Off the Stick (Vancouver Vikings Hockey Romance #2)

Chapter 1

Ax

“It’s an undeniable fact that women love hockey butts.”

The entire locker room erupts in loads of uproarious laughter at the comment made by Cale Costa, our team’s captain.

It’s in response to yet another ridiculous and off-the-wall question asked by Tanner Rossco, one of our defense men.

Rossy, as he’s nicknamed, is notorious for bringing up the oddest topics post-practice and -game, when we’re all sweaty and gross and in need of showers.

Last week we had an assortment of oddities, including why do fish taste “fishy” and why are there funny terms for hockey hair and mustaches but not beards. He has a point—I’ve spent way too much time trying to think of another word for beard. Can’t do it.

But tonight’s question to the boys is why women watch hockey, and that one’s resulted in a host of responses, including one from Wyatt Pedergast, who happens to be our only openly gay player on the team.

He stands up from the bench, turns around, and twerks his towel-covered ass. “I’d also like to point out that some men appreciate ‘em too.”

This produces a few more hoots from the guys as they chime in to indicate their agreement on the topic. Someone bellows, “It’s not as good as mine, Pedey!”

Now, as a naked Duncan Brewer walks in from the showers with a towel draped over his shoulder, he shakes his head—and his dick—and offers up another response in this absurd conversation.

“Nah, bruh. We all know why women love hockey players.” He stops smack dab in the middle of the room and cups his junk in his hand.

“It’s obviously because of the way we handle our sticks. ”

A few dirty towels are thrown at Brewsky, and he ducks out of the way with a deep cackle of a laugh.

I smirk at my fellow forward. “Can they even find yours?” He grabs at his crotch again with a grin and flips me off.

“Guys…it’s not why they love players,” Rossy bellows in a frustrated tone. “It’s why they love watching hockey.”

“Same difference,” our backup goalie, Deiter Volmer, offers. “They like to watch us.”

Bending over to remove my shin guards, I toss them into a pile on the floor as I listen to the boys add more ideas to the mix. Each one increases Rossy’s frustration and gets him even more riled up than he was.

I finally join in with my two cents, only because I like to push Rossy’s buttons and he’s always a good sport about it, dishing it back with his unique retorts and chirps.

“Come on, eh? We all know the ladies come to see the fights and sick action on the ice that account for our sexy toothless smiles.”

To prove my point, I lift my chin and demonstrate the power of this boyishly charming grin that has had more than a few women swooning.

Raising my finger, I tap my front tooth—the fake one that replaced the cracked one.

I got that injury when I took a puck to my mouth from an off-the-stick shot during playoffs last season.

It’s one of the hazards of playing pro hockey.

Thank God for health insurance and great dental plans.

“No, no, no,” Rossy objects, wagging both hands like a ref to signal his disagreement.

“I just read an article in Sports News Today that mentioned a survey where hockey was listed as the top sport women love to watch. It’s because of all the social media attention and this thing called BookTok or something. ”

He rolls back his shoulders, looking overly proud of himself for this next fact. “Sexy hockey romance books are all the rage and have caused an insurgence in female viewership.”

Raising my eyebrows, I peer up from unlacing my skates and shake my head at his word choice error, then go back to my task.

“Rossy, I’m never sure exactly what the fuck you’re talking about because you’re an idiot, but I’m fairly certain you mean resurgence, not insurgence,” quips our Harvard-graduated six-foot-six center, Oli “Thorny” Thornquist, in that soft-spoken manner of his. “Two very different meanings.”

The guys all light up in laughter—even though half of them probably didn’t even catch the error.

But Rossy doesn’t seem to care that he was just called out in front of his team. He just shrugs it off and gives the double bird to Thorny. “Whatever, bruh. You know what I meant.”

The locker room fills with not really, dude, not a clue, and you’re an idiot, bruh.

Being one of our D-men, Rossy has moved up the ranks and assumed the line position Ballas Keeney vacated when he recently moved into the role of team GM. There is no denying that Rossy is a fucking great player, but no one has ever accused him of being the brightest bulb in the box.

“The bigger and more pressing question here,” Costa adds as he slathers on some aftershave, “is, who knew you could even read, Rossy? That is news.”

Rossy scoffs and throws a towel at Costa’s head but misses, the material falling on the ground in front of Cale’s skates. Nils Lungren walks by, carrying his freshly sharpened skates, and bends over to pick it up, throwing it back to Rossy, who snatches it in his hand.

“Dude, I’m not as dumb as I look.” The statement hangs in the air for a second and then the entire locker room explodes in more laughter. Rossy shakes his head sputtering out in laughter himself. “Wait…wait. I meant you. I’m not as dumb as YOU look.”

