5. Blake
Chapter five
Blake
T he bus is quiet in that weird way where some guys are too tired to talk, and others are just loud enough to make you wish they were.
Bishy’s yelling something crude to Thumper across the aisle. Brody’s beside me, one leg stretched halfway into the walkway, texting on his phone to my sister, his wife, Mariana. The rest of the team’s either passed out or shoving earbuds in like that’s going to drown out the noise.
We landed at YVR about an hour ago. Customs was slow. Immigration was even slower. Thumper got flagged for bringing a tub of pre-workout protein that looked suspiciously like powdered explosives. I told him not to pack it in his carry-on, but what do I know? I'm just the guy who reads signs.
Now we’re crawling through Robson Street traffic. Neon signs flash past. People are everywhere, walking, talking, pretending they don’t care that we’re on this bus like it’s not full of the Vegas Aces. Some look up. Most don’t. Vancouver is used to athletes.
Up ahead, the Hilton sign glows faint blue against the evening sky.
“I don’t understand you sometimes,” Brody mutters without looking up.
“What now?”
He turns slightly, resting his elbow on the back of his seat like this is going to be a deep, philosophical conversation.
“That stewardess on the flight. Not only did she ask for your autograph, but she also asked for your number. And if you’d meet her tonight.
What did you say? ‘Thanks but no thanks.’ That’s it. What the hell’s wrong with you?”
I stare out the window, watching a guy on a scooter nearly get clipped by a cab. “Oh, you know. I couldn’t be bothered.”
Brody snorts. “She was beautiful. Like... insane-level beautiful.” He pauses. “Wait, hang on. Don’t tell me. You’ve got the hots for McCullum’s daughter. Cassy.”
I don’t respond. Don’t have to. The silence says enough.
Brody grins like he’s just solved a puzzle and is way too proud of himself.
Before I can tell him to shut up, Coach McCullum stands at the front of the bus, gripping the rail beside the driver.
“Okay. You’ve all been paired up in double suites. Don’t break the hotel, and behave yourselves. At least off the ice, that is. GOT IT?”
Murmurs ripple through the team. A few groans. Someone swears under his breath. Then all together like bored school kids: “Yes, Coach.”
We all start moving. Bags are yanked from overhead racks. Phones unplugged. Sleepy bodies are dragged upright.
I lean into Brody as we stand. “Look, keep this to yourself. I don’t want to want her. She’s snobby. Loud. Too confident. Annoying as hell.” I grab my bag. “But... fuck. I think I do.”
Brody whistles low. “Well, shit.”
Outside, the cold hits us in the face as we step off the bus. Vancouver’s air always smells cleaner than Vegas, like it’s trying to convince you it’s wholesome.
Brody glances at McCullum and starts singing under his breath, ? “I can see trouble ahead…” ?
Yeah... you and me both!
Behind me, Thumper smacks my head, his palms rough against my hair.
“Oh, grow up,” I turn immediately and jab my index finger straight up his nose, then wipe it clean across Bishy’s hoodie as we walk.
Bishy looks down and mutters something that sounds like “What the fuck?” But he keeps walking like he’s seen worse.
The hotel lobby is bright, minimalistic, and smells like too much lemon polish. Everything’s marble and glass and polished surfaces, and the staff pretend not to notice twenty-six hockey players stomping through like we own the place.
Ahead of us, the team’s three security guys fan out, Walt, Deeks, and Anton, their shoulders wide, jackets plain, and eyes scanning everything.
They don’t say much. They never do. They just move like they’ve already memorized every square inch of the place and are two steps ahead of any bullshit.
A couple of Hilton staff are already waiting near the check-in desk and smiling like they trained for this. Name tags, corporate charm, not a hair out of place.
They’ve even set up a welcome table. Bottled water with the Aces logo printed on the labels, branded protein bars, neat little pouches with keycards inside, and one of those stupid signs that says, ‘Welcome Vegas Aces!’ Like we’re here for prom.
“Jesus,” Thumper mutters, grabbing a water. “They could at least hand out mini bottles of whisky or something. I feel like I just won a pageant.”
“Bet they thought you were the mascot,” Peters grins.
The check-in process is a blur of organized chaos. Our travel coordinator, Lenny, handles everything. Clipboard, headset, that stressed-out look he always wears like it’s part of his outfit. He ticks names off his list like he’s launching rockets. Room pairings flash across his tablet.
“Keycards are all set,” he calls out. “If you lose them, don’t call me. Call God.”
We form a loose, grumbling line. Most of the guys aren’t even paying attention, just holding out their hands for keycards like it’s Halloween and they’re expecting candy. A couple of bellhops swarm around with carts, grabbing our duffels and hockey bags.
