“It’s called a linguist, dumbass. Not a languagist,” Carrington shakes his head, sighing, just as our right wing, Nowak, skates up to us, resulting in a mumbled, “Here we fucking go again” from Crane. The Polish player was added to the roster in March and is known for being somewhat of a brute on the ice, but the team comedian whenever he’s interviewed by the press, making him a quick fan favorite.
“Hey, guys, why did the hockey stick break up with the puck?” Nowak bounces on his skates, eyes beaming brightly, apparently eager to share his words of wisdom with the rest of us.
“Dude… not again,” Persson groans, rolling his eyes.
“Go on, man,” Carrington speaks as he throws a quick wink at me, a knowing look on his face.
“It felt the relationship was too one-sided!” Nowak cackles while the rest of the guys groan between chuckles.
“Man, that’s horrid,” Buckhammer shakes his head.
“Then why are you fucking laughing?” Nowak counters.
“He’s not,” Virtanen throws in. “It’s just the way his face is. He’s kinda funny-looking.”
“Fuck off,” the huge Texan fails to hide his grin.
“It’s true,” Carrington laughs. “You are kinda funny-looking, dude.” He winks in my direction, where I’m getting up from my crouching position on the ice, his carefree smile contagious, instantly making me feel at ease and included, although I’m not an active participant in their banter.
It’s impossible not to be swept away and laugh, too. The energy between the guys carries an underlying fondness that comes from being together all the time, and with each jab and teasing remark, I feel my nervousness slowly dissipate. There seems to be an unspoken consensus between them they’re going easy on me since it’s my first day, but I know that I’ll soon be the butt of a joke like the rest of them. I can’t wait. The teasing comes easily while they do their stretches, never flowing into something mean or nasty. I realize that I’ve never really had that kind of relationship with anyone. At least, not since Danny disappeared from my life. I miss it but I don’t know how to change it. It’s like he and Dad took a part of me with them I’ll never get back. It will always be missing, reminding me of what I’ve lost. I’m pretty sure that if you carve my chest open and inspect my heart, there’ll be two holes, one for Danny and another for my dad.
“You must know a better joke than that,” someone—Carrington—skates up next to me, whispering against my right ear, his warm breath barely coasting my skin, the smell of spearmint lingering in the air. “Please, save this sad excuse for a comedy show,” he smiles, a lock of wavy, dark brown hairpeeking out from behind his helmet. We’re looking straight at each other. I’m a few inches taller than him, but still not so tall that he needs to tilt his head.
“I don’t…” I mumble as I look down at the ice. I hate being singled out, although there’s nothing but genuine friendliness in Luke’s eyes.
“Please, dude,” he continues, nudging my left elbow briefly, the innocent touch sending tiny electric sparks flickering through my chest. Shit, I need to contain my inner fanboy and remind myself that I’m one of them now. No longer on the outside looking in on the pros but part of the team, a spot that I’ve earned fair and square. Still, I can’t help but feel a little starstruck. “Anything’s better than this,” he continues. “Please, put us out of our misery.” Looking back up, I’m met by a pair of hopeful eyes and the softest of smiles, his lips unusually pink.
“Uhm, okay,” I shrug, the familiar tingling in my fingers starting whenever I feel put on the spot.
“Yo, shut up!” Luke hollers and the guys go quiet, looking in our direction. “Mitchell’s got one.” They all look at me expectantly, and at that moment, I want nothing more than to turn around on my heel and skate all the way back to Arizona. Swallowing back the building anxiety, I zero in on that wayward lock of brown hair lingering across Luke’s forehead. If I can just tell the joke to that shiny lock of silky hair, I’ll be okay.
“Uhm,” I start, noticing that my voice shakes a little. “It’s a little long.”
“That’s what she said!” Nowak wheezes, immediately sobering when Riley Cameron, who’s joined us, sends him a death glare. Damn, the Canadian is even more intimidating in real life.
“Go on,” Luke smiles at me, and the tightening sensation in my chest eases up just a tad. I’ve always hated speaking in front of people, especially in school. I would take Chinese water torture any day of the week over reading in front of a classroomof my peers, just waiting for me to slip up. Like a school of piranhas just waiting for that small sign of weakness, that one little opening, and they would go right for my jugular. But this isn’t school, and I’m not a kid anymore. So, fuck it. Wetting my chapped lips, I continue.
