When I getto the campus rink, there are already several guys and a goalie making practice shots all on their own. As I get closer, one of the guys shouts, “Sorry, Rod! Rinks booked up.”
“Clearly,” I deadpan. “Is Chris being a hardass or are you just doing it for the love of the game?”
Another player chimes in. “Jonas Bekken is coming to practice later.”
The name rings a bell. Some NHL player but I can’t remember what team he plays for. Honestly, I know him more from his brand deals than his career on the ice. I can picture him drinking a comically small beer, the joke being that Bekken is a Troll as large as the mountains he hails from.
I can’t help but ask, “Why?”
“Him and Coach Chris were rookies on the same ECHL team.” The guy makes a slipshot and scores.
So, Christos’ NHL buddy is coming, and everyone says I’m the guy with the famous friend. I should bail, leave the team to their hero worship, but I’m curious. So, I settle into the bleachers with some homework.
The sharp tip of a red tail dances in my periphery. “Didn’t peg you as a Bekken fan, Rod.” Leroy stands over me, smirking in his practice uniform.
I roll my eyes. “I couldn’t even tell you what team he plays for.”
“Most people can’t. He’s been traded a bunch. But, hey, that just means you’ve got less of a chance of offending the guy. You could say any team in the NHL and there’s a good chance he played for them.”
“Is this your nice way of telling me I lack the hockey knowledge to stick around?”
“I don’t have a nice way to tell people to fuck off. If you wanna fanboy over Bekken, go for it. Just, you know, don’t embarrass us.”
I frown. “Leroy, the Dingbats are embarrassing enough on their own.”
Right on cue, there’s a commotion from some of the guys on the ice. Christos is walking ahead of his friend like a bouncer. Even from the bleachers, I can spot the satisfied smile on Bekken’s face. He’s about as tall as Christos, which is extra impressive since he doesn’t have horns to help him appear taller. His skin reminds of shale, both in its color and its rough texture. His thick red hair is cut short, but the sheen on it tells me there’s a whole lot of product keeping that thick mop in check.
Bekken follows Christos right over to us. “Jonas, this is Leroy, the team captain.”
“Nice to meet you, sir.” Leroy extends a hand, standing a bit straighter now.
It’s a good thing Christos and Bekken have their backs to the rink because the team is practically slobbering all over the glass. Maybe I’m being jaded. Most people don’t get this close to professional athletes.
A voice like two stones being rubbed together asks, “You Steele?”
I almost drop my pen. “Y-yeah.” I set aside my notebook and stand up. “Nice to meet you.”
Bekken smirks. “Chris talks about the Olympian on campus almost as much as he talks about the team.”
I focus on Bekken, because if I look at Leroy I might lose my disappointing lunch. “I, uh, had no idea… But he’s also wrong. I haven’t qualified for the Olympic team.”
“Yet,” Leroy butts in. “But you will, man. Whole campus is rooting for you.”
I force myself to turn to Leroy and am relieved when all I can read on his face is the determination I’d expect from a team captain giving a pep talk. Maybe it’s not that odd for Christos to mention me to his professional athlete friend. According to Leroy, a lot of people talk about me.
Christos pats Leroy on the back. “Get the guys lined up for me, would ya?”
Leroy nods before going off to wrangle a bunch of Dingbats.
Bekken is back at it. “So. Steele—”
“Roderick.”
I can stand only so much bro-y banter. Bekken’s fame might have charmed the team, but whatever PR training his management team is giving him, it’s not working on me.
Bekken’s smirk stretches into a practiced smile. “Right…” He draws out the word. “Few months out from the Olympic qualifiers. You ready?”
“I’m more focused on the Grand Prix. Looking to beat my score from last year.”
