Chapter Seventeen
Moskins
My muscles scream in the best possible way after three hours of grueling conditioning with the boys.
I’d forgotten how much I love the competition that arises in the weight room to push three more reps, go ten pounds heavier than someone else, or run two miles more on the treadmill than the person next to you.
It’s nothing compared to the testosterone fest on the ice when we gear up to practice.
People think we’re violent against our rivals, but very few people see the way we slam each other into the boards trying to get the puck. It doesn’t matter who we’re facing off with; we all want to prove ourselves worthy.
“Christ, it’s like you never left,” Clarkson says, clapping me on the back once we get off the ice. He gestures toward the bloodied tissue pressed against my face. “How’s the nose?”
“Doc said it wasn’t broken,” I tell him, voice muffled by the packing. I can still taste the faint metallic tinge of blood on my lips from when Jackie Dawson slammed me into the boards and knocked off my helmet, then had Richie Head run into him until my face met the plexiglass.
I’m assuming their aggression is a combination of adrenaline and the fact that someone named them Jackie Dawson and Richie Head. According to the former, he claimed his mom’s favorite movie was Titanic, but she wanted her son’s name to be unique. Richie’s parents just hate him, apparently.
I like both the defenseman though. They’re nearly a decade younger than me, and make me feel old as fuck, but they’re good players. Rich is a rookie, and Dawson used to play for the Islanders.
Hoffman took me off the ice to get checked by the team doctor, who’s far too young and attractive to surround herself with the likes of us and not be corrupted.
Something tells me it was Mikhail’s personal choice to hire the young blonde who looks a little too much like Winter for my liking.
He may give me shit for the things I’ve done, but he’s no better.
The only difference is that he’s kept his infidelity under lock and key.
Jesse Clarkson bumps my shoulder. “It’s good to see you back. I take it things with Yokav are better?”
I’m still not sure what his motive for leaving Pittsburgh is.
But considering his pretty brunette stepsister, Belle, is also with him, tells me that’s a big part of it.
It’s a bit surprising that they made the move together, considering she owns a speakeasy bar and restaurant back in the ’burgh.
The Penguins used to go there all the time because it was a private place with great food and decent people.
Nobody bothered us there. We could go, decompress after long days, and enjoy the music and atmosphere.
When I asked Clarkson why she’d come too, he gave me a half-assed answer about new opportunities and left it at that.
A few weeks later, the news reported that Belle’s Place was sold to some anonymous buyer.
Belle’s pride and joy, suddenly just…gone.
The grumpy ass standing beside me hasn’t said anything about it since.
He hasn’t even brought up how his stepsister is since choosing to part ways with the business that seemed like it was doing well.
There were always people there when we went.
Minus a few unfortunate issues with drug users and homeless people hanging around hoping to sap rich fucks out of a few dollars, it was in a decent area.
“Things are as good as they can be,” I tell him, walking to the locker room together. “Yokav is smart. He knows he needs a full team with valuable players to stand a chance. If he put a rookie in, it wouldn’t have looked good.”
Clarkson makes a thoughtful noise that doesn’t offer much to the conversation. “Some would say giving a rookie a shot puts him at an advantage in the media. It means giving them a chance to prove themselves.”
It’s obvious that Mikhail Yokav doesn’t care about giving everybody a fair shot. “Maybe,” I relent, lifting a shoulder. “What’s your deal? You don’t seem very happy. I didn’t think you’d be kissing my feet or sucking my cock when I came back, but you’ve barely said two words to me.”
He’s distracted, glancing at something on a far wall. “What?”
My point exactly. I snort. “Never mind. I’ve got to change and meet up with Hoffman. He wants to have a heart-to-heart or some sappy shit like that before I leave.”
Before I walk to the opposite end of the locker room, he stops me. “We should get together sometime. Grab drinks. Ideally, where you don’t wind up face down on my guest bed or vomiting into my fake plant.”
I glare at him. “I did that one time.”
His eyebrows lift.
I amend my statement when his skepticism pierces my soul. “Okay, maybe twice. But that’s because your plants look real.”
Clarkson raises an eyebrow. “And you thought your vomit would help a real plant?”
