Chapter 7
“Get your stick on the ice!” Coach Dillion bellowed as four skaters scrummed around the net. “Watch for the pass!”
Jay cursed softly next to me, watching the scene play out. Sure enough, the pass came from the left face-off circle and sailed right past the still raised stick of the winger closest to the net.
I didn’t bother to hide my groan. Jay and I were watching the rookies practice from a halfway up the stands, too far away from the ice for any of them to hear us.
“That’s basic shit,” Jay muttered.
We watched as Dillion blew his whistle, red-faced and already shouting as he skated down to the young kid who had missed the pass.
Tommy, something. Walter, maybe? Weaver?
I’d met him the other day at the team lunch, but this was the first time I was getting a chance to see any of my new teammates out on the ice.
The first few days of training camp were dedicated to rookies and prospects hoping for a chance at making the team.
Veterans had to report today for medical tests but we wouldn’t start full training camp until tomorrow.
From the way our rookies were looking, I didn’t have the highest hopes for camp.
On the other side of the arena, Andrew Knight sat huddled with the interim GM, and a few other guys I didn’t recognize. But they were all dressed in suits and that meant one thing—management.
“Big boss man doesn’t look too happy,” Jay pointed out. Knight was saying something to the GM, his hands waving madly, a scowl on his face. “Think he’s regretting the investment already?”
“That’s just his normal face,” I muttered. Andrew Knight was born with a permanent scowl.
“They’re looking pretty green, huh?” a slightly accented voice behind us asked, and I turned to see a hulking man making his way down the steps to our row.
Henrik Karlsson was one of the holdovers from the Atlanta team.
He’d been in the league about five years now, a solid veteran.
His defense had frustrated me on more than one occasion playing against him.
We’d shaken hands the other day, but I hadn’t had the chance to really talk to him.
“Hey man,” I said, gesturing to the empty seat next to Jason. “Tests go okay?”
He shrugged. “Same thing every year, isn’t it? Doctors just love poking and prodding.” Karlsson took a seat. “Shit. Is Dillion going to make that kid cry?”
Down on the ice, Coach was red-faced, screaming up at a gangly rookie, whose expression was looking pretty pinched.
“What’s it like playing for him?” Jay asked.
Karlsson snorted. “He’s an asshole.”
Looking at the man screaming on the ice, it wasn’t difficult to believe.
“I played for Dillion in Atlanta for two years,” Karlsson continued, “and I swear to God the guy never even learned my name. Always just called me the Swede.”
“Yikes,” Jay said.
“Yeah. I know every coach has his favorites, but this prick…” he trailed off before shaking his head. “Let’s just say that every guy he favored had a lot of similarities. They were all North American and they all played juniors in Canada before getting drafted.”
I locked eyes with Jay and he was frowning.
You saw a few attitudes like that in this sport—the old school guys who weren’t big on change.
They tended to look down on players who’d gone through the college system, favoring the junior hockey leagues of Canada for development.
They thought the junior league’s game was rougher, producing players more capable of handling the NHL, while the college guys were softer.
I thought it was bullshit.
Even worse, though, there were still some guys in the league who weren’t too happy about the influx of European players in what they considered “their game.”
It was xenophobic garbage. Thirty percent of the league came out of Europe these days. Some of the best players in hockey were Swedish or Russian. Why did any of it matter if you could play the game?
“Sounds like a swell guy,” Jay muttered.
“Yeah, well that was nothing to the way he treated Dalton,” Karlsson said.
“The alternate captain?” I asked. I’d spent some time talking to the younger guy at the team lunch the other day. He was a quiet kid, seemed pretty serious, and I knew from the times I’d faced him in New York that he was a hell of a winger, one of the fastest guys in the league with a killer shot.
“Yeah. Dillion hated playing that guy. Any time he made the smallest mistake it’d be right down to the fourth line. Which was ridiculous, considering he had the highest pass-completion percentage on the team.”
I was getting a sick feeling in my stomach. Gabriel Dalton wasn’t just the best shooter on the Atlanta team—he was also their only Black player. It was pretty easy to read between the lines of what Karlsson was saying.
“I’m surprised he signed off on him being alternate captain,” Jay said, his narrowed eyes glued to the action on the ice.
“Oh, I heard he didn’t have a lot of say in that.
