8. JAGGER
Chapter eight
JAGGER
The first day of practice is here. It’s my favorite day of the season. A lot of the guys on teams I’ve been on over the years dread practice. Not me. I thrive on it, never wanting it to end because the more I train, the better I get. And this year it’s more important than ever to be the best so I can get back to Miami.
I finally got an email about the address change three days ago. They definitely do things differently in the minors. Communication isn’t quite as timely as in the NHL.
We had a team dinner at a local Italian restaurant Coach rented out last night. Since there’s quite a few new guys on the team this year, he wanted us to meet before the first day on the ice.
I didn’t get to spend a lot of time with each guy because Dax Walker, one of the other forwards on the team, monopolized most of my night. He’s about five nine with a lean build, weighing less than a hundred and seventy pounds. He’s clearly built for speed. He has messy blonde hair and blue eyes he tells me the ladies love. Dax is definitely the life of the party type of guy.
He said that as the stars of the team (in his opinion because we score the goals), we should stick together. Dax has a never-ending reserve of energy. I thought that at any minute he was going to drop down and start doing push-ups. He’s clearly in the early stages of his career. I could smell the freshness, like a new car.
Dax gave me the lowdown on a few of the guys on the team.
Gage Winslow is in his second year. He’s a brooding tough guy type, Dax explained, with jet black hair that hangs over his eyebrows. He doesn’t hang out with the team much outside of games and practices, always disappearing as soon as it’s over. It doesn’t matter to me if guys are quiet, but they need to be committed to winning and putting in the time to get better, so I might have to talk to him about that habit. Dax says the guys call him “Superman” because they think he has a secret identity he’s hiding from everyone.
Then there’s Troy Vaughn. That guy really should have had a second chair at dinner, he’s huge. Troy’s one of the veterans on the team and a co-captain. His chestnut brown hair is cut super short, but his smile stretched long. Troy greeted me immediately when I stepped into the restaurant. He must be at least six five and weigh close to two hundred and fifty pounds. Clearly, he’s part of the defense. I wouldn’t want to try to get past him to score a goal.
I expected a booming voice to come out of him, but he spoke softly, with the warmth of a stuffed teddy bear. Dax says that’s just what he’s like, too. Kids line up to see him after games, and he lifts two at a time on each arm into the air like a carnival ride. His nickname is the “Gentle Giant.” I can see why.
The last guy Dax had time to fill me in on between shoveling spaghetti and meatballs into his mouth was Brooks Montgomery. He's coming off an injury from last year that didn't allow him to play most of the season. Dax said there’s only one word needed to describe Brooks: unpredictable. Surprisingly, he’s the other co-captain. That description isn’t usually one you use for a leader, but Dax says his skills are so awe-inspiring, Coach felt compelled to choose him. Brooks is rebellious and wild, but also a non-stop worker, driven to be the best goalie in the league. That, I love.
His auburn curls tumbled wildly around his face as he commanded the attention at the table, spinning tales of his offseason spent solo camping at National parks across the country. Every story was told with a mischievous glint in his green eyes and a perpetual smirk. His exuberance and wild streak were as evident in his appearance as they apparently are in his bold, fearless style of play.
The night was fun. That’s the best part of any team, the distinctive personalities and talents that meld together to become one in the rink. At least you hope that’s what happens because when it doesn’t, losing is all you know. I took a look at the past records of this team, and it’s not great. Ok, it’s awful. They haven’t had a winning season since their inception.
But I’m here to change all that for them, to turn this ship around. And in the process, punch my ticket back to sunshine and palm trees. I’m so ready for the action of hockey: the sounds of sticks clashing, skates carving into the ice, and the roar of the crowd filling the arena.
Well, I guess I can’t count that last part, but two out of three isn’t bad.
I’m lacing up my skates when Dax slides in next to me on the bench. “What’s up, ‘Thunder?’”
“Thunder?”
“Yep. I think we should have nicknames. You’re ‘Thunder’ and I’m ‘Lightning.’ Before you say anything, I know you might be thinking that you should come first—after all, lightning comes before thunder, and you’re a former NHL player, but hear me out." He omits that I’m a three-time consecutive all-star, but whatever.
