I frown. “Wait, how did he set you guys up again?”
Cade’s blue eyes dance. “Mel needed a place to stay, and he offered her the guest room at Declan’s house without asking first.”
“Oh…” Eyes wide, I suddenly wish I hadn’t asked. “I guess I…no?—”
“No what?” a deep voice asks.
I turn at the sound, grateful for the interruption. When I meet Uncle Brooks’s eye, I relax. “You guys are gonna give me a complex,” I tease. “Are you all going to watch my every move?”
He rolls his eyes. Like Cade, he’s dressed for practice in a long-sleeve Bolts T-shirt, though his is a darker blue. His athletic pants are dark gray and his signature long hair is pulled back in a low bun. “It’s all hands on deck for the next few weeks, kid. Promise we’re not hovering any more than usual.”
My muscles loosen a little at his assurance. This position should be Brooks’s. I always assumed this was the next step for him. Since he retired from the game, he’s been working for the organization, though he hasn’t settled into a single position. As the Bolts’ most beloved goalie to date, it seemed logical that he’d be the next goalie coach. Instead he’s continued to float. Sometimes he works with recruiting, sometimes he hangs with donors, and more often than not, he’s here, at practice.
The man has four kids. Maybe he likes the freedom that comes with what he’s doing now. It means he doesn’t have to travel, and I imagine his family appreciates that. Regardless, his decision worked in my favor.
“Fine,” I retort, “but call me kid in front of the team and I’ll put you in the net without gear and give Aiden free rein.”
Both my uncles let out raucous laughs.
“Understood.” Brooks dips his chin. “And for the record, you’re going to be just fine out there.”
As the three of us sit on the bench to lace up our skates, a cacophony of voices echoes loudly through the space, and a heartbeat later, players filter in. The guys are loud, talking over one another, laughing, and joking around. The energy is electric.
Most of these guys are returning players, and from the excitementin the air, they’re thrilled to be back at it. For people like us, hockey is so much more than a game or even a career. It’s a lifestyle. It’s an itch. Staying away from this rink is more difficult than showing up, even after brutal losses. These guys need the short break they get between seasons, but they don’t want it. Neither did I.
This group includes a few rookies too. The guys from the AHL who are here hoping to prove themselves, eagerly awaiting the call that they’ve been moved up, and the draft picks. They could be put anywhere. They usually end up on a junior league or in the AHL. Very rarely do they get a shot at the show.
But this is where they want to be. Though the Bolts typically practice at the practice rink, day one is always held in the arena, on this ice. This way the rookies get a taste of what they could have. We show them how good it could be. And then we make them work their asses off for it. They’ll be doing it for the next ten months.
I give myself a few seconds to imagine today through their eyes. To feel the hope that comes with the desperate desire to play for the Bolts, not a farm team. To see the kind of season that leads to the Cup. That’s what we’re working toward.
While this may not have been what I saw when I pictured myself in the NHL, I’m still here. I made it.
And it’s a huge accomplishment.
Bobby Dean, our star center, is, of course, the first out. Because he’s not in full gear, his hair is on display and styled to perfection. He’s loud and obsessed with fashion, and he has an incredible slap shot. And his brown hair does this wave that makes women go wild. Or so he likes to claim.
Per NHL league rules, we can’t actually practice on the ice today. We have dryland training for five days before on-ice practices begin. However, everyone’s got their skates on so that we can meet here before we break up into smaller groups for the various workouts we’ve got planned. I’ll be taking my guys to the yoga studio.
Bobby skates toward us, a big smile on his face, with Maxim Lube, a Russian defenseman, following. Maxim is huge, even without his gear. According to his stats, he’s six seven.
Bobby rubs his hands together as he slides to a stop. “Big day, Addie baby.”
Beside me, Brooks glares at him.
I shake my head, but it’s Maxim who says what we’re all thinking. “Idiot.” His thick accent makes me smile, as always. He nods toward me then. “Welcome to team. Looking forward to having you, Coach.”
“Was that so hard?” Brooks says.
Bobby shrugs. “Sorry, it’s going to take a bit of getting used to after hanging out with you and Little Hawke all the time.”
He’s referring to Josie, and if her older brother Brayden heard him calling her that, he’d also call him an idiot. Before I can say as much, Maxim grabs the neck of Bobby’s shirt and pulls him backward on the ice. “Say bye-bye.”
He flaps his fingers up and down in a dramatic wave until Bobby does the same thing, making the three of us laugh.
A few more players make it out onto the ice, but I keep my eyes on the door, waiting for my guys.
Goalies are easily identifiable. They wear a hell of a lot more padding and a different helmet. Their sticks are different, and their gloves too.
