Chapter 7
SEVEN
Ryan
For a rookie, Brandon is holding his own quite well in this game.
Granted, Tampa Bay is currently one of the worst teams in the league, so it’s an easy start for him.
But I have to admit, he’s fun to play with.
He moves quick, takes ballsy shots, and has great instincts for when it’s best to shoot or pass the puck.
He hasn’t scored yet, but he did set me up nicely for the goal I made in the second period.
And each time we take a shift together, I skate with extra life to my legs, trying to keep up with him.
It might be our first game as linemates, but I can already tell that playing with him is bringing out my best. I think it’s the same for him too.
We play well off each other. Coach Chris’s instinct to have him play as my right wing was spot on.
He’s always where I want him to be without me having to even say anything, and his ability to read where O’Shea is on my left wing is seamless too.
Our passing skills and combined speed are hard for Tampa Bay to keep up with.
We’re wearing them out by making them chase us.
By the time we’re late into the third period, I can see their frustration. Things are getting chippy. They’re getting violent and aggressive with their sticks and it’s making the puck bounce out of their favor.
The game is tied one all and both teams are desperate to score another goal. Despite Tampa’s many faults, their goalie is playing like he wants to make sure he’s not the one to let in Brandon’s first official NHL goal. It’s amazing what goalies will use for motivation sometimes.
However, that’s also fueling me to want to assist Brandon getting one past him. So the next time Coach Chris sends me, Brandon, and O’Shea over the boards to pick up the puck from Ivanov behind his net, I skate with determined purpose towards it and snatch it with the blade of my stick.
While our shift change was perfectly executed, Tampa Bay’s is sloppy, allowing us more space to play.
I pass the puck to Brandon, and he weaves through their defensemen with the puck at the end of his stick.
He’s flying down the ice at lightning speed and the two defenders have turned and are hot on his tail.
I hold my breath as he skates towards the net, changing course to throw off their goalie.
He’s had a few good looks already during this game but this one feels different.
The puck is brushing the backside of his stick blade as he glides past the goalie, who’s expecting him to turn to shoot the puck in on his left, over his glove.
But Brandon never turns. Instead, he chips it in over the goalie’s outstretched leg.
Brandon
The sound of the stadium horn blaring as my goal makes the game score two to one in our favor causes me to leap off the ice. It’s louder than any horn I’ve ever heard, which is great because I’m pretty sure I may have screamed as well in my surprise, and I would like for nobody to have heard that.
“Hell, fucking yeah, Baby!” Danton yells as he skates to me at full speed and slams me into a hug against the boards. We’re quickly joined by O’Shea, and I can hear the rest of my teammates banging their sticks against the boards in celebration.
I skate towards the bench and accept a line of fist bumps from all of them. A few tap the top of my helmet as I skate by, then they shove over when I make it to the end of the line and hop onto our bench.
“Nice one, son,” Coach Chris says with a pat on my back. Then, to the rest of the team he says, “Let’s keep this momentum going. We have eighteen minutes left. Keep them on their heels!”
“Here,” Ryan says, handing me the puck I just scored with before he hops over the boards to take his seat on the bench beside me. He rubs his hand over my helmet and gives me a little shake. “You’re gonna want to keep that.”
Biting my lip and looking down at the puck in my hands, I feel my cheeks flush.
I wish I could say it’s the leftover adrenaline pumping through my blood from scoring my first NHL goal.
But I know that’s not true. Even with the layers of my helmet and his glove, I can still feel his hand on my head as if he was playing with my hair.
Ryan
The energy in the locker room after the game is boisterous.
Everyone is in a good mood, celebrating and cheering our win.
Our winning streak continues and now we have a new rookie to celebrate.
It feels good. So good that none of us care about how disgustingly sweaty we are as we clap each other on the shoulders, jostle one another about, and engage in loose hugs before we can hit the showers.
Danton is yelling the most out of all of us, trying to grab everyone’s attention.
Once we’re all looking his way, he pulls out the customized wrestling belt the team’s been passing from player to player after a winning game for years.
He holds it up high by the buckle for all of us to see.
The Mule emblazoned on the front of it shines bright and colorful, deep blue and gleaming yellow gold forming the team logo over polished silver.
Most of my teammates start banging their fists on the wooden bench we’re sitting on or the walls of their stall behind them in anticipation of Danton’s pick.
Danton points at Brandon, and we all start clapping and hollering, yelling our support. “Baby Bouchard! This is for you tonight! That was a hell of a debut!”
Chants of Baby, Baby, Baby! break out all around the locker room as Brandon, wearing only the bottom half of his pads and uniform, clumsily makes his way across the locker room in his bare feet to claim his prize.
I make a mental note to get him some slides and try not to stare too hard at the definition of his abs that he’s developed since the last time I saw him.
Gone are the days of scrawny Baby Bouchard.
He may still be shorter than most of us, but now with his jersey and pads off, I can see that my initial thought when he first arrived was wrong.
He’s filled out quite nicely with well-defined muscle, particularly in his thighs and ass.
When Brandon reaches him, Danton hooks the belt around Brandon’s waist. An odd feeling washes over me as I watch this.
Never in my career as a hockey player have I felt this swell of desire flare up in me in regard to a teammate.
Teammates have always been off limits. Hell, after my experience as a teenager, any guy who laces up any kind of skates is off limits.
I know better. Spending most of your life in different stages of undress in a locker room full of your most base sexual desires is at the top of the list of places to set, hold, and maintain proper boundaries.
I’m used to seeing this sort of thing in a locker room.
There’s always some innocuous skin-to-skin contact.
So why is it that at this moment I want to be the person who hooks that ridiculous belt around Brandon’s trim waist?
Brandon
Everything feels surreal. In fact, the only thing tethering me to reality right now and reminding me that this is all not a dream is how unexpectedly heavy this wrestling belt is around my waist. There’s no way my mind would create such a solid and obscure detail if this was all a dream.
I really did make my NHL debut, and I really did score not just a goal, but what turned out to be the game-winning goal.
My parents are here in attendance and Ryan Christianson is sitting across from me in the locker room looking at me with a flushed face.
Curious, I stare longer than I should. When I catch Ryan’s gaze, I bite my lip and I see him lick his before he shakes his head as if ridding himself of a thought and begins hooting and hollering about our win again with everyone else.
The moment is gone. But I know I saw something familiar behind the way he was looking at me.
My stomach does a little flip. Could he be? I highly doubt it.
“Alright!” Coach Chris’s voice breaks through the din of the room and my thoughts as he enters the locker room.
He’s beaming with pride, and I can see why Ander told me he liked him so much at the Olympics.
“Excellent game tonight, everyone. I know the press are dying to get a hold of you all, so get cleaned up and we’ll let them in.
After that, beers are on me at Mickey’s! ”