2. Ben
BEN
Miami won the Cup two seasons ago. Seattle can’t win a practice scrimmage, which is impressive considering they’re playing against themselves.
I keep that opinion to myself. According to every story about the trade, Seattle brought me in for leadership. They spent more time on that than on the fact I can actually play center. Apparently the faceoffs are secondary. My real job is teaching a team of grown men how to behave.
I didn’t ask for the trade. I don’t want the trade. I especially don’t want Seattle.
The weather is better than Miami, at least. Cold rain hit the windshield all the way from the airport, and for the first time in years November actually feels like hockey season. Miami has heat, humidity, and my fucking name on the Cup. I still want Miami.
Outwardly, I’m doing great.
At the far boards, two trainers are still down beside Haugen. I can’t see much of the kid between them, but he’s talking. Fraser stands a few feet away, staring at them with his jaw set.
Gunderson sends us toward the other end of the ice to give the trainers room. Fraser looks back once before he takes his place on my right.
He’s shorter than I expected. Five-ten at most, built low and solid, with most of his weight pitched over the front of his skates. His first two strides are hard enough to throw ice behind him. That’s useful. If I’m centering him, I need to know how quickly he gets through the neutral zone.
Kessler’s first pass comes too hard, but I get my stick on it and move the puck to Fraser before the defense can close on him.
He’s in shooting position. Instead of taking it, he drops his inside shoulder and cuts toward the net.
His hips turn first, his upper body follows, and both defensemen go with him.
Then he sends the puck back through the space he made.
I put it behind Anton before he can push across.
Fraser barely looks at me. He skates past one of the defensemen and says something that gets him shoved between the shoulders. Then he looks offended, as if the guy interrupted a polite conversation.
Gunderson blows the whistle. “Again.”
We reset at center. I’ve watched enough Seattle video to know who Fraser is, but the video didn’t show how much he talks. He yaps through the line change, says something to Anton on his way past the crease, and is still going when Gunderson drops another puck.
On the next rush, I watch Fraser’s hips instead of his stick. That’s where a winger gives away his route. Fraser’s say he’s headed for the boards.
Then his left skate bites into the ice and he cuts behind the defenseman, taking a route that should trap him against the boards.
The safe play is to put the puck deep and make him work for it.
I wait half a second and bank it off the wall ahead of him instead.
Fraser catches it clean, takes a shoulder to the chest, and stays on his feet.
He rolls off the contact and drives the net hard enough to make Anton stop him with the blocker.
Fraser is compact, but there’s nothing slight about him.
His legs take the hit, his core keeps him upright, and he’s still controlling the puck when he comes out the other side.
I need to know that too. It tells me how much traffic I can send him into and whether he’ll still be there when the puck arrives.
He also knows where Kessler and both defensemen are before the puck reaches him. He doesn’t guess. He expects everybody else to see the same opening he does, and annoyingly, I do.
The irritating thing is, he’s good. He has quick hands, better edges, and no interest in taking the simple route if there’s a harder one available. Give him one opening and he can pull an entire play out of shape. If he could get over himself for five minutes, he’d be incredible.
The scrimmage gets ugly fast. Everyone is trying to win back the last three games in one shift.
Passes come too hard, sticks stay in too long, and twice somebody finishes a check after the puck is gone.
At the other end, the trainers take Haugen through the gate.
Fraser tracks them until the door closes behind them.
I’ve been traded into the middle of this mess, and apparently I’m the only one who isn’t allowed to look pissed off. The veteran presence can’t throw a fit during his first practice. I keep my mouth shut, make the next play, and let everybody believe I’m happy to be here.
Fraser is pissed at me too. I said the hit on Haugen looked clean because it did. From the look he gave me, that was the wrong fucking answer.
He plays the next shift like he has a personal problem with every man in the other jersey. He doesn’t slash or throw a bad hit. He’s too smart for that. He gets under a defenseman’s hands, steals the puck, and talks all the way to the net. The defenseman chases him long after he should let him go.
Fraser puts the shot off the crossbar. He throws his head back, exposing a strip of skin below his helmet and the dark edge of ink above his collar.
When Gunderson tells him to take the simple play next time, Fraser nods and skates away with his mouth pressed flat.
