But on some level I'm aware that I trying to do something—anything—to help me feel like myself. Normal Lou is the team joker. The guy who pulls pranks and makes everyone laugh. Normal Loudoes notwake up covered in sweat because he was dreaming about his best friend’s O-face.
“Ta-da,” I whisper, stepping back to admire my handiwork.
Sinclair will step onto the ice uptight and rigid, like usual, and go ass over teakettle.
And I will laugh. The guys will laugh. It might take him a minute, but eventually, Sinclair will laugh too, and the world will make sense again.
I stick the tape in my pocket and head for my own stall, a genuine grin finally cracking through the tension in my jaw.
Chapter 2
Tanner
The locker room smells like expensive cologne mixed with the faint, permanent undertone of sweat that no amount of cleaning crew magic can completely get out. The scent of success, of the show.
I sit at my stall, staring at my knee pads. Custom-molded, lightweight in Sasquatch blue and green with red accents. My leg bounces against my will. I’ve been here a few months now, but my anxiety is still waiting for the other shoe to drop and for all this to be yanked away from me. I clamp a hand over my thigh to stop it, but the energy just transfers to my jaw instead.
Today’s a light practice day, which should not make me nervous, but tell that to my brain. Morning skate will be followed by a few hours off before we fly to Calgary this afternoon for tomorrow night’s game against our divisional rivals. But there’sno such thing as a “light” day when you’re the twenty-three-year-old rookie gunning for the job of one of hockey’s top goaltenders.
The other guys are starting to trickle in. Charlie Reese-McLeod’s British accent reaches me from down the hall as he raves about some bakery in Pike Place Market that sells scones “bigger than a baby’s head.” A few guys laugh. Everyone’s laid-back and chill.
I don’t do laid-back.
I reach for my skates. Top-of-the-line, as you’d expect for an NHL player. My first pair of skates was three sizes too big and held together by duct tape and hope. My grandpa picked them up at a garage sale. I remember him handing them to me, a wide grin on his face, while telling me it’s not the skates that make the save, it’s the goalie in them.
Grandpa was the one who taught me to love hockey. My mom traveled often for work when I was growing up. She was a sales rep for a paper products company; think Dunder-Mifflin, but way less funny. Because she was away so much, I spent a lot of time with my grandparents. She hit her head on the glass ceiling more times than I can count, but once it became clear that I had some talent, she always did everything she could to make sure I was able to keep playing this expensive sport.
I’m not going to let her down. I refuse to be the guy who got his shot at the show and blew it because he wasn’t focused or didn’t put in the work.
Suddenly, a deep voice booms through the room. “Good morning, sunshines!”
Louis Tremblay.
I don’t look up right away, trying to focus on my routine, but our number one goalie has a gravitational pull, and it’s impossible not to know when he’s nearby. He sucks all the oxygen out of the room and replaces it with chaotic energy.
When I glance over, he’s standing in front of his stall, holding a coffee cup that seems absurdly small in his giant hand while he chats with Gino Santucci, one of our defensemen. His dark, shaggy mop of hair is a mess, as usual. He looks like he just rolled out of bed, and if I were a betting man, I’d bet that bed wasn’t empty. Lou’s always got a different girl on his arm or, more accurately, in his bed. He’s incredibly attractive in that annoyingly effortless, “I woke up like this” way. From the other side of the room, I catch the glint in his chocolate-brown eyes with the little crinkles at the corners because he spends so damn much time laughing.
He catches me looking, and his grin widens as he zeroes in on me and strolls in my direction. He’s obviously been here a while. Probably interrupting the trainers or eating all the bagels in the player lounge while I’ve been sitting here mentally calculating save percentages.
“Hey, Sinc,” he calls out, leaning casually against the stall next to mine. “You okay?
“Just focusing,” I say, keeping my voice level. “Visualizing.”
“Visualizing? Before a practice?” He chuckles as he pulls off his hoodie. Underneath, he’s wearing a tight gray Sasquatch T-shirt, and the way it clings to his chest is borderline obscene. “You know they don’t give out trophies for ‘Most Intense Guy in the Locker Room,’ right?” he says with a wink.
“They don’t give it out for treating practice like social hour either,” I mutter under my breath.
But he hears me and laughs, a bright, unbothered sound that grates on my nerves. “Touché, kid. Touché.”
He doesn’t get it. He doesn’t have to. He’s Louis Tremblay. He’s won two Cups, plus two Vezina Trophies for the best goalie in the entire league. He can afford to be the class clown. I can’t. I’m the guy from the farm team who still needs to prove he belongs at this level.
I turn back to my gear, sliding my left foot into my skate. It’s comfortably tight. I yank on the laces, starting at the toe and working up, tightening until the boot feels like an extension of my leg.
I finish lacing up, throw my mask on top of my head, and grab my stick. My heart does that little flutter it always does right before I step out there. The ice is the only place where things always make sense to me. Angles. Trajectories. Velocity. The math of stopping a puck doesn’t care if you’re insecure or anxious, straight or queer, or rich or poor. The only thing that matters is being in the right position.
I stand, stomping my feet to settle into my skates. I feel strong and ready. My legs are still warm from the light squats I did earlier, and I’m primed to play my best. I know it’s only a practice, but every moment on the ice is a chance to show my coaches what I can do.
“See you out there, boys!” Charlie shouts as he heads for the door.
