Chapter 14 #2
Now, I gotta worry about makin’ sure no one says anything that gives away anything before Gilly and me get the chance to tell him.
Fuck. Me.
It’s probably gonna be my little bro that lets the shit slip.
Like a Freudian fuck you or somethin’.
Blanc walks with us to the locker room preventing the conversation from resuming anything we were previously talking about; however, Bronny’s bitching about wanting more drive time actually comes in handy.
The buffer prevents anyone from letting Gilly’s name join the conversation again as well as acts as ideal segue for me to escort him to grab spare skates from the equipment management office.
Once we’re laced up with 3Ps in our possession – Bronny with one Snowman lets him borrow and me my favorite pracky stick – and put on light gear, we join the group in the rink, not surprised to find almost the entire roster ready to play.
That’s how it goes with this team.
We’re together in this shit.
Whether we’re in the barn or out of it.
Kinda one of the reasons I have hope that no one will blow the whole me bangin’ the coach’s sister thing before it’s time to reveal it.
Huh.
They do gender reveals on the ice.
Is there one for like…couple reveals?
Maybe like purple?
Or…green?
Green implyin’ they’re related to a team member?
Would that be weird?
Sounds weird.
Even for me.
What is surprising about our current ice sitch?
The setup.
It reminds me of one I haven’t seen since Pee-Wee.
Wait.
Mini mites.
“Welcome home, boys,” Blanc warmly greets us all from where he’s standing beside the equipment position at the faceoff circle. “Surprised to see me, aye?”
The collective murmurs are happy.
Even mine.
Yeah, this was not what I had in mind for the morning and smelling like his sister in the best ways possible just became even less of a good call now that he can probably smell me, but in general?
I like Coach here.
He watches out for us.
And he’s easily sixty times less terrifying than Hot Rocket.
“Well, despite this being nothing offic’, I’mma start this sesh, the way I think matters most.” His eyes begin gradually scanning the crowd.
“Most of you know our motto – as it trickles down through the ranks – but for those that don’t, prepare to learn it.
” He momentarily pauses to make heavier eye contact with a couple of the new callups.
“And live it.” Blanc spreads his attention around.
“You will see these words. You will hear these words. You will taste, smell, and touch these words in this barn and for this barn.” The small shift on his skates assists in keeping him balanced.
“You will say them. You will believe them. You will be them whenever you lace up regardless of if it’s offic’ or not. Am I making myself clear?”
“Yes, Coach!” gets barked back.
“Cap,” he effortlessly calls on Alexeyev who has positioned himself on the other side of Snowman. “Tell the boys what those words are.”
“Work hard.”
“Ra!” we roar out in tandem at the same time we pound a single fist against our chests.
“Play hard.”
The gesture is instantly repeated.
“Fuck hard.”
One more repeat of the action is executed prompting Coach to take control back afterward.
“You will see the edited version of that in the locker room and use it in interviews; however, the entire motto matters, just like every single member of this franchise that signs up to put this dragon,” he taps the emblem on his jacket, “on their chest whether they’re front office or scrubbing the team bus.
And you will treat them that way, or you will not play.
You will treat them that way or you will not stay.
” Blanc folds his arms back across his chest. “Have I made myself heard?”
“Yes, Coach!”
“Good.” A suspicious smile suddenly slips into place. “Now, everyone knows about Groffee, right?”
Holy. Fuck.
He knows?!
No.
Maybe.
No.
He would’ve said shit earlier.
Not call me out in front of the boys first.
Panic strives not to skate around my stare as hard to read glances are shot in my direction.
“And here, on this team, we’re a family, so when one of our brothers needs help watching out for one of his own – especially a younger sibling – we share that responsibility. Understood?”
“Yes, Coach!” my teammates shout, relieving me of the whipped-up dread.
“Groffee Jr.-”
“That’s somehow worse than Tiny Tendy,” grumbles my brother under his breath.
“-will have your back and you will have his.”
“Ra!” escapes each of us alongside the hand motion.
Bronny immediately stands a little taller.
Prouder.
Almost as if honored to be an extended member of the team.
Almost like he needed this.
A reminder that he’s wanted, not a burden.
The DJ scratch noise suddenly appears in my head prompting additional pause.
Is that why he bonds with Gilly so easily?
‘Cause she gets that?
‘Cause that’s all she’s ever wanted?
And is this moment what I constantly provide for her?
Fuck…that both moves my soul and breaks my heart.
It’s somethin’ bittersweet.
Like a Dru Hill ballad.
Or an early Tim McGraw hit.
Or a Billy Joel tuneskie about his first wife.
“Alright then.” An impish smile suddenly slips into place. “You boys ready to have some fun?”
“Yes, Coach!” we retort in tandem with tapping our sticks on the ice.
