Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
When I get to the campus rink, there are already several guys and a goalie making practice shots all on their own. As I get closer, one of the guys shouts, “Sorry, Rod! Rinks booked up.”
“Clearly,” I deadpan. “Is Chris being a hardass or are you just doing it for the love of the game?”
Another player chimes in. “Jonas Bekken is coming to practice later.”
The name rings a bell. Some NHL player but I can’t remember what team he plays for. Honestly, I know him more from his brand deals than his career on the ice. I can picture him drinking a comically small beer, the joke being that Bekken is a Troll as large as the mountains he hails from.
I can’t help but ask, “Why?”
“Him and Coach Chris were rookies on the same ECHL team.” The guy makes a slipshot and scores.
So, Christos’ NHL buddy is coming, and everyone says I’m the guy with the famous friend. I should bail, leave the team to their hero worship, but I’m curious. So, I settle into the bleachers with some homework.
The sharp tip of a red tail dances in my periphery. “Didn’t peg you as a Bekken fan, Rod.” Leroy stands over me, smirking in his practice uniform.
I roll my eyes. “I couldn’t even tell you what team he plays for.”
“Most people can’t. He’s been traded a bunch. But, hey, that just means you’ve got less of a chance of offending the guy. You could say any team in the NHL and there’s a good chance he played for them.”
“Is this your nice way of telling me I lack the hockey knowledge to stick around?”
“I don’t have a nice way to tell people to fuck off. If you wanna fanboy over Bekken, go for it. Just, you know, don’t embarrass us.”
I frown. “Leroy, the Dingbats are embarrassing enough on their own.”
Right on cue, there’s a commotion from some of the guys on the ice.
Christos is walking ahead of his friend like a bouncer.
Even from the bleachers, I can spot the satisfied smile on Bekken’s face.
He’s about as tall as Christos, which is extra impressive since he doesn’t have horns to help him appear taller.
His skin reminds of shale, both in its color and its rough texture.
His thick red hair is cut short, but the sheen on it tells me there’s a whole lot of product keeping that thick mop in check.
Bekken follows Christos right over to us. “Jonas, this is Leroy, the team captain.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Leroy extends a hand, standing a bit straighter now.
It’s a good thing Christos and Bekken have their backs to the rink because the team is practically slobbering all over the glass. Maybe I’m being jaded. Most people don’t get this close to professional athletes.
A voice like two stones being rubbed together asks, “You Steele?”
I almost drop my pen. “Y-yeah.” I set aside my notebook and stand up. “Nice to meet you.”
Bekken smirks. “Chris talks about the Olympian on campus almost as much as he talks about the team.”
I focus on Bekken, because if I look at Leroy I might lose my disappointing lunch. “I, uh, had no idea… But he’s also wrong. I haven’t qualified for the Olympic team.”
“Yet,” Leroy butts in. “But you will, man. Whole campus is rooting for you.”
I force myself to turn to Leroy and am relieved when all I can read on his face is the determination I’d expect from a team captain giving a pep talk. Maybe it’s not that odd for Christos to mention me to his professional athlete friend. According to Leroy, a lot of people talk about me.
Christos pats Leroy on the back. “Get the guys lined up for me, would ya?”
Leroy nods before going off to wrangle a bunch of Dingbats.
Bekken is back at it. “So. Steele—”
“Roderick.”
I can stand only so much bro-y banter. Bekken’s fame might have charmed the team, but whatever PR training his management team is giving him, it’s not working on me.
Bekken’s smirk stretches into a practiced smile. “Right…” He draws out the word. “Few months out from the Olympic qualifiers. You ready?”
“I’m more focused on the Grand Prix. Looking to beat my score from last year.”
“Which was…” He nudges Christos. “Can’t say I know how you score in skating.”
“He made podium in the final,” Christos looks to me for confirmation.
“Bronze,” I specify. “180.90 overall.”
“It piss you off, that point-ten loss?” Bekken asks brazenly.
Christos shoots me an apologetic look. Which isn’t necessary. Unlike Bekken I actually have good media training.
“Judges don’t like angry skaters.” I lean to one side, observing the Dingbats lined up like toy soldiers. “Looks like your team needs you, Coach.”
Christos wraps an arm around his old hockey buddy’s shoulder and leads him to the team, waiting for instruction on the ice.
I’m so not interested in Bekken anymore, but I don’t move.
