Chapter Three
Roman
Connor and I work together seamlessly, as we always do on the ice. We’ve been playing together for years, and always know where the other is, but getting used to other players isn’t always the easiest. I don’t know them well enough to guess where they’re going before they do so I have to rely on instinct and just watch their movements. On top of that, there isn’t half a second available for distractions. You have to be on your game one hundred percent of the time or you’ll miss a play. It’s a fast-paced game that needs full attention at all times.
McVoy and I are on the ice with Haydn, Myers, and Gibson. We’re playing well but it’s not perfect. Something is off and Coach knows it. Which is what practice is for. Even if they’re short, they’re important. We have our first game tomorrow andwe’re up against a tough team. We need to be on the same page and get this shit right if we want to start off strong.
“Myers! Switch with Kearnsnow!” Coach shouts, standing by the benches.
The two left wingers swap sides, and we go into play again. Things feel better. Much better. This Coach is good. Which I already knew, considering he coaches the Boston team and is well-known for his wins.
Practice is done, and we change out of our gear, shower, and get dressed, I meet up with McVoy and a few of the other guys.
“What are we up to?” I ask.
“Lunch,” Cottrell says. He’s a center who plays for the Texas team.
“I want to check out the area first,” McVoy adds. “See what’s going on.”
We follow him, talking about practice and what we plan to eat when we get back to the Village. We turn a corner and are bombarded by media. A handful of people speak other languages, flash cameras, and bark questions. There is a time and place for this—and this isn’t it.
I hate this part of being famous, so I stay in the back while McVoy and Cottrell deal with the situation. It takes just a few moments for security to notice what’s going on and come over to handle it. I hate that I can’t live a normal, calm and quiet life; that everywhere I go I’m recognized and called out for it. People have no decency and no sense of privacy when it comes to celebrities, as if we aren’t just normal people trying to live our lives.
“Fucking annoying,” McVoy mutters.
“They’re just doing their job,” Walbridge adds. He’s younger, plays for Seattle, and is in line to break all sorts of records, apparently. He’s quick on the ice and has great stick handling.
“They don’t have to be so goddamn aggressive,” McVoy adds.
“Says the defenseman,” Cottrell says with a laugh, shoving McVoy.
“On and off the ice are different,” I say.
“For them, it’s like they’re on the ice all the time,” Walbridge says.
“You got a boner for the fucking media, Wally?” McVoy asks with a chuckle.
“No, but my brother works for a newspaper back home, and it’s not an easy job. I’m just saying I get it.”
“And I’m just saying they could be a little calmer,” McVoy says firmly.
“I wouldn’t hate that,” I add.
Walbridge goes on to talk about his family more. Since he’s new, it’s nice to get to know him a little, though I don’t listen for long because my attention is quickly pulled by music. I don’t know what draws me to it, it’s just music, but there’s something about it that won’t let me ignore it and keep going.
“What is this?” I ask, gesturing to the large building to the left.
“Uh,” McVoy says, glancing at both ends. “Some kind of ice arena. Speed skating? Figure skating?”
“Think we can get in?” I ask.
His eyes narrow, and he glances at the other guys.
“I’m starving, man,” Cottrell says, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You two go on. We’ll meet up with you after,” McVoy says.
We part ways—them heading to the bus pick up, while we investigate the mysterious music.
