Chapter 5
NEW GUY, TAKE FOUR
Hayes
My car probably wants to know why we’re cruising through the streets of San Francisco and not downtown Los Angeles.
Four months since the end of my season there, I’m heading to the Avengers facility a week ahead of the new season here.
I’ve got a Stone Zenith rock anthem turned up and doing its damnedest to drown out an annoying hint of nerves and a definite case of here we go again.
I grit my teeth, refusing to give in. Eventually, I’ll meet a team that wants to keep me. No idea if it’ll be this team, so all I can do is keep my head down, play well, and avoid trouble.
I hang a right onto Van Ness on instinct, grateful I don’t have to learn a new city this time. I grew up in San Francisco, and even though I’ve bounced between Toronto, Seattle, and Los Angeles, I’m back home now.
That means I’ll need to arrange for tickets for Dad and his girlfriend so they can come to my first game. Not my mom. Never my mom. And…that’s brought to you by all the things I don’t want to think about. I turn the music up until I can’t hear a damn thing in my head.
The chorus thrums in my bones as I pull into the players’ lot and cut the engine.
I glance around, scanning for arriving teammates but seeing none.
I can’t coast on the fact that I know the team captain.
Don’t want to look like the popular guy’s friend.
I’ve got to do this myself. I looked up everyone online, memorized the roster, and matched names to faces to try to make this transition easier.
Here it goes: New Guy, take four.
* * *
The Avengers PR guy waits for me inside the players’ entrance.
Oliver looks exactly like his photo, right down to the purple dress shirt—the Avengers team’s color.
With neatly combed brown hair, freckles that stand out against his pale complexion, and a warm, welcoming grin, he looks every bit the PR guy.
I stick out a hand, eager to go first. “You must be Oliver Redwood.” He’s emailed me a few times since my agent dropped the news of the start-of-the-season trade a couple days ago.
“And you’re the new star left winger,” he says as we shake hands.
That merits a small grin, but I don’t let it linger because he’s a PR guy and that’s a PR thing to say.
“Thanks, but check back with me in a couple weeks and we’ll see if that fits.” Humility goes a lot further than braggadocio.
“No doubt it will. We’re glad you’re here. You’re only going to be the subject of, oh, say, all the media coverage for your first few games, so I figure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Bring it on.” The media doesn’t scare me. I’ve had four years to sell the same line—I’m just happy to be here. I don’t let the media see anything I don’t want them to see.
With a smile, Oliver gestures to the corridor in front of us. “Love that attitude. Let me give you the tour.”
* * *
An hour later, I’ve seen the athletic trainers’ room, the workout rooms, the video review room, and, obviously, the ice.
I’ve met the general manager, the ops manager, the equipment manager, and the equipment manager’s assistant.
Violet, Jamal, Mike, and Doggo. I caught that his real name is Doug, but Doggo works for me.
I’ve also met Parvati, the social media manager and Oliver’s right-hand woman.
As we walk down a swank corridor with cool blue lights and Avengers logos plastered over the walls, Oliver tells me, “This might all change soon. We’re likely changing our name this season.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Well, a certain movie franchise has made searching for the team name a fruitless mission.”
“What options are in the running?”
Oliver places his finger on his lips. “I’m under strict orders.”
“Fair enough,” I say. I catch the click-clack of heels on concrete, growing louder. The sound is sharp and purposeful, and it can only signal one thing.
The owner is here.
Oliver glances behind him and then straightens like he’s a ruler. “That’s Jessie,” he whispers out the side of his mouth. I stand straighter too. “Don’t let the sweet name fool you.”
Jessie Rose is one of three female owners in the NHL and an absolutely fearless competitor. The Texas native is a former tennis star who made millions with a wicked backhand and then turned those millions into billions. She’s said to love winning more than she loves Louboutins.
I turn to greet the boss. She’s polished and poised in a dark pink suit, with tight, shoulder-length curls, warm brown skin, and deep brown eyes.
She stops in front of me, and in a twang familiar from post-match interviews, she says, “Hayes Armstrong. At last, I finally got you.” Her pink-lipsticked grin spreads as wide as her home state.
“I’m so glad we convinced you to join us. ”
“Thrilled to be here,” I say, shaking her offered hand. But I don’t let her compliment go to my head. I’m sure this is stuff that she says to new players.
