I know what that means. We all do. We need to always act as a unit to the outside world. No signs of doubt or negativity, especially not when the press is around. The press has been giving us a hard time after a rocky—readshit—season. Something—a mere look or a small insignificant comment that isn’t really anything—can easily be taken out of context and blown out of proportion by an ambitious reporter out for blood. In professional sports, nothing can easily be turned into something.
A few mumbled agreements echo through the locker room, accompanied by head nods, muffled ‘Yes Coach,’ and ‘Yessirs.’ Looking somewhat assured that his guys will back him and the team management up, Coach’s tense posture seems to ease up just a tad.
“Questions?” he booms, beefy arms crossed in front of him, as he scans the room, which remains quiet, with a few head shakes here and there. “Great.” He forces a smile on his face, a finality to his voice while he claps his giant paws together. “Let’s meet the newest addition to our team, then!”
Chapter Five
Cody
This is what I’vebeen waiting for since the age of six. What all my teenage dreams have consisted of. Stepping out onto that ice. And not just any kind of ice, no. NHL ice. Perhaps I’m imagining things. Perhaps I’m still lightheaded from the past couple of days. After all, everything has happened in a flash—one minute, I was playing for the Dockers, and the next, I’m standing next to Coach Bassey in the locker room, being introduced to the rest of the Lions. After a quick round of nods, hesitant stares, and mumbledwelcomes,I quickly threw on my gear to catch up with the rest of the team for morning practice. Slightly on edge, I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. There’s a crispness in the air. A bite that spreads like a river of anticipation throughout my body, making the small hairs at the back of my neck rise to attention.
I can almost see them, skating across the ice to settle in front of the goal. All the great ones. I’ve watched their games numerous times, paying close attention to every little move, pass, and detail. Even though the stands are now empty, I can hear the roar of the crowd echoing against the sideboards, sweeping across the pristine ice as the names of the greatest ring through my head.Roy. Hasek. Brodeur. Sawchuk. Plante. AndMitchell.Yeah, perhaps one day my name will be added to that list of all-time great goalies. One can only dream, right?
Tonight’s game night. Our team is playing against the Tulsa Tornados. I don’t expect to get much time on the ice, if any, but just the idea of sitting on the bench, rooting for my new teammates is enough. It’s huge. Hell, it was huge when I started playing in the AHL, so this is fucking epic.Life-changing, Cody. It’s life changing.I know that. If I can make a decent impression on the team, I may get a shot—a real shot—at the best of the best. Even if I can’t stay in Colorado once McKinney returns from his injury, maybe I’ll be spotted by some other team, and they’ll trade me.
To be honest, I don’t care where I go—no place has felt even remotely like home since my dad and Danny disappeared down that road in a cloud of dust and broken promises. They can send me to the fucking North Pole for all I care, as long as I get to play hockey. I have zero preferences. No family I want to live close to. The farther away from Mom, the better.
My new teammates are piling out onto the ice, shooting the usual hockey shit, stretching, or adjusting their gear. They were on somewhat good behavior in front of Coach Bassey in the locker room, but now everyone seems to let loose a little before the morning skate. It’s strange how I know all of them by name, following every Lions’ game relentlessly like an obsessed fanboy, taking note of every move and pass. The defense players and their strengths and weaknesses are especially imprinted inmy mind. For a goalie, the defensemen are the most essential players on the team. Without a great defense, it doesn’t matter how well I play.
Crane is good, and he has what it takes to become great even. He possesses an unparalleled explosiveness, shooting up the ice like a rocket. Over the past few months, he’s become a key player, a weapon in transitions for the Lions. However, he still needs to work on his positioning in front of the goal. Virtanen, who’s currently doing his stretches, is wicked, too, not only a great defenseman but also known for his goal scoring skills using the slap shot. And he’s huge. Fucking intimidating to any player facing off with him.
And then, of course, there’s Carrington. Yeah, he doesn’t really seem to have any weaknesses—at least not that I’ve noticed—and he’s only twenty-two. If he’s this good this early in his career, there’s little doubt that he’s headed places and can easily be traded to one of the top teams in the League. Even though it’s only his second year in the NHL, it’s hard to find another defenseman who’s as creative and crafty a skater as Luke. He uses his edges as well as anyone else in the game. His ability to change directions and create space is pretty advanced for any defenseman, let alone for that young a player. And he scores a lot of goals.
Skating towards the crease of the right end goal, I bend to adjust my knee guards. I’m injury free at the moment—have been for a while now—but I know that playing on this level can easily cause a flare-up of my old meniscal injury. I didn’t have surgery at the time of the injury. The orthopedic surgeon initially suggested minimally invasive surgery, but my mom couldn’t afford the copay on my insurance, so I ended up with a conservative rehab program instead. It wasn’t ideal; the old injury still bothers me from time to time, but I know how to move so as not to expose my left knee too much.
A couple of the other players linger around in front of the goal, engulfed in a loud, animated conversation, hands gesturing wildly, broad smiles on their flushed faces. They each nod briefly when they see me, but don’t stop their hefty teasing.
“Yo, Finland, when are you gonna get that gap fixed?” Crane smirks obnoxiously, skating lazily in a circle around Virtanen.
“Never,” the Finn booms, a cheeky grin lighting up his face that’s usually the image of calm during games. Eerily calm, actually. Staying back a little, I start doing some hip and groin stretches, loosening up my joints.
“Whatcha mean, never?” Buckhammer asks, adjusting his goalie mask, his voice slightly muffled.
“As in I’m not. Greta likes it,” Virtanen grins, licking his bottom lip suggestively, a dopey look on his face.
“Greta? What the fuck does your woman have to do with it?” Crane shouts, a puzzled frown between his brows.
“She says it makes the cunnilingus more pleasurable,” Virtanen looks smug as he fails to bite back a deep moan.
“The what?” Buckhammer looks like steam is about to come out of his ears, while I have a fairly good idea where this is going.
“Cunnilingus,” the huge Finn shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world to talk casually about oral sex with your teammates. Maybe it’s a Scandinavian thing? They are, after all, less prudish than us. “When I eat her conny,” Virtanen continues unfazed.
“Her conny?” Crane repeats.
“He means her fucking pussy, dude,” the Swedish left wing, Persson, interrupts, shaking his head. “Don’t you Yankees know anythin’? Spendin’ too much time in Bible school and too little between the…” he trails off, smacking his lips loudly.
“Ewww, bro, that’s gross… sorry, Finland, not Greta but the name.Conny.Greta’s not gross. She’s a stellar hockey player and a fine specimen of a Swede woman,” Buckhammer rushes out,and Carrington bends over in a laughing fit, while he manages to squeak, “Swede.”
“What?” Buckhammer looks even more confused at this point, looking at me as if I, by some miracle, know what the correct term of reference for a person from Sweden is. I happen to know, but hell if I’m going to give my two cents. Eyeing Coach, who’s engaged in an animated conversation with one of the assistant coaches, both bent over a whiteboard, I crouch to do a seated-frog stretch.
“Swede. It’s called a Swede,” Carrington smirks, rotating his stick in front of him, alternating hands, to warm up his wrists. “Not a Swede woman, you dufus.”
“Well, excuse me, Mr. Languagist,” Buckhammer mimics Luke’s East Coast dialect.
“Linguist,” Carrington grins, tipping his chin challengingly, a provocative glimmer in his coffee-brown eyes before he does some neck stretches.
“What?” Buckhammer looks close to imploding from information overload.
