Prologue
The season is off to a so-so start for San Francisco’s Sea Lions.Coach Ben Morris, a newbie to the big leagues, seems to have the mentality of “throw anything at the wall and see what sticks” when it comes to the team’s lineup.This year’s crop of rookies, Diego Lunes (winger) and Kilian Howard (center), are looking decent so far, surprising given Howard’s low draft status.But are they ready for the responsibility of Morris’s line shake-ups, which sometimes happen mid-game?And looking at the other side of the blue line, the only real star the team has to offer is Chris Calabrese, with the remaining D-core getting older and slower by the day.Folks, I hate to say it, but this is not the Sea Lions’ year.
Top comments:
Jefferson Howard: Send Lunes back to San Diego.He’s too reedy and too slow for the big leagues
clions2010: @Jefferson Howard—Send Lunes back to Mexico lol
sealions4lyfe: When will the Sea Lions finally put Easton out to pasture?I’ve seen Swiss cheese with fewer holes than the Sea Lions defense, and he’s the biggest hole out of all of them.
(From “Sea Lions go 3–2–3 in First Eight Games,” by Olivia Starling.Printed inThe San Francisco Herald, 11/02/2024)
If there was one thing about professional sports Ben would never get used to, it was the noise.
The editor Ben had worked with in Wisconsin, before he took the job as head coach, had called Ben a shut-in.He’d vehemently denied the accusation—he had no problem getting out of the house and talking to people when work required it.Ben even sometimes enjoyed it.But his previous jobs, if they demanded subterfuge, involved posing as a patient in a hospital or a customer looking to buy large amounts of produce from agricultural businesses.
None of that had prepared him for how an NHL hockey rink sounded on game night.
There was the constant swish and scrape of skates.There was the never-ending dull roar of the crowd.There was the blaring noise over the loudspeakers, shitty music during warm-ups, intermission, and every two-minute break to clean the ice.There was the nonstop babble on the bench—players and staff discussing lines and plays and watching video footage of events that had occurred seconds previously—a din Ben was somehow supposed to speak loudly enough over to convey when line changes ought to occur, something he remained unclear on even after ten games.And then there was Ben’s personal nemesis, the thirty-two slightly different goal horns, one for each team in the league, which combined poorly with obnoxious excerpts from obnoxious songs.It had taken him a month to stop flinching every time the home team scored.
He would never understand why the team needed music in the locker room as well.Surely five minutes of peace and quiet would do a man good.Had he enjoyed the constant noise during the one semester he’d played intramural college hockey?Ben couldn’t remember.He’d only joined the team because his roommate played, and Ben had a crush on him that he was otherwise ill-equipped to handle.His parents had been thrilled by his rare interest in a traditionally masculine pastime.But once he’d managed to score mutual locker room blow jobs, the shine of the sport had worn off, and Ben had happily retired from his hockey career.Even at nineteen, the constant travel, smelly gear, and loud music hadn’t been for him.
Phil Easton, on the other hand, eschewed such concerns.When the second intermission of the San Francisco Sea Lions’ game against the St.Louis Arches started, he immediately began blasting his playlist over the locker-room Bluetooth speakers.At thirty-four, Easton ranked as the oldest player on the team.The playlist, entitled “Gettin’ Pumped,” was composed entirely of songs that had been popular during Ben’s college years, which meant Easton had been a teenager.
Sometimes, it was so very hard to respect these people.
Dmitriyev, the starting goalie, ducked into the supply closet for almost the entirety of the intermission, which proved Ben’s point about peace and quiet.Unfortunately, he’d been around hockey players long enough to have learned the one person on the team you didn’t want to have something in common with was the goalie.
At least they were winning tonight, which meant Ben wasn’t screwing them over too heavily by being here.Of all the things currently bothering him about this job, the responsibility topped the list as the worst.The team actually listened to him and thought he was doing his best to get them to the playoffs.To be fair, he did listen and tried his best.But how on earth would his best suffice when his credentials comprised an alias, a fake CV, and a made-up letter of recommendation he’d half bribed and half cajoled his college hockey coach into providing?If the Sea Lions got to the playoffs, it would be by virtue of their own talents.
Easton shouted something loud and enthused from his position on the bench.Looking up at him, Ben couldn’t help but notice his skintight undergarments clinging to his arms, even with the goofy external skeleton of his chest protector.Add in his tall and lean frame, and if Ben had been in any other venue full of half-dressed, sweaty guys, he knew who he’d be buying a drink, questionable taste in music aside.Sadly, he was in a hockey rink, and he had work to do.
On the other side of the room, Easton hopped down off the bench.He winced as he landed, and sitting next to Ben, Coach Trout’s whole body went stiff.
“Easton!”he barked.“That the knee?”
“I’m fine, Coach,” Easton said.
“You sure?”
“Yep.”
The team re-dressed and headed onto the ice for the third period soon after, leaving the locker room blessedly silent for a brief minute before Ben had to go out and watch more hockey.
“You really think he’s fine?”he asked.
Trout snorted.“Fat chance.”
Ben raised an eyebrow.
“You know how these young guys are,” Trout said.“They keep pushing till they lose it all.”
No part of the sentences Trout had just uttered sounded anything like Phil Easton.For one, though younger than both Ben and Trout (an easy feat on a hockey team), Phil hardly counted as young, as evidenced by his music.For another, he was anything but reckless.He saw the physical therapist on staff regularly for his knee, he did a lot of stretching, and Ben had seen the schedule he kept to for weight training.The rigor of Phil’s routine outpaced many of the younger team members, solely to keep the muscles in his quads strong enough to stabilize his knee.
All of this impressed Ben, both the dedication and the resulting quads.The physique hockey built was unfortunately exactly Ben’s type.If only the sport and the culture surrounding it weren’t mired in relentless homophobia.
But Ben said none of that.Instead, he said, “You’d think they’d listen to us.”