“Don’t you dare lose my bag,” Brody mutters, handing his over.
Floor 31 is ours. The whole damn floor is blocked off, which means no whining families, no screaming kids, and no one to complain when Vasko starts blasting Romanian techno in the hallway again.
Coach McCullum steps into the middle of the lobby, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, looking like someone who hasn’t slept in 20 years.
“Alright, listen up,” he calls. “Go upstairs and freshen up, but I want everyone down at the Garden Terrace on the 7th floor in forty minutes. Meeting first, then we eat. Don’t be late. Don’t be assholes. Try not to embarrass me.”
We grunt our collective understanding.
Elevators ding one by one. The third one opens, and Thumper barrels in, knocking everyone out of the way.
I step in beside him, Peters and McAvoy pushing through behind me, Bishy and Brody close behind, Vasko, Monty, and Davis filling up the rest of the space.
Thumper lets out some wind, grins, and, as the doors close, he jabs floor thirty-one.
“Jesus,” Monty groans.
Bishy leans against the mirrored wall, blocking his nose and muttering, “You should be staying in a zoo, not a hotel.”
And me? I don’t say anything. I just stand, my arms down, my eyes fixed ahead, watching the floor numbers change. Cassy’s name still spins somewhere behind my eyes like a loose puck.
Maybe when we get back to Vegas, I'll ask her out. No matter what Coach McCullum says.
The elevator dings. Floor 31. We spill out, half the team still joking around, the other half dragging their feet like we’ve just marched back from war.
Brody and I head down the corridor to 3110. The carpet is thick under my boots, and the lights are dimmed like they’re trying to lull us into something softer than reality.
The card beeps, and our door clicks open.
The suite’s decent. Small foyer first, tiles underfoot, neutral walls, with a coat hook. Then the living area opens up, sleek lines, muted greys, and soft yellows from recessed lighting.
There’s a couch that looks modern and comfortable, although I’m sure it’s been broken in by a hundred exhausted guests before us, a coffee table with a glass top, and a desk pushed up against the wall like it wants to be useful but knows we won’t touch it.
A kitchenette is in the corner. A sink, a tiny fridge, and a coffee machine blinking like it’s already judging me for what I’ll do to it in the morning.
Brody flops onto the sofa like it’s home.
“Alright,” he mutters, cracking his neck. “Thirty minutes to lie down before the meeting, or I swear I’m going to fall asleep mid-tactics.”
I strip out of my jacket and fall into the other side of the couch. We rest, just enough to feel the exhaustion climb into our bones and then decide that’s enough.
Down on the seventh floor, the Garden Terrace has already been set up for us. McCullum is already at the front, whiteboard, marker, and that graveyard expression he always wears before a big game. Danny is next to him.
We talk systems. Defensive coverage. Forward pressure. Vancouver’s aggressive cycle game. Brody jots notes like we’re in class, elbowing me twice when I look like I’m zoning out.
After that, dinner in the hotel restaurant. Nothing fancy, carbs, protein, and something green so the dieticians stop side-eyeing us.
Back upstairs, everyone’s buzzing. Talking shifts, lines, possibilities. The hallway sounds like a pre-battle march.
“They double up on forechecks,” Thumper is saying.
“Yeah, but their D-line’s too slow on the recovery,” McAvoy argues.
“It’ll come down to second-period stamina,” Peters adds.
We pass Walt, Deeks, and Anton posted outside the elevators like human bollards. Everyone throws out their goodnights.
“Later, boys.”
“See you at breakfast.”
“Don’t let Thumper fart in the vents again.”
Brody unlocks our door, and we step back into 3110.
“They’ve got the same points as us.” He tugs his hoodie off. “Two wins, two losses. Same away record. Only difference is goal diff.”
“Yeah, we’re plus one. They’re minus one,” I reply, kicking off my boots. “Not exactly breathing room.”
“Still. They’re riding a two-game win streak.”
“So are we.”
Brody nods, opens the fridge, and grabs a water. “Fine margins, man. This is gonna be tight.”
“We grind it out,” I say. “Keep the lines tight. They like to pull their D high. Leaves them exposed if we’re quick on the transition.”
He slumps toward his bedroom, water in hand. “Just make sure I don’t oversleep in the morning, for God’s sake.”
I smirk. “Only if you promise not to snore like a lawnmower with asthma.”
His door shuts behind him.
I head into my room. Queen bed, white sheets turned down already. One of those too-soft pillows I always end up hating. My half-unpacked bag is splayed across the bed. My skating bag is by the closet, black with red piping, its logo half-scuffed from use.