Despite having a celebrity visitor, Christos wastes no time getting into drills.
Of course Bekken offers commentary, shouting out everything—good, bad, and ugly. And there’s plenty of ugly.
“Shit, Chris,” Bekken says loud enough for the team to hear. “You left the league for this?”
Christos huffs. “I like a challenge.”
One drill down and guys are already doubled over and spitting on the ice. Everything I’ve heard from Terrence says that Christos always pushes the guys hard, but this practice they’ve got the extra weight of their egos. I don't need to witness this. I pack up without anyone noticing my escape.
As I walk through the lobby, my phone buzzes and I’m relieved to see it’s Alex. As soon as I accept her video call, she shrieks. “Girl! Your Mims costume?”
“I know right?”
“It’s gorgeous and so you, but I have to ask,” a smile spreads across her face, “when do we get to see it in action?”
“It’s for my new program. I can’t decide if I should debut at the Grand Prix or the Olympic qualifiers.”
We spend a good hour talking through the two options.
A Grand Prix debut might mean I don’t make the podium, since there’s no way to know how the judges will react to the program till they’ve seen it.
As bad as I want to do better than last year, a low score at the Grand Prix won’t necessarily hurt my chances at making the Olympic team.
“I want to medal so bad,” I admit while laying against the giant Dingbat plush on my bed.
Alex hums, watching the program rehearsal I sent her on her laptop. “Which do you want more, a medal or to show off your program?”
I frown. “You don’t think the program is medal worthy?”
“Come on, Roderick, you know what I mean.” There’s a loud click as she presses pause on her laptop. “This program is cool, it’s very you. It also has a lower technical elements score than the other skater’s programs.”
I roll my eyes and groan.
“Don’t ask for advice and then complain,” she chastises.
“Okay, well I’ll turn my first triple into a quad,” I say, as if it’s that simple.
“But if you don’t make it, will that throw you off the rest of your routine? Especially your first jump? You’ve backfilled the routine with your jumps, so stamina is already a concern.”
I rub my jaw with my knuckle. “It’s such bullshit.”
“If you didn’t want to do jumps, you should have gotten into ice dancing,” she points out. “They’re allowing same gender pairs now.”
“I love doing jumps, but like, my leg extension on my upright Bielllmann is just as hard.”
Alex snorts.
“It is! Why does everyone drool over our jumps but not our flexibility? Pulling my groin hurt way more than falling on my ass.”
I know this is all coming off rather bitter. It’s not that I can’t do quads. I’ve landed a few in competition, but I’ve messed up a lot more.
“If you ask me, you should get full points for that end cantilever. It’s sooo sexy.”
“You think I should skate naked to really get those sex appeal points?”
Alex gasps, her brows furrowing. “You will not put that costume to waste.”
“You don’t think the skirt is too much?”
“No! Okay…” She shrugs. “It might be a bit much for some judges, but fuck those guys. I think you should debut this program at the Grand Prix to make them stew.”
I chuckle. “I’ll see what Maude says, if she thinks we’re ready.” I notice the time and curse under my breath. “I gotta run, need to finish up some early work for my math class.”
“You mean late work?”
“No,” I sigh, grabbing my backpack. “The Grand Prix is right before finals, so I have to try and get some stuff in early so I’m not playing catch up and studying.” I rummage around, looking for the notebook I’d been using back at the rink.
Alex sounds distant, “Do you think it’s worth it?”
I don’t look up from my bag. “Worth what?”
“Like… I dunno. What’s more important, getting a good education or winning gold medals?”
I pause my search. Obviously education has more utility than quad toe loops.
So why do I want a gold medal more than I want to make the Dean’s List?
I enjoy skating more than I enjoy schoolwork.
I’d trade my favorite English class for more time at the rink any day.
Plus hundreds of people make Dean’s List. There’s only one Grand Prix winner each year.
“Kinda a weird question coming from someone not in school right now.” I muse, more annoyed I still haven’t found my notebook than her question.
“I’m figuring it out, okay?” she snaps at me. Which is fair enough.
“You will. You’re more worldly than most college students. And more disciplined. And way wittier.” When I look back at my phone, Alex is glancing down at something out of frame. If she’s looking at anything at all. “I’ll call you later, okay?”
She hangs up.
I dump my backpack onto my bed, confirming what I’d already suspected. My damn notebook is back at the rink. I don’t bother shoving everything back into my bag. I bike to the rink. As soon as I slot my bike into the rack, I get a text.