“I think you’ll understand once you see me out on that ice. Nobody’s quicker when it comes to speed, I’m just like… well, lightning.” He sprints in place, sending his knees as high as they can get. Then makes some fake moves against the air, all with sound effects.
I can’t with this guy. But maybe this is a good time to work on my ego a little, too. I know I’m cocky, you have to be at my position, believing no one can stop you. The slightest hesitation in your skills, and you’ll get the puck stolen immediately.
I’ve always had plenty of confidence to go around and still do. But maybe not needing to puff out my own chest at all times will help me keep my emotions in check, stay out of fights.
“That’s cool. I’m not a big nickname guy though, unless—” Unless it’s JJ. No, that’s over. There’s no reason to think about Jess anymore, it’s not going to help me focus. Those pouty lips, man they are just so—
“Jagger?”
“Yep?”
“Unless what? You’re not a big nickname guy unless…”
“Oh, uh. Unless it’s a really good one.” Dax’s face lights up, eyes gleaming with excitement. This guy is like the little brother I never had. There’s no reason to break his young spirit. Maybe this can be the first step to getting the team moving in the right direction. Motivation is key to success. “Show me what you’ve got out there today, full throttle. If you’re as fast as you say you are, then ‘Lightning’ is all yours.”
“Whew!” Dax releases in celebration, shooting his arms in the air. “Thunder and Lightning, baby! It’s a guarantee.”
He tries some elaborate handshake with me I’ve never seen. Man, I feel old all of a sudden. And now he’s doing pushups. I knew they were coming sooner or later. Wow, look at him go. The difference between twenty-nine and twenty-three feels like a millennium. When he finally finishes, he goes wobbling off as fast as skates on rubber flooring will take him.
This locker room is just as well put together as the outside of the building: spacious cubbyholes, sturdy benches, and meticulously clean bathrooms. I hope the youth of this area know how good they have it. I guarantee the bathrooms are not going to look like that after these guys are here for a while.
Aside from not having the number of fans in the stands I’m used to; I’m really impressed with this facility. I guarantee that although much bigger, a lot of the other minor league arenas won't be as nice. Feels like change is working for me so far.
And the town is kind of awesome. Because it’s a tourist destination, being so close to Glacier National Park, everything about it is picture perfect. It’s like they built a movie set, then let people move in and stay.
Because so many people need to live here to work in the resort industry, there are a lot of housing choices for such a remote area. Coach talked to the manager of Mountain View Villas to block off some units and quite a few guys from the team are staying on the same floor of the building. That should be interesting. I hope the neighbors won’t mind.
I’m in a one bedroom with a balcony that overlooks the crystal-clear Glacier Pines Lake. It’s perfect. So far, I’ve only met the neighbor on my left side. She’s a lively eighty-five-year-old woman named Mabel who has a passion for 90s boy bands. I know because I hear the music blasting in her apartment each night. Watch out, Justin Timberlake. Mabel sings ‘Bye, Bye, Bye’ like she’s ready to take the stage as lead singer of ‘NSYNC.
I met Mabel in the hallway my first morning on her way to Jazzercise at the local YMCA. “Well, looky here…” she said as her eyes roamed up and down with no shame.
“I heard there were some hockey players coming to town, but I didn’t know I’d get to see one in the flesh to start my day. Lucky me. Who needs coffee to pick me up when I have these?”
She unapologetically squeezed my arms, then moved to my chest. I couldn’t believe I was getting felt up by a grandma in my first twenty-four hours in town, but it’s not like I was going to slap her hands away.
Mabel wouldn’t let me into my apartment until I promised to let her know if I was ever shirtless in the hallway. I had just come back from a run and was sweaty and hungry, so I conceded. She’s very persuasive. “Perfect,” she grinned as she shimmied toward the elevators. “I’m off to shake my moneymaker at Jazzercise.”
“You know,” she added with a wink as she turned back around one last time, “There’s no age requirement in case you need some additional exercise sometime.”
“I’ll keep that in mind,” I told her.
That night she cranked out, “Quit Playing Games (With my Heart)” by the Backstreet Boys for hours. Between the flirty grandma and the rest of the guys, this living situation should be anything but dull. Who needs the action of Miami right now?
