10. Tyson
ten
Tyson
No matter what I do, I can’t get rid of that image of Lottie with Young Brad Pitt.
It’s swelling in my brain, making me disoriented.
On top of that, the pressure riding on me as the team captain makes me want at least one thing to go right, so I arrive to practice early.
I shove the door open, finding the locker room empty.
With fake courage, I steel myself, square my shoulders, stride to my stall, and drop my bag in front of it.
I’m going to need a moment here. I check over my shoulder to confirm I’m still alone, and then I let out an emotional breath.
It’s always surreal seeing my number on the jersey.
I’ve played for many teams and in tons of tournaments over the years, but it never gets old.
Tingles spiral up my spine and all through my extremities, while little fizzling nerve bubbles inflate in my gut.
With so many emotions swirling, I inhale a deep breath, allowing everything to soak in.
I’ve never felt so much pride in both my country and myself. I am deeply honored.
I’m captain of the US Stars team.
That actually sounds like I’m flying some sort of spaceship, which makes me chuckle under my breath like an idiot.
Captain of the US Stars team, Crushing Way Too Hard , reporting for duty.
Because I’ve already gone off the rails, I let myself give in to the daydream for a second.
I picture Lottie on the bridge, because she’s always front and center in all my daydreams. Her hair is pinned back in her political bun, and she’s issuing orders I would absolutely follow without question.
She’s wearing some sort of spacesuit, and she’s hot.
She’s always hot.
I’m at the spaceship helm, and she’s beside me, helping me navigate this ship.
We both know, even though I’m the captain, she’s the queen and calls all the shots.
She could simply tilt her head, smile that smile, and I’d be like, Yes, Queen—tell me where to go or what galaxy needs saving.
I trust you with my future and my oxygen supply.
Of course, the ship is named after her, something like the USS Queen Lottie .
The door swings open, and footsteps echo behind me before a, “Hey.”
I straighten immediately, like I’ve been caught doing something illegal.
“Hey.” I nod at Bryce Chambers, who also plays left defense.
We both do that half-second pause where we recognize each other without saying it.
I met him at the team bonding breakfast yesterday.
He plays for Denver, and he seems calm as he walks to his stall next to mine.
We turn back to our stalls and find our pads.
It’s not long before the room fills with more guys.
With every guy who joins us, my pulse kicks up another notch.
It’s getting real, real fast.
Once my pads are on, I grab my jersey. I don’t miss the C on the chest. I’ll never get used to seeing that.
Nervous, my fingers fumble with the bottom seam.
I open it and slide it over my head. My big noggin must have found the shoulder, because my head won’t go through.
I tug the jersey over, pulling it down tight, but my head doesn’t budge.
Seriously, I’m trapped!
Pushing my arms in, my new strategy is to get my arms through the armholes and then push my head through. I easily find the armholes, but my hands are blocked too. My arms flail around inside my shirt. I’m getting claustrophobic.
I need out of here, now!
Snickers break out around me. “Bruh, look at Lane,” someone to my left says. “His jersey’s been sewn shut.”
Ripples of laughter burst through the air.
Even though no one can see me, my cheeks flame hot .
So much for impressing the team with my great leadership skills on the first day !
I can’t even get my jersey on. Seeing there’s no way out of it, I struggle to move my hands to the bottom and lift it over my head.
Another wave of laughter runs through the room as I quickly examine the seams. Just like they said, my armholes and head hole are sewn shut.
And very neatly sewn shut.
It is almost as if a professional did it.
Taz’s threat about messing with my jersey flashes through my head, and I hold back a chuckle because this has his name written all over it.
“Very funny, guys.” I turn back to my stall and stare forward.
Good thing I keep scissors in my bag for cutting tape, but I seriously need to hurry.
Sweat beads on the back of my neck as more chirps spiral around the room.
It’s not the first time I’ve had a joke played on me, but I’ve never been so nervous to make a good impression.
My fingers tremble as I dig through my bag for my supplies and find my scissors and tape.
It’s only half a feeling of relief as I open the blades, aiming the tip at one of the stitches.
Most of these guys are already dressed, and only a few have their skates left to put on.
I’m racing to get this jersey on before the coach comes in.
With scissors in hand, I glance around the locker room.
A couple of guys won’t meet my eyes. I can’t tell if any of them look guilty.
Dropping my gaze to my jersey, I angle the scissors into the first stitch, but to my dismay, the stitches are seriously tight—of course they are—and I struggle to snip them.
It quickly becomes apparent I need to cut every single stitch.
My pulse ticks up as the vibe changes from casual to locked in.
This can’t be happening!
My first day on a new team, and I can’t get my shirt on.
“Let’s go, boys.” Ice forms in my veins. I didn’t even hear Coach Badaszek walk into the room. I’m such a fan of his. The last thing I want to do is come off as a slacker.
I work faster, tugging harder while heat creeps up my neck. I don’t need to turn to know he’s there. Coach’s presence radiates pressure from behind me. “Are you planning on joining us today?” he asks.
I straighten, swallowing. “Yeah, sorry, Coach. It’s a minor wardrobe malfunction.” I don’t want to rat out any of the guys, since they clearly were having fun. I also don’t want to disappoint him. I turn slightly so he can see my scissors tearing at the stitches.
His eyes drop, and his brows rise. “Jerseys don’t sew themselves shut.”
A beat passes. I could put the blame on someone else. It might make it easier for me, but I’ve learned that narcing doesn’t earn respect. I bite my tongue.
Behind us, the last guys file out, and the chatter fades behind the door.
Now it’s just me and Coach, and his gaze pins me in place as I finally manage to rip the last stitch.
My fingers shake enough to annoy me. I keep my head down as I slip on my jersey and quickly pull it over my body.
I grab my skates right as he says, “Lane, talent doesn’t buy patience. ”
“Yes, sir.” I don’t even know what that means exactly. I hope it isn’t followed by me being fired. He stares me down with his jaw set forward before he turns on his heel and leaves. The door shuts behind him, and the locker room falls silent.
I jam my feet into my skates as fast as I can.
My chest is tight, but not from fear. It’s determination not to let this first impression change anything.
I deserve to be here as much as any of the other guys.
I won’t give them a reason to doubt it. In fact, I’ll work so hard that they’ll see why I’m here, and I’ll be given the respect I deserve.
Even if I am the last on the ice.