“My date fed me too many martinis last night. I swear there’s vodka coming out of my pores.” Poirier says as he jogs. “Can you smell it?”
“No,” I reply as I start jogging, too. Sometimes I worry about Poirier’s drinking, but so long as he’s doing his job keeping our net clear and isn’t getting wasted alone, I tend to keep my thoughts to myself. The few times I’ve brought it up, he insists he’s just having fun, which doesn’t always seem like the case to me but maybe I’m just sensitive to the issue.
“I should have eaten something before we went to bed. I don’t think eatingher—”
“Shut up, please,” I interrupt him, shooting him a look of warning. He looks irritatingly amused, the same look he sports when a ref’s escorting him to the box.
“Jealous, Matty?”
“Does Coach know you’re skirting his nutrition plan?”
“I don’t think that has nutritional value,” he replies, contemplative.
“Helvete,” I mutter and pull my headphones over my ears. This is why people hate being in the penalty box with Poirier. The guy chirps worse than a hungry magpie.
“Do you think the new ownership will sell the team?” Poirier asks me when we move on to weights. For someone who claims to not give a shit about hockey, there’s something awfully similar to worry in his dark, calculating eyes.
“Probably,” I say realistically, then recall Coach’s advisement about leadership. “We have a season to play either way.”
I rack my weights on the bench, and Poirier moves to spot me.
“If they liquidate us, where would you wanna end up?” He looms over me, the few extra centimeters of height he has on me looking exaggerated when I’m laid out on the bench like this. Poirier and I were rookies together. It’s hard to imagine splitting up. We’re the same age, but for some reason I feel protective of him, though I’d never tell him that. He’d pummel me in the ribs.
“I’m not entertaining that idea,” I reply.
“Are you ever gonna stop being a buzzkill?”
I complete my set and rerack the bar before answering. “Maybe one day, but not today. I’d go wherever would pay me well and give me a shot at the Cup.”
“So, not Canada.”
He wins a laugh from me. With the exchange rate the way it is, nobody wants to be paid in Canadian dollars, though Poirier has his own reasons for wanting to stay on this side of the border.
“Not Canada,” I say. “Maybe Florida.”
He rolls his eyes. “Who the fuck’s watching hockey in Florida?”
I shrug again. “A lot of old, retired people. The Manatees have a lot of money.”
“You’d have to pay me a lot more than I’m getting now to utter the words, ‘I play for the Manatees.’ If nobody worthwhile scoops me up, I’m going down to junior hockey and staying here. Can you imagine dating in St. Louis or Salt Lake? Or god forbid, Florida? You’d probably end up in a newspaper headline.Local NHL Player Cannibalized by Girlfriend in Bath Salts Rampage.”
I snort. “Do you think about your career at all, Poirier, or is it merely a vector for your dick?”
We swap spots, and Poirier lays out on the bench.
“Fuck the Cup. So long as I’m getting paid to punch guys in the face and stay away from Saskatchewan, I’m happy.”
“How encouraging,” I say, but the truth is I trust him to do his job defending our net and keeping the league’s scumbags in check. In the seven years we’ve been playing together, he’s never let the team down. He was a lower draft pick than me, but he’s more than proven his worth, and now he’s one of the best defensemen in the league.
Poirier couldn’t care less, hockey’s just something he’s good at, but I understand where he’s coming from. We have similar reasons for avoiding going home, and while he may have adjusted to life in LA better than I have, I admittedly like having an entire ocean and continent between myself and my old life. People don’t come knocking when they have to fly eleven hours to do it.
I help Poirier through the rest of his set, then we rotate through a slew of other stations before moving on to his favorite, the sandbag. I’m lucky I’ve never been on the receiving end of one of his punches. I can take a punch, but the man’s right hook is notoriously brutal.
“This roster sucks,” he says after a round with the bag. “I still can’t believe they traded Nelson and drafted Thompson. How am I supposed to keep guys off our ice when he’s leaving a gaping hole in our defense?”
“Teddy Hearst never listened to Coach’s roster recommendations. Maybe whoever takes over will.”
“Doubt it. Either way, we’ve gotta deal with these new shitheads. Have you seen Thompson’s Fotogram?”