“Cade and I watched you play last year when we were in Los Angeles,” she says, referring to her shark of a sports agent husband. “And I sure hope you saved some of those goals for us.”
Translation: you better stay good.
“I’ve got lots in the tank, Ms. Rose.”
“Good, because I’ve got a bet going with my besties on whose team will go farther this year, and I don’t want to lose to Lacey or Hannah. You’re not going to let me eat crow, are you?”
She says it with a straight face, and I answer like a good soldier. “No, ma’am.”
“Play hard and get me some wins, and we’ll get along just fine.” The smile vanishes, and she stares sharply at me. “Because I didn’t trade to be disappointed.” She checks her watch and the smile flashes back on, full wattage. “Don’t hesitate to let me know if you need a single thing.”
I won’t need a damn thing, but still I say, “I will. Thank you.”
She heads off, click-clacking down the hall in a cloud of expensive perfume and the confidence of a Bugatti.
When she’s out of earshot, Oliver lets loose a huge breath, then shudders. “I want to grow up to be just like her,” he whispers.
I laugh. “I get that.”
Oliver rolls his shoulders like he’s shaking off an encounter with a lioness, then resumes his pace, guiding me down the hall, chatting more about the potential new team name, some of the plans for the contests, and Jessie’s hope that the new name won’t become the next big damn movie franchise.
When we reach the locker room, I brace myself.
This is a bigger test than meeting the owner.
Oliver swings open the door, and inside it’s boisterous.
A tune from Muse blasts from someone’s speaker.
There’s a game of cards in one corner, a debate over the best barbecue in another.
I scan the faces, matching them with the names I’ve researched.
Oliver clears his throat for attention, and the noise lessens a bit. “This is Hayes Armstrong. Last season with LA, he had twenty-nine goals, sixty-three assists, and ninety-two points. We just traded for him, and he’s going to do great things.”
The praise is embarrassing. I don’t want to come across as a guy who buys his own press.
My stats aren’t bad—they’re fucking awesome.
But they are better than the guy they let go in free agency last season—Alf Nilsson.
The team brought up a left winger from the minors to replace him but word from my agent is he wasn’t ready. So, here I am.
Nobody acts too impressed as Oliver talks me up. No one except the right winger, who whistles when the PR guy is done. Brady Clampett is from a hockey dynasty in Vancouver. His dad and brother played before him. “Let’s call him Hot Shit, then,” Brady offers with a lopsided grin.
Ah hell. The nicknames have begun already. Please don’t let Hot Shit stick. Pretty fucking please, universe.
Over by his stall, Stefan rips off his Number Eighteen jersey with his name, Christiansen, on the back, then turns around. “Nah, I vote for New Alf. What do you like better, New Alf?”
I rein in a grin. Stefan loves to stir the pot. Plus, he’s not treating me like his kid brother, which I really fucking appreciate.
Of course, he can joke. He has a bad-ass nickname—The Viking. But the star forward from Copenhagen has earned it. He’s three years older than me, but we played together in college. He’s fearless on the ice.
My nickname in the last few years of my college career was my favorite—The Iceman. But nothing gets you labeled a prima donna faster than trying to pick your own nickname.
“Whatever works for you guys.” The less I say the better.
“Let’s call him…him,” someone shouts. I turn to the deep voice and see the goalie, a guy named Devon Ryland, but goes by Dev. He’s from Minnesota by way of San Diego—born by the beach, raised in the snow, he’s said. What matters most is he’s a brick wall in the net. Well, a flexible brick wall.
And he has some good ideas. I can work with him.
But Dev shakes his head, dismissing his own idea. “Nope. I’m wrong. That’s gonna get confusing.” He scratches his jaw, then a slow smile spreads. “Hey, you,” Dev says, droll enough for the desert.
Stefan’s brow pinches. “Hey, what?”
Dev points at me. “That’s his nickname. Hey You.”
Stefan nods a few times, then tests it out. “Hey You.” He gives me a onceover. “Yeah, I fucking like that.”
The captain polls the crowd, and nearly everyone seems to agree. Stefan turns back to me. “New guy, you’re now…Hey You.”
That beats Hot Shit.