Perhaps the drunk version of me saw the logic in it. “I’d been vomiting all night. At that point, it was just water anyway. You kept passing me glasses to sober myself up, and I chugged them.”
He rolls his eyes, realizing he’s not going to win this conversation with reason. “Whatever. You still have my number. Let me know when you’re free, and we’ll plan something. Perhaps dinner instead of alcohol, so I don’t have to risk cleaning up after your ass.”
It’s good to know my drunken escapades haven’t turned him off of me. “Will do, Cap. Tell the lovely Belle I look forward to seeing her now that she’s got time on her hands.”
Clarkson’s jaw tics like it always does when somebody flirts with his stepsister.
It’s become a game that I’m looking forward to our new team getting in on as much as our old one did.
He doesn’t take the bait and tell me more about why she let go of one of our favorite restaurants, and I’d guess it has to do with financial shit that I have no right knowing. Which is fair.
But I know the fiery brunette is a hard worker. If she left it behind, it’s for a good reason. And Clarkson isn’t going to let anyone in on that unless he has to.
“I’ll get right on that,” he grumbles, waving me off and walking to his locker to shower and change.
I chuckle and go about my business.
It takes me no time at all to wash up and put something clean on.
By then, my nose stops bleeding, and the only soreness I feel is settled into my thighs from how hard Hoffman worked us.
I like the challenge. I like even more how I dominated the ice over everybody else on it.
Save for Clarkson, but he’s always been better than me.
I’m man enough to admit it. To myself, anyway.
Bodhi Hoffman’s office is smaller than I expected it to be, considering his position on this team. It’s lacking any color, trophies, or personal touches. “Hiding all your medals, Hoffman?” I ask, examining the empty beige walls. He’s probably got a case built in his home to store them all in.
He leans back in the chair with a grin. “I wouldn’t want to intimidate the rookies,” he replies easily, a flash of amusement on his face.
“Intimidate or inspire?” I counter, dropping into the seat and propping my ankle over my bent knee. “When I was starting out, I liked seeing that the coach had victories up his sleeve. It meant that I was part of a winning team.”
He nods along, scraping a palm over the blond stubble on his jaw.
The man used to be clean-shaven every time I saw him.
Now that he’s coaching the Fireflies and off the ice, it looks like he’s trying to grow out a beard.
His hair, which used to always be in a manbun whenever I saw him for games, is just above his shoulders.
“Is this new look a cry for help? If you’re not careful, you’ll start looking like the version of Thor from the last Avengers movie. ”
He snickers at my commentary, patting his flat stomach.
“I think I have a ways to go before I turn into Fat Thor. But Honor likes to tell me that dad bods are in.” His smile grows.
“And to your other point, I think you’re forgetting that I was rated a top-five NHL player consistently over the past five years.
That has the power to impress more than me flashing medals. ”
I huff out a laugh. “You fell to eighth during your last season with the Rangers,” I point out. How do I know? Because I worked my ass off to get the recognition I deserved and finally scored the seventh spot that year after being number ten for a long-ass time.
He says, “It was because of my shoulder.”
I shrug. “Doesn’t matter why. I still beat you by one spot. I’m going to hold on to that for a very long time to come.”
Hoffman chuckles, taking it lightheartedly.
We both know the reason he’s sitting behind a desk now is because of his injury.
He’d had one too many surgeries and cortisone injections to continue without permanently damaging the mobility in his arm.
He chose to retire and be a good father to his daughter over playing professionally.
It’s a choice I can respect, even if it’s probably not one I would have made myself.
“Are we going to have a little kumbaya, or is this supposed to be a little catch-up?” I ask, settling into the chair and stretching my legs out to let my muscles get a break.
They cry in relief, and I realize I’ll need an ice bath if I want to move tomorrow.
I’m good at keeping a workout schedule, but nothing beats the exercise we get on the ice.
It works muscles you don’t know exist until you wake up the next morning and feel them.
Hoffman crosses his arms over his chest casually. “I wanted to see how things are going. You haven’t been around the new players for long, but it seems like you work well together on the ice. Although I think you need to trust some of the younger guys better.”
“And why is that?”
“You wouldn’t pass,” he states.
He’s right. “I didn’t have to.”