Our team manager Jack, a rail thin man in his forties with short dark hair and glasses pushes open the doors to the locker room. “I have an announcement,” he calls out. Everyone who is still getting dressed looks up at him. He commands respect for such a small guy.
“As some of you may know, our Media Relations Manager retired last month. His replacement is on her way to Echo Ridge as we speak.”
“Can we get a knock-out this time, please?” one of the guys calls out. “Maybe someone born in this century?”
“And blonde!” adds Brooks. That voice I know well from listening to him talk for an hour at dinner. “I’m thinking five foot nine, green eyes, a body that—”
“That’s enough, Brooks.” Jack stops him. “Anyway, you’ll meet her after practice. With the team moving here to Echo Ridge for the season, along with our less than stellar record, we’re counting on her to drum up more interest to fill what stands we have. I’m not sure how many of our regular fans are willing to drive the two hours from Missoula.”
“‘Cause we suck!” a voice rings out.
I turn to see who it’s coming from. It’s one of the rookies I haven’t met yet. Sucking is not funny; I’m going to need him to focus. He clearly requires a reminder, maybe one that sends him flying into the wall, so he takes his craft more seriously.
“Anyway, you guys need to do anything she asks, no matter what it is. You’re at her command. Got it?”
“As long as she’s—”
“Brooks,” Jack scolds him again.
“What? It’s gonna get lonely out here without my normal adoring lady fans.”
I’m glad Jack stopped him. I was going to, but I don’t want to act like the dad of the team. It’s humbling enough being here. Thankfully, nobody’s said much about it. I’m sure they already know the reason.
“Anyway, like I said, you’ll all meet her after practice. So, shower up and head up to the conference room at 8:15 pm. See you there.”
I finish getting ready and head to the ice.
After an extensive warm up, Coach Bradley runs us through a typical practice: edge drills, lap skating, face offs. We work on agility and technique, battling one on one. Every bead of sweat releases endorphins that I need. That I crave. As my muscles burn, my brain relaxes, lasered in on my skills. Nothing else is on my mind.
Dax is every bit as fast as advertised, absolutely blazing on his skates. I guess ‘Thunder and Lightning’ it is. I think we’ll be a good combo throughout the season.
To end our first day, Coach says he wants to test our accuracy. We start with short slap shots on an open goal. Then we move back little by little until we’re at the neutral zone, mid-way through the rink.
I haven’t missed a shot. “Oohs” and “ahhs” start to ring out among the guys. As each one of my teammates continue to miss, Coach pulls them to the side, leaving me as the only one left shooting. Coach motions me to keep moving back as I take aim.
The net explodes with each puck I drill into it.
My teammates get louder and louder, cheering me on as I take my position in front of the opposing net, a nearly impossible shot, even with no goalie. My angle needs precision, the trajectory must be perfect.
I take a deep breath and swing my stick like I’ve done since I was ten years old, letting the feel of the wood guide me. “Whoo!” my teammates scream when I catch the corner for another successful attempt.
“Jagger! Jagger! Jagger!” they start chanting.
I look at Coach. “Last one. If West makes this, no end of practice sprints for today.”
That hypes the guys up even more. Their cheers echo in the open air. This is a great way to start a season with a new team, to show them I can lead them to victories. I take one more deep breath. Coach throws a puck down in front of me. I let my stick turn over and back in my hands, then take my shooting position. I’ve got this. Little do they know; I’ve been practicing from this distance since I was fifteen years old.
Just as I start my stick forward, a flash of golden brain hair to my left catches my eye. My brain instantly recognizes those honey-streaked locks. Before I can stop it, my entire body turns that direction, which means my stick turns that direction, which means the puck goes in that direction.
Not toward the net, but toward the woman who is standing with her face pressed up against the plexiglass. In an instant, my errant shot slams off the glass, and the force behind my shot knocks her to the ground.
“Ooh,” the guys react.
“Looker down!” Brooks calls out.
I’d like to body check him, but I don’t have time. Because I know who that hair belongs to, and I don’t like hearing him act like she’s just another hot woman. She’s the only woman I want in the world, and I think I just knocked her out.