* * *
During practice, I play fast and tight as we take turns shooting into the open net, then Dev moves in front of the goal and does his damnedest to stop us. He’s a brick wall, all right. We take turns shooting puck after puck, but eventually I slide one past him.
Then another.
Some might say it’s only practice. But this time on the ice with a whole new team is absolutely critical to fitting in. And to staying. I’ve got to be at my best at all times.
Every team has its own rhythm, its own routine. But after changing teams so many times, one of my greatest strengths has become adapting. I have to. I don’t have any other choice but to fit into their style.
When practice ends and I skate off the ice and into the tunnel, Stefan shouts to Dev, “Hey You is handling the laundry, right?”
“Yeah, and that’s perfect,” Dev says to Stefan. “Because he can deal with the mascot thing then.”
Let the errand hazing begin. This is a good sign. I bet the mascot thing is related to the possible name change.
After I shower and get dressed, a former Avengers player strides into the locker room.
It’s Ryker Samuels, one of the top defenders in the league.
Huh. Wonder what he’s up to. But he says hi to his former teammates, who are still clearly his friends, then grabs some shirts from his locker before he catches up with Dev and Stefan.
“You don’t even work here. Why the fuck are you here?” Stefan says.
But I don’t catch his answer. A minute later, Ryker says a quick hello to me and nods to the laundry cart.
I grab it and push it into the hall, both Ryker and Stefan following behind me.
“Hey You, here’s the deal,” Ryker says, and I’m glad they gave the ex-Avenger my nickname.
He gestures to the end of the hall. “Gotta separate the whites. Don’t forget Christiansen likes the lavender dryer sheets. ”
“Wrong, Samuels. It’s the daisy ones I dig.”
Ryker claps my shoulder. “Don’t fuck up the captain’s laundry,” he says, then he rattles off ten more laundry specs, it seems.
“And make sure to fold everything neatly and leave it by the stalls,” Stefan adds.
I don’t expect I’ll actually be washing anyone’s gear, but I understand how hazing works. I repeat the instructions and start toward the laundry room, but Ryker clears his throat. “And one more thing. You have to get the mascot costume. It’s being cleaned. Thank fuck.”
His relief sounds specific enough to make me wonder, “Why ‘thank fuck?’”
Stefan answers. “The last guy got busted for renting his sorry ass out to after-hours parties, making appearances in costume, then dealing drugs. Someone snapped a pic of him taking off the head of his costume to snort a line.”
I blink. “That’s a choice, I guess.” A bad choice.
“New one just signed on. For a couple months,” Stefan says. “Take the costume to Equipment Room A.”
“Got it,” I say and try again to leave.
But neither the current nor the former Avenger is done with me yet. “And listen, you’d better be a nice fucking guy when you bring it to her.” Ryker’s tone is stern. “And don’t hit on her.”
Stefan snorts, and I laugh in surprise at the idea of hitting on someone at work. “Not a problem.”
“No, seriously. Don’t,” Ryker says, staring sharply at me.
Stefan’s laughter grows louder. “Oh, man. We don’t have to listen to you anymore on that count, Samuels.”
I’m pretty sure I’m missing the joke, but I’m not going to let on.
They send me on my way, and when I enter the laundry room, Doggo shakes his head in amusement. “Why are you bringing me the laundry I was about to go collect? It’s literally my job, and no one takes Doggo’s job.”
“Wait till you hear what they want done,” I say.
Doggo rolls his eyes. “I can only imagine.”
“And I’m supposed to get the mascot costume,” I add.
“Yup. Let me grab Blob.” It takes me a beat to realize Blob is the name of the outfit. He rounds the corner and hefts a large, furry, purple thing into his arms, carrying it to me. “Here you go, kid.”
Kid.
That’s not bad. Well, from a guy twice my age.
“Thanks, man,” I say.
Carrying it down the hall, I run into Dev, who’s scrolling on his phone. He looks up and nods at the purple blob in my arms. “You taking Blob to Ryker’s sister?”
Um. I have no idea. “Does she work here?”
“She’s the new mascot,” Dev explains, then returns to his phone.
The don’t hit on her comment makes a lot more sense now. But when I reach the equipment room and see the woman waiting outside, I know it’s too late.
I’ve already hit on her. And now it looks like I’m working with her.
Yes, universe, the joke is on me.