3. Tennant
THREE
Tennant
I was firing off a text to Brady as soon as I rounded the corner, leaving Mr. Jared “Sultry Blue Eyes” Madsen behind. It was short and to the point.
Stay the fuck out of my life.
I hit send. Then thought of something else to tell Brady.
I mean it. No more emails to Mads. EVER. About anything regarding me.
I glanced up, danced around a dude I assumed was an equipment manager, given the skates dangling over both shoulders, then sent off text three to make sure my older brother really got it. Sometimes he didn’t. Like, all the time he didn’t.
Seriously. No more. I’ll tell Mom.
I paused, staring at the text, then erased the part about Mom. That was my ace in the hole. Didn’t want to play it too soon.
Seriously. No more. It’s my life. Stop trying to run it. U suck.
There. That sounded good. Should I send him the smiling pile of shit emoji just to drive home what I thought he was? Walking and texting. Probably dangerous. Okay, totally dangerous. A soccer ball bounced off my skull. I dropped my phone and yelped.
A voice broke into my pain. “Bouncing big balls,” it announced.
I crouched down to pick up my phone, then stood, my gaze traveling up and up and up to reach the face of the man who’d been kicking the ball off the concrete walls. The tone of the words, heavily accented, conveyed apology.
“It’s cool,” I said immediately. “My mother always says that texting and walking will be the death of me.” I pocketed my cell and held out my hand. “Tennant Rowe.”
The behemoth took my hand and shook. “Stanislav Lyamin. Stan.”
“Right. I watched your tapes.”
The dude was huge. It was like shaking hands with Groot.
He topped out at six nine or ten easily, and probably weighed two fifty if not more.
His hair was dark and buzzed to his scalp.
He had stormy gray eyes and a long, aristocratic nose.
The Railers had picked him up from the KHL for a song.
Stan had size and grit in spades. He filled the net, but lacked speed and agility.
Once they trimmed him down a bit, he’d move faster and seal that net up tight.
“You like soccer, huh?” I asked.
“Silly rabbit.”
I gaped dully at the big man. “Oh-kay, yeah. Well, I was just heading off to dinner, so…”
“Big Mac.”
Stan rubbed his belly and then followed me for a few steps. I stopped walking and looked up at him. He stared down at me. Shit, but the man was intimidating. Glad I didn’t have to go up against him.
“Yeah, right, food, so… I’m leaving to go eat.” I waved at the nearest exit and smiled broadly, inching away from the tender. “Nice to meet you.”
“I am a Pepper.”
“Dude, are you saying you want to hit Mickey D’s or something?” I looked around for someone—anyone—to save me, but it was just me and the Russian in shorts and sneakers.
“They’re great!”
“Stan, you have been watching way too much American TV,” I chuckled.
Twenty minutes later, we were shoving burgers and fries into our faces while drawing all kinds of odd looks.
It had to be Stan pulling all the gawks.
He kind of stood out, but he was funny. His gray eyes never settled.
Like never. They darted around constantly.
I wondered if he was just working on tracking exercises while he ate.
I’d seen a video of the goalie down in D.C.
doing the same thing in preparation for a game.
Although, since we weren’t getting ready to play, maybe he was just trying to absorb all this America.
“Lip-smacking good,” he said after polishing off his fourth burger. I’d made do with one and some fries. Empty calories. Not on my healthy eating plan, but man was the grease tasty.
“It sure is. Okay, so here’s the thing. I’m new to this town. Like, I don’t know anyone.” I sat back and took a sip of my milkshake. Man, I’d be running to Chicago tomorrow to work off this meal. “Well, I mean, I know Mads, but he’s like this weird thing, right?”
Stan’s smoky eyes landed on me and stayed glued there. My gaze roamed over the menu above the cashiers’ heads.
“Weird like he’s so much sexier than I remembered.”
I drifted a bit, the prices getting blurry as I pulled up an image of the Railers defensive coach in my mind.
Fuck, but he was hot. Those sky-blue eyes and that mouth…
He smelled good too. His cologne was brisk, kind of nautical.
A kid a couple of booths over screamed, jarring me from the memory of his hand in mine. Mads had a strong grip.
“Shit, uh, yeah, so I know no one here aside from Mads and his grip.” Stan watched me, and I sought some kind of common ground we could talk about that wasn’t hockey.
My cell chimed to let me know I had a notification on my Pokémon game.
