CHAPTER ONE MARSHALL #2
We got most of the boxes unpacked by seven.
My legs ached, and a tightness settled in my lower back that always showed up when I spent too long doing anything that wasn't skating or lifting.
My body usually liked to remind me about how I spent my time, and hauling furniture wasn't on the approved list. My left hip flexor was pulling too, the one I'd strained during my junior season.
I ordered pizza from a place Jeremy recommended: "best in the neighborhood, don't let anyone tell you different, and if Ashford tries to make you order from that vegan place on Third, ignore him.
" Ryan put in a DoorDash order for more beer.
It blew my mind that you could get beer delivered to your door.
Back home, the closest liquor store was a twenty-minute drive, and it closed at seven on weeknights, and five on weekends.
We all sat on my living room floor, eating pizza off paper plates and drinking beer, and for the first time since the draft, the knot in my chest loosened.
"So, what's the deal with Coach Briggs?" I asked, pulling a slice of pepperoni from the box. "He seemed intense on the call the other day."
Jeremy snorted. "Intense is generous. Briggs is a fucking psycho in the best possible way.
He'll ride you harder than anyone you've ever played for, but if you produce, he'll go to war for you every time.
He once went to the GM's office and argued for forty-five minutes to keep a fourth-liner who was about to get waived because the guy was 'good for the room. ' The guy stayed. Briggs won."
"Don't be fooled," Ryan added, peeling the label off his beer bottle. "He benched Garrison for two games last year because Garrison was late to practice four times. Garrison's been here nine years. Didn't matter. Briggs doesn't play favorites."
"So don't be late," I muttered more to myself than to the guys.
"Don't be late," Jeremy confirmed. "Don't be sloppy, and whatever you do, do not give him a reason to think you're not taking this opportunity seriously. Show up early, work hard, keep your mouth shut until you've earned the right to open it. Other than that, he's great."
"That sounds encouraging," I said.
"He's only tough because he cares," Ashford said, pouring himself a whiskey. "The coaches who don't ride you are the ones who've given up on you. Briggs rides everyone because he thinks everyone can be better, which is a good thing."
Matthew poured a second glass of whiskey and slid it across the floor toward me. I picked it up and took a sip. It was smoother than the bottom-shelf stuff I'd been drinking in college, and the warmth of it spread through my chest.
"You'll be fine," Matthew said, leaning back against the wall. "You wouldn't be here if you couldn't handle it."
I appreciated that. More than I probably showed, but I didn't know if I could handle this or not.
College hockey was one thing, but this was different.
These guys had been playing at this level for years.
Training staff with million-dollar budgets and recovery protocols had tuned their bodies for it.
Their instincts were sharper and their timing was tighter.
I was walking into a room where everyone else had already passed the test I was about to take.
There was no use in pretending I wasn't nervous.
"Preseason schedule's brutal," Jeremy said, pulling up his phone. "Two practices per day the first couple of weeks. Briggs likes to see who breaks."
"Nobody breaks," Ryan said.
"Maybe not, but Martinez threw up on the ice last year," Matthew said. "Remember?"
"I remember, and that's not breaking, that's just puking." Jeremy waved it off. "Everyone pukes at some point. It's basically a team-building exercise."
"The second week gets easier," Ryan said, and something in his tone told me he was saying it for my benefit.
"Your legs will hate you for days, maybe weeks.
It's the transition from off-season to game speed that your body must get used to.
Every one of us goes through the same thing. You aren't alone."
I thought about what Ryan said. In two weeks I'd be lacing up my skates with guys who had been in the playoffs, who had taken hits that would have flattened me three years ago.
They knew the systems and the plays. My only edge was speed.
I was fast. The scouts had flagged me for that, and my college coach had called me the quickest player he'd ever coached.
They clocked me at twenty-three miles per hour in a straight sprint.
At this level, though, every one of us was fast, and everyone had an edge; your edge needed to be sharper than the others.
"What about off the ice? Anything I should know about the neighborhood?"
"It's quiet," Ryan said, shrugging.
"There's a coffee shop two blocks east that's solid," Jeremy said.
"Decent lattes, and they don't put weird shit in the drinks unless you ask for it.
There is a dry cleaner on Beacon which you'll need for your suits.
It's the mandatory team dress code for game days and travel.
Don't think you can get away without one.
There is also a gym outside this community if you want something that isn't at the team's facility.
It's clean with decent equipment, but the one at the facility is free.
The neighbors mostly keep to themselves, but there is a lot of money here: doctors, lawyers, a couple of tech guys.
The only downside is that you'll be the youngest person on the street by about fifteen years. "
"Perfect. I'll fit right in."
"You'll fit in fine. Just don't throw any crazy parties for the first month. Let the neighbors get used to seeing your face before you test the noise tolerance."
We cleaned up around ten. The pizza boxes went into the trash, and the empty bottles went back into the cases because I didn't have a recycling bin yet.
I walked the guys out the front door. Boston in late August felt nothing like Wyoming in late August. The humidity clung to everything.
Sweat gathered on the back of my neck before I'd even stepped out the door, and the air had a weight to it that made breathing feel like a minor physical effort.
Jeremy was halfway to his car, keys spinning around his finger, when I took one step onto the grass to wave goodnight and my foot went out from under me.
I hit the ground hard, back first, the air punching out of my lungs, my elbow cracking against a rock. For half a second, I thought I'd slipped on a wet patch of grass, and then the smell hit me.
Fresh, warm, unmistakable dog shit, smeared across the bottom of my left shoe and now across the back of my shorts and my forearm.
"What the fuck!" I yelled, scrambling to get up, my hand pressing into the grass, and yeah. More of it. The whole patch of lawn near the walkway was a goddamn minefield.
Jeremy doubled over by his car, laughing so hard that no sound was coming out.
His shoulders shook and his face turned red, while he braced one hand on the hood for support.
Ryan had stopped walking and was staring at me, also laughing and Matthew was already in his car, but I could see his shoulders shaking through the windshield.
"It's not funny." I wiped my hand on the grass, which only made it worse. "Who the hell lets their dog shit in someone else's yard?"
I looked up at the house next door. Lights were on in the front windows, warm and golden against the dark, and parked in the driveway was an SUV with a bumper sticker that said my dog is smarter than your honor student. I'd seen it when I'd driven through the neighborhood tonight.
Big dog owner. Right next door.
The embarrassment converted to anger the way it always did with me. Fast, clean, a straight line from humiliation to fury.
"Clean up, rookie." Jeremy finally caught his breath, wiping his eyes. "And maybe introduce yourself to the neighbor tomorrow. Diplomatically."
"I'm going over there right now." I said, getting up off the ground.
"You're covered in shit, man. Literally. Maybe don't make your first impression while you're wearing it."
I looked down at myself. He had a point. Smears covered my shorts, streaks marked my forearm, and my left shoe was ruined.
"Sleep on it," Ryan said from his car, his voice was calm enough to cut through the anger I was feeling. "Handle it tomorrow when you've had time to think and you've calmed down."
Jeremy and Ryan drove off, both still laughing. I could hear Jeremy howling through his closed windows as he pulled out of the driveway. Matthew gave me a wave, and I could tell he was trying not to lose it until he was out of sight.
I stood on my front lawn in the dark, with dog shit on my shoes and my ego somewhere on the ground next to it. I scraped my shoe on the curb, went inside, stripped in the laundry room, and stood in the shower until the hot water ran out.