“We’re taking it back, boys,” he warmly chortles as he tips his towards the set up. “Superman time!”
Light laughs begin amongst us; however, unlike in the past couple of seasons, no one stops the track.
Insists we skip it.
We all simply grin at the chance to rewind to a time when the heartbeat of hockey was about good times and good vibes versus game time and paycheck pride.
“You’re gonna start at that end behind the goal line,” Blanc casually points, “wheel to the beams,” he moves the gesture to the foam structures, “Superman,” his hand briefly flattens to mimic the sliding motion we’re expected to execute, “and shoot the puck from wherever Tiny Tendy-”
“Bronskie,” Frosty calls out in his defense prompting Coach to crookedly grin.
Nod in acknowledgment.
“Bronskie lands it.”
“Na zemi?” Matty questions from where he’s leaning against the glass.
“Yeah,” I instantly answer. “You shoot from the ground if you can’t get back up on your blades in time.”
“Just like you would na chasakh,” Cap reminds prior to demonstrating the meaning of the word with the top of his twig. “Tick. Tick. Tick.”
“Da,” Blanc good naturedly chuckles at the same time he points to our grumpy Russian leader.
“It feels like mini mite shit but think about how many times players end up on the ice, fighting on their stomachs for the biscuit.” Coach slowly begins skating backwards.
“It’s about gaining control even in the least likely situations. ”
Frosky and Cap noticeably cut me scolding glances.
Not that I need them.
“Bronskie,” Blanc summons with one hand while pulling a puck out from his other, “with me.”
“Back,” Cap commands to the rest of us, herding the group as is his job. Once we’re there, he instructs, “Wahl, you’re up first.”
“Done son!” Kolby Wahl – aka WonderWahl – one of our defensemen enthusiastically declares and skates to the starting blue line.
“Clap him in boys,” Snowman’s insistence barely precedes him tapping his stick on the ice.
We join Frosky in on the action, hyping Wahl up.
Showing our support.
Solidarity.
It doesn’t take long for him to begin a fast-paced skate across the ice with us shouting out typical motivational shit nor does it take much effort for him to dive forward sliding under the foam like limbo bar.
His plunge receives hoots and hollers and whistles, yet he maintains his focus on sloppily swatting at the puck my little brother has fired off in his direction.
There isn’t time for him to scramble up onto his skates.
Hell, there’s barely even time for him to get into a better position for his stick to simply reach the rubber prize leading his large, long arms to flap around like a pissed off owl in hopes of getting some sort of force behind his hit.
Together, we watch, cheering and tapping for the small black object to slide further but it barely makes it to the crease.
“Fuckkkk,” Wahl rumbles unhappily upon rising to his feet.
“You’re still a fucking beauty!” shouts one of the Goonie Tunes.
“Such a fucking beauty!” echoes his brother.
“That shit is wayyyyyy harder than it was in the minis,” he snickers during his return, dusting away the ice in the process.
One by one, the team takes turns wheeling.
Sliding.
Swiping.
And one by one, players miss.
Bounce it off the post.
Laugh and shake their heads at the perceived failures.
Get back to the group and assist in cheering on the next player.
“Come on, boys!” Coach cackles from the opposite end of the rink. “We need one!” Bronny collects the puck from near the net. “We just need one!”
“Ten-dyyyyyyy!” Matty howls with a hit to my back. “You got this!”
“Bring us that dub, Grofffeeee!” Frosky instantly joins in.
“Nu vot,” Cap begins nodding, boyish grin growing, stick taps continuing. “Nu vot! Nu vot! Nu vot!”
His fired-up nature naturally spreads to the rest of the team – despite them having no idea what he’s saying, which is just “here we go”.
I happily welcome the energy…the vibe…turn their taps into a tuneskie and let everything else fade away exactly as I would if I were between the pipes.
Getting a small rush up to the blue line aids in the diving part for the foam obstacles.
Cold air unforgivingly slaps my face.
Motivates me to keep moving.
Keep pumping.
Get lower to the ground.
Sticks taps continuously thunder around the rink acting like the applause of a packed barn stomping and clapping along to the Queen classic I always look forward to hearing.
Waiting a bit longer to flop to my stomach to glide underneath the bar gives me the additional distance needed to not only get to the puck while it’s still soaring but to flick it back towards the net where it hits the crossbar and drops dramatically into the white, knotless nylon.
“Gooooallllll!!!!!” Coach excitedly shouts and throws both arms into the air.
“Gooooallll!!!” the boys immediately repeat prior to banging their sticks even harder, the vibrations actively shaking my chest right alongside my laughter.
Man, I love what I do.
And who I do it with.
And for.
And I know – without a single doubt – that this season is going to be the best season yet.