Chapter 2
TWO
ST. LOUIS MULES TRAINING FACILITY
Ryan Christianson
I love being a Mule. This is hands down the greatest team in the league to play for.
Sure, we’re currently sitting four points out of a playoff spot, but that’s great because it keeps us hungry and our fanbase excited.
We’re so close to finally ending our playoff drought.
An issue that’s been going on since long before I got here.
We just need one last piece. It’s so close I can taste it.
I think Coach Chris is that piece. Since his arrival, there’s a new energy spreading through all of us.
The press calls it a new coach bump. A push to be the best we can be, whereas for the last few seasons we’ve been resting comfortably by at least not coming in last place.
We’re lucky. St. Louis loves hockey. It’s a hockey city despite being located in the southern Midwest instead of the frozen confines of Canada or the upper states that live for winter entertainment to distract them from their bleak weather.
And maybe it’s because this city’s hopes and dreams aren’t hinged upon how well their team is doing, they genuinely just seem happy to have us here no matter where we sit in the standings.
It’s the best. I can come to the rink, play hockey, and most importantly, collect my paychecks worth five million a season for the next four seasons without anyone looking at me with too much scrutiny.
My agent wanted to strangle me for signing that contract last summer.
He thought I should have held out for more.
He even suggested I look at offers from larger market teams where I could land better endorsements looking for a handsome face for their ads.
But he doesn’t understand. The St. Louis Mules is the perfect team for me.
There’s no pressure here. And more importantly, there’s no international spotlight.
I mean, come on, after watching what happened to Marshal after he was outed, why on earth would I want to put myself in a position where that could happen to me?
No, thank you. I’d rather chill out in St. Louis with my fellow Mules than risk being the center of a gay hockey circus where my entire life, past and present, could be scrutinized.
This laid-back life on a small market team is where it’s at.
Though I suppose that has the potential to change now that Coach Chris has officially taken over the helm as head coach.
But so far, Coach Chris has been great. Like I said.
I think he’s the final piece we needed to push us into the playoffs.
His systems are easy to understand, and his coaching style is very player friendly, which we all enjoy.
We’re even on a four-game win streak. Which thankfully, nobody outside of St. Louis has bothered to notice.
He does keep making mentions of the team needing to find a new forward to play off my right wing, though. That’s an idea I am intrigued by.
Though I’d never say it out loud, my current right winger, Roysy, isn’t really a first line player. But there’s no one else on our roster who can replace him, and the trade deadline has come and gone, so I’m not sure where Coach Chris thinks this winger is coming from.
“Hey, Ryan!” Danton yells from the weight bench he’s sitting up on after a round of chest presses. We skated this morning and now we’ve moved on to strength and recovery training.
Between swings of the kettlebell I’m holding, I answer. “What’s up, Cap?”
“Did you hear?”
“He hear nothing. Too busy looking at reflection in mirror,” Ivanov, our goalie, says from the squat rack.
“Lies!” I say as I place the kettlebell down and switch to the battle ropes. “I hear you bitch and moan all season long about how…” I pause so I can prepare my best impression of his Russian accent, “… American players not tough like Russians.”
“Ivanov’s not wrong,” Clemmers says from the stationary bikes while I work the ropes.
I narrow my eyes at Clemmers. “About which part?”
“Both,” Roysy says, grabbing the kettlebell I put down to start a round of swings of his own.
I take a break from the ropes to grab a sip of water and catch my breath. Red faced, I look back at our captain. “Seriously, though, Cap. What’s up?”
“Your boy!”
My boy? What on earth is he talking about?
My mind is racing to figure out what he knows.
I haven’t had a boy, well, man, in ages.
It’s far too complicated to try to have a downlow relationship as a semi-famous athlete.
Anonymous, one-off hookups work much better, particularly with men who couldn’t point out a hockey player in a police lineup even if I had my entire kit on.
And in the way-off chance I did have a boyfriend, there’s no way I’d tell anyone on the team about him.
“My boy?” I ask, striving for nonchalance, as I grab a nearby towel and start drying the sweat that’s dripping down my neck.
“Bouchard,” Danton says.
“Bouchard?” I wipe my forehead. “Isn’t he one of Marshal’s boys?”
“I don’t think Kennedy would approve of that,” Clemmers says with a laugh.
“Not what I meant,” I say, giving a jerk-off motion with my hand in his direction.
“And not who I meant, either,” Danton says.