” Karlsson turned his head in the direction of the management huddle on the other side of the arena.
“He was bitching about it with Ryan Cane—now there’s a guy Dillion always loved.
Anyhow, he was complaining, asking what kind of an organization let the GM and owner overrule the coach on captain assignments. ”
“Seriously?” I asked. “So Olsen and Knight were the ones behind that decision?”
Jay slapped my back. “Maybe the big boss man doesn’t hate you as much as you thought he did.”
My gaze slid back to Andrew. “That’s pretty hard to believe.”
“You know Knight?” Karlsson asked.
“Yeah, we played together when we were younger. Same youth league in Minnesota, same high school team.”
“Wow.” He shot me a grin. “No wonder he named you captain.”
I laughed. “Actually, I have no idea why he made me captain. The guy could never stand me back then. I think we still hold the record as the only two players on our high school team to ever get penalty minutes for fighting each other.” Coach Newton had told me once that Andy and I were responsible for him growing some grey hair prematurely.
Jay snorted. “Maybe he’s over it,” Karlsson suggested, then winced when one of the prospects on the ice took a crunching hit against the boards.
We watched the play in silence for a few minutes.
It was still looking pretty messy but a few guys were standing out.
There was talent there, for sure. Maybe they just needed a little more experience.
“Goalie’s looking pretty good at least,” Jay said.
“Yeah.” Enzo looked solid in the net, stopping most everything that came his way.
“There was some talk in Atlanta of bringing him up from the minors last season,” Karlsson said. “He had real good stats on the farm team.”
“Well, here’s to hoping he’ll bring those stats to our net. We’re gonna need it.”
“Hey,” Jay said suddenly. “Weren’t you supposed to take off already?”
I glanced down at my watch then immediately jumped to my feet. “Aw, hell. I’m going to be late.”
“Hot date?” Karlsson asked.
“Yeah—with my eight-year-old daughter. It’s Meet the Teacher night at her school.” I grabbed my duffle from the floor at Jay’s feet. “She’s going to kill me.”
“Give her a hug for me,” Jay said.
“Will do.” I nodded to Karlsson. “Nice to chat with ya, Swede.”
He laughed and waved me off.
I hustled my way through the arena and out into the lot.
I should have left fifteen minutes ago, but maybe I’d be able to make up some of the time if I drove fast. Josie was going to be pissed if I was late.
She was already nervous about meeting her teacher and seeing the new school.
She’d gone to bed at her normal bedtime last night—refusing to let me tuck her in, same as it had been since we left New York—but her light was back on when I went upstairs around eleven.
I found her sitting up in bed, reading. Too nervous to sleep, she’d told me.
As I sped my way towards home I wondered, not for the first time, if it was time to get my daughter some help.
Evelyn and Peter were sure this was just a phase, all her sullenness and anxiety.
That once she got comfortable in her new house and made some friends she’d go back to normal.
But I hated seeing the sadness in Josie’s eyes every day.
She hadn’t been this upset when her mother and I divorced—though she’d been younger then and probably didn’t understand what it really meant.
Leaving New York—and Chloe—had put her into a tailspin, and I didn’t know how to stop it.
She had only seen her mother twice in the six months before we left, so it wasn’t like the distance was going to put a big damper on their time together.
The truth was, Chloe was selfish and flakey and never gave her daughter a fraction of the time or effort she’d deserved.
It wasn’t a new phenomenon—she’d been that way since Josie was a baby.
I pulled up behind Evelyn’s sedan in the driveway and saw my girl even before I got my seat belt unbuckled. She was sitting on the porch, her knees drawn up to her chest, a sullen look on her face. Shit.
“Sorry, sorry,” I called, jumping out of the car. “Let me just run inside and put on a different shirt and we’ll be good to go.”
“You’re late,” she said, tone cold.
“I know, sweetie. I’m sorry. Things are a little crazy at the rink right now.” I moved to pat her head as I passed by on my way inside and she jerked away. Great. I found Evelyn in the kitchen, putting away some glasses from the dishwasher. “How was she today?”
Evelyn scrunched up her face. “Nervous. It was impossible to get her to focus on anything.”
And I had been late, making it worse. Fucking fantastic.
“Thanks for being here today,” I told her. “I’m just gonna change and then take her over to the school. I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“Bright and early,” she agreed. “First full day of camp—that has to be exciting!”