“Can I get your autograph?”
“I love you, Briggs!”
Their shouts rain over me as I exit the tunnel. We’re thirty minutes from puck drop, but a sizable crowd already stands at the glass. The second year in a row our season opener is sold out.
Two years ago, during my rookie season, attendance was shit. But with how loud Cole Coliseum gets during games these days, we sometimes can’t hear each other on the ice. I wouldn’t have it any other way. The energy of the crowd fuels me unlike anything else.
“Hey, guys, thanks for being here.” I smack a couple of hands reaching out from the stands as I jog to the ice, stopping short when I see a sign from a young kid.
I WANT TO BE JUST LIKE BRIGGSY WHEN I GROW UP. My jersey number—10—is written on each corner of the poster inside a sloppy star.
I gesture to the sign. “That is so cool.”
The boy beams at me with a gap-tooth smile.
“Oh, hey, you look like Addy!”
Lukas Adamek, one of our defensemen, wears a gap in his front teeth as a badge of honor. The kid’s cheeks flush as he grips the leg of the man beside him.
“Any chance you want this?” I lift my stick in the air toward him, and his hands dart out to take it. The man beside him grabs the stick, steadying it so the boy doesn’t drop it.
The kid stares at it with wide eyes. “Dad! Look!”
“That’s amazing, Trev.” Then he mouths to me,Thank you.
Heat surges in my chest at how easily I make this kid’s day. I reacted the same way to hockey players when I was young. I promised myself if I made it into the league, I’d be generous with my time because of the difference it made for me.
I trot back to the locker room to grab another stick. On impulse, I snatch a handful of pucks and throw them to the crowd as I walk down the tunnel. Delighted cheers fill me to the damn brim.
When I reach center ice, Alexei Volkov smirks at me. “Starting early this year?” he asks in his deep Russian accent. His gaze flicks from my face to the crowd by our locker room entrance.
I roll my eyes. “We can afford it.”
I have a reputation for tossing too much of our equipment to fans. Everyone does it, and it’s encouraged, up to a point.
I’m still amazed every time someone shouts my name or wears my jersey. The guys chirp me about how long I stay after every game—win or lose—to sign autographs. No one drives home with me because of it. Well, that and because I don’t exactly have the best driving record.
Matt Harris, our team captain, skates over to us, shooting ice in our direction as he comes to a stop. “Canyouafford it? I heardif you can’t get your Oprah complex under control, it’s coming out of your paycheck.”
Volk and I stare blankly at Matt.
“Oprah complex?” I repeat.
“For the love of God,” Matt groans. “Please tell me you know who Oprah is.”
At thirty years old, Matt’s in a different generation than me, something neither of us forgets when I fail to understand his references—at least once a day. Volk does too, but he has the excuse of spending half his life in a foreign country. I’ve reminded Matt Ialsogrew up in a foreign country, but he considers Canada an extension of the US since we share a border and a hockey league.
I pick up a puck with my stick and flip it in the air, playing catch like it’s a hacky sack. “You mean those fancy concerts?"
Volk winces. “Who’s Oprah?”
“Un-fucking-believable,” Matt mutters under his breath. “Hey, Princeton!”
Sawyer Jennings got his nickname because—you guessed it—he attended the fancy, rich, smart-people college, unusual for the NHL. He turns and raises an eyebrow. “Yes?”
He’s not wearing his helmet yet, so his blond shaggy hair dips below his ears, shining in the lights. He’s become one of my closest friends on the team since he came into the league last season.
“You know who Oprah is?” Matt asks.