The pissiness is right there, barely under the surface.
I know Fraser’s reputation. Bad boy of Seattle. Other teams hate him, and Seattle fans buy his jersey because of it. I’ve played against men like him for years. Most of them stop being entertaining when they’re in your locker room.
Even when my unit is off, I keep watching number thirteen.
I watch the way he shifts his weight before a turn and how low he gets when he drives through contact.
His practice jersey hangs loose when he’s standing still, but pulls tight across his shoulders and back as soon as he reaches for a puck.
He makes one defenseman turn the wrong way, pisses off another, and gets the puck back from both of them.
Gunderson ends practice while the puck is still loose in front of Anton’s net. Nobody asks what the score was.
“That’s enough,” Gunderson calls.
Sticks lower. A couple of guys stay bent over their knees while the goalies skate toward the bench. I look toward the far end, where the trainers took Haugen out.
I don’t know how badly he’s hurt. He was talking before they moved him, but that doesn’t mean much. I should find out where they took him and check on him after I get changed.
Everyone files off the ice ahead of me. I follow because I know where the locker room is and still don’t trust myself to find it alone.
Every practice facility is basically the same. Rubber floor, white walls, too many doors, and at least one hallway that leads nowhere useful. I’ve spent enough of my life inside them that I should be able to navigate one with my eyes closed. At Harbor Ice Center, every turn looks wrong.
I dressed here earlier, but an equipment manager walked me in. On the way back, Kessler turns down a hall I don’t remember taking before.
He holds the locker-room door for me. “You coming?”
“Yeah.” I nod like I didn’t just need a guide.
Miami took me in the expansion draft. Back then, everybody was new. Nobody knew the facility or the system, and every man in the room knew some other team had decided it could live without him. We figured it out together. We won the fucking Cup. I really thought I was done being new for a while.
Here, everybody else knows where he’s going.
My stall is across from Fraser’s. My name is already on the bronze plate above it. It wasn’t there when I changed earlier. Somebody had it made and mounted during practice, while I was still trying to remember which hallway led to the ice.
I sit and start with my skates. The room is loud, but none of the conversations stick. Whatever was wrong on the ice has followed everybody in.
I look for the door Haugen went through and see three that could lead to the training room. Fine. I’ll get the gear off, ask somebody, and go find him.
Fraser pulls his practice jersey over his head. His shoulder pads come off next, then the shirt underneath.
The tattoos are the first thing I see, and I stop untying my skate.
Black and gray cover most of his left arm. One piece climbs from his wrist, over his shoulder, across part of his chest, and up the side of his neck. When he reaches back to drop his shirt behind the stall, the lines move with him. I can’t tell where one ends or the next one starts.
Without the gear, I can see exactly how he’s built. His shoulders are broad for his height, his chest solid, his torso compact enough to keep his center of gravity low. That’s why the hit didn’t move him. That’s why he can change direction before a bigger player gets his weight turned.
I wonder when he got the first one and how long it took. Whether he did the whole arm at once or kept going back. The skin over his shoulder had to hurt. His neck had to be worse. I want to know what it means, if it means anything.
There are at least a dozen conversations happening around me. For several seconds, I don’t hear any of them.
Then Fraser looks straight at me.
“You want to see where else I’m tattooed?”
I scowl and give him the finger.
Someone laughs. I don’t look to see who. I go back to my skate, except I’ve already pulled the lace out of the same two eyelets and have to start again.
Before Fraser can say anything else, Gunderson comes through the door and tells everybody to bring it in. The team moves toward the middle of the room. I get up with one skate still loose and join the huddle because standing back would look like a statement.
Gunderson puts a hand on my shoulder. “Guys, this is Ben Pope. He’s won a Cup, so pay attention to what he fucking says, and let’s win some fucking games.”
The room gives him a roar. Gunderson smiles at me, so I smile back. He means this as a welcome, even if it sounds like another job I’m supposed to fix. That’s what a good attitude looks like.
Over Gunderson’s shoulder, Fraser is still shirtless, his arms folded across his chest. When the huddle breaks, I turn back toward my stall. He keeps staring at me.
It makes me feel fucking weird.