“Is there another Bouchard?” Ivanov asks, his voice gruff and his expression vaguely murderous as he finishes up another set of squats. He puts the bar back down onto the hooks on the rack with a loud clatter.
“Wow,” Danton says. “You all really don’t keep up with our prospects, do you?”
“Why would we?” Roysy laughs. “When was the last time this organization made a decent draft pick?”
“Hey!” I protest. “I was one of those draft picks, you know.”
“My point exactly.” Roysy laughs some more, then places the kettlebell down and sits to stretch beside it.
“Keep talking one hundred and third overall,” Danton says to Roysy as he begins to remove the plates from his weight bar.
“How do you even know that?” Roysy asks.
Danton shrugs. “I’m a stats guy.” He turns his attention back to me as he sits beside Roysy to stretch with him. “As I was saying, what’s the deal with your boy? Brandon.”
“Ander’s little brother?”
“Yeah,” Danton laughs. “Why is this so hard for you to grasp?”
“It’s not,” I say. Which is the truth. I haven’t thought about Brandon since the day I moved out of the Bouchards’ house when my season on the Hodags was over. Brandon was still a kid when I knew him. “What about him?”
“What’s he like?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know. Quiet, I guess. Why?”
“I just got a text from our GM. Coach Chris called him up to play on your right wing.”
“Fuck, yes!” Clemmers and Roysy exclaim together, as Clemmers walks past Roysy and gives him a high five.
“I can finally move back down to the third line where I belong,” Roysy says.
Okay. Well at least he’s self-aware. I bring a hand to my heart. “I’ll always remember our time together fondly.” And I will, but I have to admit I am excited to see what Brandon can bring to the team. It’s been forever since I’ve seen him play, but he had a lot of potential when he was younger.
Roysy blows me a kiss. “Goodbye, sweet liney.”
Clemmers sits across from Danton and Roysy with his legs extended forward. He halfheartedly attempts to touch his toes. “I still can’t believe Chicago fired Coach Chris.”
I sit beside him. “I can’t believe Kennedy got traded.”
“By his own father,” Ivanov adds as he joins us. He immediately spreads his legs wide, practically doing a center split, then folds forward. His chin touches the ground. Showoff. “We don’t even do that in Russia.”
“Well, we shouldn’t do it here, either,” Danton says. “But I will admit, it’s nice to see Kennedy Sr get knocked down a few pegs. He’s such a prick.”
“And Chicago lose its star,” Clemmers says. “With Junior gone, we might actually have a chance at sneaking into the playoffs.”
Danton points at him. “Now you’re talking.”
My lips pull up into a wicked grin as I look in Danton’s direction. “Will your doctors approve of you playing all those extra games at your age?”
“Fuck off.” He tosses his dirty sweat rag at me but he’s laughing as he does it.
Brandon
Shit. I’m late. I am so late. I don’t even want to look at my phone to see exactly how late I am.
I just know I was supposed to report to practice this morning by nine a.m. But let’s face it, it was going to take a miracle to get me anywhere on time after packing my entire life up with barely sixteen hours’ notice.
I tried to stay calm. I really did. But of course my flight was delayed due to storms over Iowa.
I ended up having to spend the night at the Minneapolis, St. Paul airport and hop on a five o’clock flight this morning.
Thankfully, all my gear made it, but it took forever for me to grab it from baggage claim.
Then, thanks to all that gear—including six hockey sticks—I had to wait forever for an Uber that was large enough to fit everything.
Now I’m running towards the entrance with three massive bags containing my life strapped to my back and a bundle of hockey sticks under my arm. With each step, I pray to the hockey gods I haven’t blown my chance at playing in the NHL with my tardiness before I’ve even stepped one blade on the ice.
“Hey! Are you Brandon Bouchard?” I hear a young woman’s voice ask. She’s standing in front of a door that says, PLAYERS’ ENTRANCE, and holding a camera.
“Yeah,” I say, stopping in my tracks, which causes my shoes to squeak on the floor.
“Great,” she says and snaps a picture before I get a chance to ask who she is.
She checks her camera and makes a face. “You’re a little red in the cheeks. Mind if I take another one?”
“What?”
“Sorry,” she says and lets her camera hang off her neck. She sticks her hand out for me. “I’m Jules. The social media manager. I was told you’d be showing up today.”
I take her hand and shake it. “Brandon.” When I let go, she looks me up and down, then smiles at me with a twinkle in her eye.