“You ever play games on your phone?” I shook the phone. “Pokémon?”
He chewed and stared. I opened up my current game and waved it under his nose. He shrugged and then his eyes lit up. “Pikachu,” he announced. Seems like Pokémon was a cross-borders kind of thing.
“Okay, well, I think we should start our own academy for Pokémon trainers on the team.” I showed him the screen again.
He nodded while sucking down half a super-sized Coke. I kid you not. One huge pull and half the soda gone. It was incredible.
“It’ll be like this bonding thing, right?”
Stan smiled.
“Cool! So, you’re in then?”
Some lady ran past chasing a ketchup-coated toddler. Stan kept smiling as he opened the first of five tiny apple pies stacked on his tray.
“We should have a team name. I mean besides the Railers, although I guess that would work.”
“Tumbling minions.”
“Yep, for sure. Hey! You know what we could do now?”
Stan took a bite of his pie and shook his buzzed head.
“I want to go find an ink shop and get my favorite Pokémon. Do you have any tattoos?” I pointed at my arm, and then his.
He frowned and then pulled back the sleeve of his jersey, exposing some pretty fucking sweet Cyrillic. I wondered what it said, but guessed I wouldn’t be getting much of an explanation from Stan.
I held up my hand for a high five and got one that nearly dislocated my shoulder.
Life in Harrisburg was picking up. I had a new team to bedazzle, a tall buddy who was easy to talk to, and a secret little crush on my older brother’s friend.
That night, I also had a brand-new tattoo on the back of my neck and a string of texts from Brady.
Each one was him talking down to me, so each reply from me was the smiling pile of shit emoji.
Finally, Brady sent me his last text for the night.
Grow the fuck up.
I carried a smirk with me all the way to Rutherford and the practice facility the following morning. Stan met me at the player’s entrance, ducking until he was nearly bent in half to clear the doorframe. We exchanged a meaty knuckle bump.
“How’s the ink?” I asked, pointing to the biceps that carried his new tat of Pikachu. I don’t know why he decided to get that done, but he had been so excited. Even though I explained that this wasn’t something that the team had to have to be considered ‘team’.
“Po-Kee-Mon rocks.” His face split into a grin.
I threw back my head and laughed. “Damn straight,” I replied, and slapped his broad back.
We entered the dressing room, and I took a second to scope it out. The Railers logo stood out on the dark blue rug in the center of the semi-circular room. Everyone was careful not to step on it. Doing so was sacrilegious, and would bring down the nastiest juju on the team.
I eyed the logo critically. The old style steam train was in gray on the dusky-blue background, an echo back to the time when Harrisburg was the center for rail track production.
I thought it was pretty badass actually; better than some random animal or bird.
The room was packed with players, most just now stripping off their suits and gearing up for our first day as a team.
“Hey, Tennant, I didn’t get to introduce myself yesterday. Media day this year was beyond crazy, then my wife insisted I hit the kids’ parent-teacher conference, since I’ll be scarce from here on out. Connor Hurleigh, captain of the Railers.”
I shook hands with the older man. Connor was mid-thirties and had always been a damn fine center.
Was he as good as me? We’d see, since he played on the first line and I wanted that spot bad.
He’d come to the team last year in the expansion draft, and because of his years of experience on the ice, the team had chosen him to wear the “C” on his sweater.
Rumor was he was a fine captain, if not the most demonstrative in the locker room. A lead by example kind of guy.
“It was crazy for sure,” I said, then released his big hand. He was a normal-looking man. Brown hair and brown eyes. Wicked scar on his chin from a skate blade back when he played for Arizona. “I’m hoping to be able to really contribute to the team.”
“That’s what we like to hear.”
Connor moved off to talk to some of the older players.
Stan had wandered off to the corner, where he now stood staring at the cinderblocks.
No one would touch or bother him. It was goalie shit.
Zoning in or something. Hell, maybe that was how all Russian tendies started the routine of mental prep.
What did I know? I threw myself into a meet and greet with the rest of the team, picking out the guys under thirty and inviting them to join the Pokémon fun.
By the time I sat down to remove my dress shoes, I had ten guys added to the roster.
Stan was still in the corner doing his oddball goalie stuff.
Knowing it was time to hit the ice and make this team mine fired me up.
I changed quickly and was taping my socks to help secure the shin pads when I paused and looked at the dressing room door.