild the crowd goes for them. Ian was right when he said the community really embraced this team. The people here clearly love them.
As the players start to warm-up, I make sure there are twenty bottles on the ledge in front of the bench, each labeled for a specific player. Maggie uses the time to distribute player towels along the bench for the inevitable amount of sweat and other fluids they’ll need to wipe off throughout the game. I snag one from the basket and sling it over my shoulder, sure I’ll go through a few of my own tonight.
I settle near the door for the bench, opening it for any of the guys that come skating up as the clock starts running out. They give me up nods and fist bumps in thanks as they snag their bottles and find spots to sit. With just a minute left, the only players left on the ice are Knut, Pope, Wilson, Lafferty, Jules, and Kirkland—the starters.
Wilson heads to the glass to the left of where I’m standing, giving it a little tap. On the opposite side is a woman with a toddler on her hip and a little girl settled in front of her, the little girl’s face pressed against the glass where Wilson just tapped. The little girl’s sharp, “Daddy!” makes it clear why Wilson sought the three out. I grin as I watch him wave at her, then at the toddler, before shooting his wife a wink.
Knut is standing with his mask pushed back as he squirts water into his mouth. Lafferty, Jules, and Kirkland are behind him, tossing practice pucks over the glass to kids and pretty women.
Then there’s Pope.
Number 14 is standing off to the side, his head tilted back as he seems to just take in the arena. The people closest to him slap their hands on the glass for his attention but even without being able to see his face, I can tell he doesn’t hear them. The man’s world has narrowed down to the thrill of his first ever game.
My already piqued curiosity only grows after that, but I force myself to focus on the other players. Especially the players with injuries or who are on my watchlist for being injury-prone. I keep the closest eye on Knut, studying the way he moves and watching for any sign of discomfort or hesitation. Bear on the fourth line takes a hit to the wrist just as the first period is winding down, so I disappear into the back with him for a quick evaluation. We don’t return until the second, his sprained wrist wrapped.
It’s less than a minute after I’ve settled myself in for more watching that my eyes finally get the chance to catch on Pope again. It’s just as he intercepts a pass at the center line, taking it with him as he flies across the ice in a breakaway. For those few seconds, players on the other team can’t touch him. Nothing can. It’s like the ice puts everyone else on hold for him.
Then a player comes out of nowhere. My breath catches, but Pope glides right around him, easily maneuvering his stick to keep the puck in his control. Another player a few paces away is skirted the same way.
Fuck me, he skates pretty.
I’ve watched a lot of players on the ice over the years as I supported Ian’s career. Between practices, pick-up games, him and his friends just messing around, and real games, I don’t even want to try to count how many hours of my life have been spent observing blades carving through ice. Yet, the way Pope skates isn’t like anything I’ve seen before. I had gotten a glimpse of it during his night skate, but that was nothing compared to this . Part of it is his style—his posture, his movements, the way he holds his stick—but the other part is just instinct. It’s like he never had to learn how to skate, he was just born with the ability. The ice is a part of him.
The rest of his line catches up with him, giving Pope a chance to pass as more opposing players descend on him. He shoots the puck in a crisp pass to Jules that hits center on the blade of his stick. Jules tries to navigate closer to the goal before shouting in frustration and passing the puck back to Pope. Within a beat, Pope has the puck flying past two guys in white and into the net over the left shoulder of the goalie.
The crowd erupts into a frenzy as horns declare the goal before the lights and music return to a similar show as when the team first skated onto the ice.
Jules is the first to reach Pope, slamming into him with so much excitement the two nearly fall onto their asses. The other players on the ice add onto the wobbly standing-pile right after, everyone slapping backs and tapping Pope’s helmet with their gloves.
The team uses the momentum to barrel into a win, Kirkland providing Jules with an assist late in the second and Pope scoring again in the third. I gave up at the start of that last period on trying to focus on anyone but Pope. Unless they actively needed me, my eyes were locked onto number 14 as he played an effortless game of some of the best hockey I’ve ever seen. My fascination only grows with the passing minutes.
When Pope is out on the ice, he’s nothing like the man I met in the training room. He’s all confidence and swagger, working the puck like it’s an extension of himself, baiting players just enough to cause a little chaos without getting himself tossed in the box for a penalty, and skating away from hits like they’re nothing more than taps.
As the final buzzer fills the air, I can’t help but finally give some attention to the thought that’s been lingering in the back of my mind since watching him that first night: What the fuck is Ethan Pope doing in the PHL?