But the damage was already done, and there’s no coming back from that one.

Rossy can be relied on for two things on the team: one, he’s one of the best shot blockers and brings a physicality that’s unmatched in the league.

Second, he’s the team’s goofball and funny man—a natural class clown borne out of his wacky comments.

Case in point: today’s conversation.

All in all, this group of guys, including Rossy and our rookies, have meshed together well throughout preseason workouts and practices.

We have a talented line-up with a great mixture of new and old guards.

I’m probably considered one of the old guard now that I’ve played in the NHL for nearly five years, two of them as the Vikings’ starting right winger.

This sport and career are about learning to trust and depend on your team. That bond starts in the locker rooms before we even hit the ice.

I slip off my practice jersey and throw it in the laundry basket so our equipment manager can grab it later and get it cleaned. My game day jersey is already hanging up in preparation for the preseason game tonight against LA.

It’s the beginning of the new season and we’re coming back from our summer vacations refreshed and ready to kick ass and work our way back to the playoffs. Last year was hard fought but we just couldn’t make it happen in the end.

That’s life when you’re playing in the big leagues. You need the magic and team dynamic to win. It also requires elite players who forge a relationship on and off the ice and a bit of the hockey gods’ favor to achieve team success.

“Sure, bruh,” I chuckle, slipping my pads over my shoulders to hang them up. “Whatever you say. You don’t have to try to convince us of anything.”

The chirps, jabs and banter continue for a while longer as the team goes about our post-practice hygiene rituals before we head out for personal time before the game.

Since I felt a crimp develop in my left shoulder blade today, I head to where our massage therapist Kip is working on the guys. I’m hoping some soft tissue work will loosen things up before tonight. I got hit hard into the boards during our last game and it’s been giving me hell ever since.

I suppose I’ve been luckier than most when it comes to injuries. Aside from a few minor sprains and bruises here and there—and the broken front tooth last season—I’ve not suffered the same consequences that my teammates have endured from playing this sport. It can really beat a guy up.

Taking survey of the room while I wait for Kip to finish with Brett Cannfield, another Vikings D-man, I note the number of guys who have had surgeries and been out for weeks or sometimes months as they recover.

Soren “Wolf” Wolfenspiel, our goalie, was laid up with a major groin injury. That one sucked because Volmer isn’t as lithe as Soren. That man pounces on a puck like a wolf on its prey. But damn, groin injuries are no joke. A guy can’t even have sex for at least six weeks during the recovery period.

Jesus, how would I ever survive that? Hopefully, I’ll never have to find out.

Then there’s Costa, who’s probably my best friend on the team and my partner-in-crime forward and 2-way winger, who had knee surgery two years ago and is just getting back to where he left off. I teased that he Costa’d us a lot of games during his recovery period. He didn’t think it was so funny.

And Cannfield, or Canners as we call him, had a concussion that kept him out of multiple games last season.

I take a seat to wait, feeling lucky about my nonspecific injuries. Knock wood.

Outside of the injuries that set us back a little in the standings, I couldn’t be happier with the great team of guys I’m playing with right now.

We’ve all gelled and work well together out on the ice.

And we all get along off the ice, too. With Ballas at the helm as our GM, and Coach Thomas and his strong coaching staff, I honestly believe we have a shot at the championship this year.

Wouldn’t that be fucking nice? After being on the Chicago team, where we were the worst in the league, I helped get the Vikings into the playoffs my first season here.

I’m surfing my phone, still waiting for a massage and thinking about last season, when Grant Theroux, our assistant coach, walks into the center of the room, completely in team gear. He looks like a walking billboard for Vikings-style men’s fashion.

“Alright boys, listen up. Coach T has called a team meeting. You’ve got five minutes to finish up and get your asses in chairs.”

Groans and curses can be heard around the locker room as Coach Theroux leaves, the door banging behind him.

“Fuck, man. There go my plans,” laments Canners, who hastily jumps off the table and reaches for his shorts, pulling his phone out from his pocket. “I still need to pick out a gift for Jeanette before I get home. It’s our ten-year anniversary, and we’re going out after the game to celebrate.”

“Someone’s not gonna get laid tonight,” Volmer chirps as he walks by.

I stride by and thump his back with my palm. “Sucks to be you, bro. That’s why I don’t have a wife or a girlfriend. I don’t need anyone being mad at me for putting hockey first.”

Canners scowls. “Someday, Ax, you’ll want just that. Your priorities will change when the right woman comes along.”

“Whatever you say, Canners. But don’t hold your breath.”