You left your notebook in the stands. I have it in my office.
God he really is an angel—I could kiss him. If Bekken isn’t still hanging around… Except that would break the rules I insisted we have. I head up to Christos’ office and, sure enough, Bekken can be heard through the office door.
“I gotta commend you man. I’d rather play for some backwoods three-on-three team than coach college hockey.”
“That’s cause you’re only as good as your worst defenseman, Jonas. You’d get eaten alive on a three-man team.”
The door is only a few feet away, but I take my sweet time, practically tiptoeing over.
“Hey, I did pretty good as a rookie with you on my team. But seriously man, why’d you retire?”
Christos deadpans, “I’m thirty-five.”
“There are NHL players having some of their best years after thirty-five!”
“You’re just saying that because you’re also thirty-five—and I make more here than I did playing for the EHL.”
That sounds like a bullshit reason, and if I can hear it, so can Bekken. But he lets up. “Still, the worst team in the college league.”
Christos laughs. “It’s not like we can get any worse. Besides, we’re already doing better than last season. Can’t deny that makes me look good.”
“What happened to liking a challenge?”
“Can’t it be both?”
Bekken cackles. “You’re the worst, man. Maybe that’s why your guys fight like teenage girls at prom.”
My nose is right up to the door. Feeling silly, I knock, hoping Christos or Bekken hasn’t noticed me creeping around.
Christos shouts, “Doors open!”
I step inside to find Bekken sitting across from Christos’ desk with his legs splayed. He turns around in his chair, looking at me with a bored expression. Christos comes out from behind his desk, holding a familiar notebook.
“You got here fast.”
I take the notebook but hesitate to leave.
This is my first time in the coaches’ office since it became Christos’ domain.
The wall is covered with pale imprints from the old team photos that once hung there.
Ghosts of a better Dingbat team. There is a photo of the current Dingbat’s team and a team I don’t recognize.
I’m drawn to the unfamiliar photo, everyone wearing bright yellow uniforms with blue accents.
“That you?” I point at the white Minotaur at the back of the team. Next to him is a grey skinned figure with wild red hair, sticking up more than the old wig I used for my 80s rocker program. “And you?” I ask Bekken.
Bekken frowns. “Yeah. Hate that fucking photo.”
Christos laughs. “Which is exactly why I keep it up.”
“Hey, Roderick,” Bekken adjusts his posture so he’s not so far down in the chair. “You know the Dingbats team, yeah?”
“Yeah…” I lift a brow. “Can’t say I’ve made it to every single game, but my roommate is on the team.”
“No shit? You think they got what it takes to be champions?”
Last year I’d have no problem telling Bekken that there’s no way the Dingbats will ever be greater than their legacy.
I might not have hesitated in saying it now if Christos wasn’t in the room.
What did Christos say about lying? Don’t give too many details?
I can say sure they are and be on my merry way.
Bekken’s eyes are narrow, sizing me up, or maybe sizing up my professional ego. Yeah, I could lie. With any luck I’ll never see this guy again. But I will see Christos, who is also staring at me, waiting for an answer.
“Who the fuck knows,” I huff. “I was never great at team sports, I don’t know what it takes to be a champion team.”
Bekken crosses his arms. “Very diplomatic answer.”
“Thank you.” I say not even attempting to suppress my haughtiness. “I do know that a lot of the guys love this team. Even before we won any games, they’d work as hard as any other players in the league. But working hard, being passionate, loving every moment on the ice—it isn’t enough.”
There’s a hint of a smirk on Bekken’s lips.
I add, “But neither is being six foot five and having skin like a boulder. I dunno, I have a lot more respect for people who root for the losing team than whoever is winning at that moment.” I turn to Christos, his expression piqued. “Thanks for grabbing this. I gotta go.”
I shut the door behind me, but I can still overhear them. “I owe you a drink. There’s a bar right in town.”
“Nah,” Bekken snorts. “Not interested in getting swarmed by barely legal girls.”
TwinkleTop: Bekken still here?
3dg3-me3: yeah he’s staying with me so you can’t come over
3dg3-m3: sorry
3dg3-m3: I’ll make it up to you
TwinkleTop: You don’t have to make anything up to me.
TwinkleTop: I’ll live.
3dg3-m3: will you?
TwinkleTop: Worse, I’ll survive and complain about it the whole time