“Okay, so a Finn,” I gaze briefly at Virtanen whose stoic face is unreadable, “a Swede,” Persson chuckles quietly, “and a Norwegian get caught in a storm while sailing and crash into an island. The island is inhabited by cannibals.” I look quickly at Luke, who just nods for me to go on, the rest of the group going strangely quiet. “They’re given three tasks and if they fail at any one of them, they’ll be eaten. First, they gotta drink a bottle of moonshine, then they gotta go into a tiger cave and kill a tiger, and last, they have to find a woman and have sex with her.” I hate these kinds of jokes, but they always seem to be the crude ones that get the most cheers and laughs in the locker rooms, no matter which team I’ve played for. “The Swede goes first. He passes out after drinking half of the bottle and a cannibal comes and eats him.”
“What?” Persson interrupts, a disappointed frown on his forehead, causing the rest of the guys to snigger.
“Next goes the Norwegian,” I continue. “He drinks the bottle and stumbles to the tiger cave. He enters and after a few screams and roars, it quiets down, and he never returns.” Looking at Virtanen, I notice the anticipation in the air as I hold everyone’s attention. It feels strangely…okay-ish. As if Luke’s presence next to me transmits some sort of unprecedented calm and… safety, even, causing my heart to slow down to a quietthump, thump, thump. “Now, it’s the Finn’s turn. He drinks the bottle, but that just gets him tipsy. He drinks another one, but that still leaves him wanting more. He drinks a third bottle and feels like he’s ready.”
“Fuck yes!” Virtanen booms, pumping his fist. “Born ready!” I can’t help laughing with the rest of the guys before I finish the joke.
“He makes his way into the cave and a lot of weird sounds start coming from inside. After about five minutes, he comes out with a smile on his face, ‘Soo, where isss thiss tiger... *hiccup* I’m supposed to kill?’”
It’s funny how everyone looks towards Virtanen simultaneously. As if his reaction to the joke will indicate how the rest of the guys are supposed to react. At first, the Finn’s face remains indecipherable, just as stone-faced as usual. Then, a small nerve starts ticking under his left eye, and I wonder if it’s trying to Morse some sort of death sentence at me. Then, an almost unnoticeable smirk pulls at the right corner of Virtanen’s mouth, and I realize that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that this can go either way. Finally, a snort followed by a deep roar erupts from the Finn’s large frame, his cheeks blazing red, as he starts howling with laughter.
“Greta is gonna love this,” he wheezes between gasps for air. “She’s gonna fucking love this, Mitchell,” this giant of a man near cries, wiping at his eyes, the rest of the guys following suit, laughing loudly, too.
“Good one, Mitchell.” Buckhammer grins, skating up next to me. “No easy thing to get a laugh outta Virtanen.”
“Gentlemen, attention please,” Coach Bassey’s deep bass suddenly booms through the easy banter that erupted following my joke. “Let’s try something new today because I’m tired of getting my ass handed to me by the other coaches!” When Nowak continues blabbering, Coach turns up the volume just an octave. “I’m sorry, Nowak, but are you done or am I interrupting something important?” Everyone looks to the right wing, who shakes his head furiously. “All right, then,” Coach yells, clapping his huge paws together. “Line changes! Kennedy,center. Tanner, right wing. Walter, left.” The players quickly skate towards the assistant coach, who’s handing out blue vests. “Other end,” Coach continues, checking his small whiteboard. “Bardét, center. Nowak, right-wing. And Persson, left.” Coach Bassey continues to shout out the line changes, moving to the defense, while the other defense line is handed red vests.
As soon as the players have been divided into two, they start doing drills against each other. I know the pre-game morning skate routine like the back of my hand. You can wake me at four in the morning and I probably won’t be able to tell you my birthday. But a pre-game skate? I can list that shit in detail for you—anytime, anyplace. To say that I’m focused and dedicated is the understatement of the century. I’ve lived and breathed hockey since that very first skate, where I spent more time on my ass than actually skating.
“Yo, Mitchell,” Luke skates up next to me, holding out a red vest in front of him, that ever-present easy smile on our defenseman’s face. “Looks like you’re with me,” his warm breath sweeps across my chin, a contrast to the chill air between us. “Let’s go,” he winks, nodding at the goal, and I can all but follow, my skates falling in line behind the hypnoticwhoosh, whoosh, whooshof his skates.
