"What's your point?"
"My point," Hunter says, grinning, "is that you're more likely to get one of us to do your laundry for a month than hand over a sister."
"Harsh man…”
The locker room door swings open, and Luka Popovich strolls in, looking annoyingly well-rested for a guy who’s got the Olympic Association on his ass for posing “tastefully” nude in a Playgirl magazine full spread with his three gold medals covering up his “family heirlooms”.
"What are we talking about?" he asks, dropping his bag next to mine.
"East's mom is trying to set him up again," Wolf says. "We're workshopping solutions."
Luka raises an eyebrow, glancing at me. "Is she still doing that?"
"Every single day."
“He wants to borrow someone's sister,” Wolf says as if it’s a joke.
"Good luck with that. No one’s going to hand over a sister to a player on this team. We’ve all seen enough of what players on this team do after dark with puck bunnies," Luka says, the usual detachment he has from our locker room conversations. He takes hockey seriously and not much else.
Before I can dwell on it, Coach's voice echoes from the hallway.
"Let's go, boys. Ice time in five."
The room erupts into motion—guys pulling on gloves, adjusting helmets, chirping at each other as they file toward the rink.
I grab my stick and follow, shaking off the weird knot of homesickness that's settled in my chest.
Hockey's always been the thing that makes sense. The one place where I know exactly what I'm supposed to do and how to do it.
Everything else? That's just noise.
Practice is brutal in the best way.
We're gearing up for the first game of the regular season, and Coach is in full drill-sergeant mode. Bag skates, breakaway drills, line changes until my legs are screaming and my lungs are on fire.
I love it.
There's something about the burn, the speed, the sharp crack of the puck hitting the boards. It clears my head better than anything else.
Luka and I end up on the same line for a scrimmage, and we fall into an easy rhythm. He's got this weird sixth sense for where I'm going to be, and I've learned to read his tells—the way he shifts his weight before a pass, the angle of his stick when he's about to shoot.
We've been linemates for two seasons now, and it works. On the ice, we're in sync.
Off the ice? He's a bit of a mystery. He doesn't talk much about his life before hockey. I know he's originally from Russia, that he dominated in the Olympics before getting drafted into the NHL, but that's about it.
The guys joke that he's probably got some deep, dark past—maybe he's a spy, or a former assassin, or secretly royalty.
Luka just rolls his eyes and tells us we watch too many movies.
After practice, we're all sprawled out in the locker room, sweaty and exhausted but all hopeful that this is the year we win a Stanley Cup.
"The first game is in three days," Hunter says, peeling off his pads. "You guys ready?"
"Ready to get into the season, and back to the playoffs," Wolf says.
I'm about to agree when my phone buzzes.
Another text from my mom.
