Page 8 of He Has Pluck

“Not as old as you, but I’m no kid either.” He nods, and I grin back as the rest of the team laughs and grunts their approval.

“Didn’t the Portsmouth, New Hampshire, team win the Calder Cup for the AHL this season?” Rafe asks.

I nod, but coach interrupts before anyone can ask any more questions. Thank fuck. My chest thuds with the frantic edge of being on the precipice of my entire future, my dreams close enough to grab and make real right in front of me. All I have to do is skate and shoot out of my mind, better than I ever have before, and keep my head in the game—no fuck ups. I can’t afford any distractions if I want to perform out-of-my-mind, and that’s what I need to do to make it in this league, to be good enough.

I have to measure up to the likes of Rafe-fucking-Lemaire. I glance at the man now, a larger-than-life figure even if I am an inch taller and a decade younger. He was my freaking hero when I was in high school, five years and a lifetime ago.

“You can get to know your teammates on the fly,” Coach says, simmering the guys down. “This ain’t no social hour. We have more shooting drills to get to.” He clears his throat. “But I have one other announcement to make first.” He pauses, and his scowl deepens. “The organization has hired an outfit to film us. Making a documentary about our playoff run or some such—whatever. There are folders with the shooting schedule in your lockers.”

There’s more than one what the fuck murmured in the group, and my gut clenches with uneasiness. Why the hell didn’t the team even know about this until now? I hope like hell he doesn’t talk about the details, like about me being the star of the show.

“Settle down,” Coach says. “I’m told there could be some spontaneous filming, and I’m also told we need to tolerate it. Which we will. Whatever distractions they throw at us, we will remain focused on one thing—hockey and the Stanley Cup. Got it?”

Grunts of agreement, loud and enthusiastic, turn into whistles and cheers until Coach blows his whistle again. “Back to drills. Tansem, follow Lemaire.”

I nod and take off after the iconic Rafe Lemaire, relieved to put the specter of the documentary filming aside.

In spite of the fact that Lemaire is ten years my senior at thirty-one, he’s still as fast as a bullet. We all skate fast and hard for the two-on-one drills over and over. I try like hell to take the puck on my stick and aim the one-timers where Finn can’t reach them. This is my bread and butter shot, my claim to fame, the one thing that separated me from the others back in Portsmouth and got me the MVP of the AHL’s Calder Cup playoffs this season.

I was the scoring leader in the AHL this year, but fucking hell, that was like playing pond hockey compared to this. These guys are all faster than the fastest guys in the farm league and twice as tough.

By the time Coach blows the whistle to call practice, I’ve sweated everything out of me, there’s a stitch in my gut and my right calf is cramping up. Fuck. We skate to the boards and Finn catches up to me, thumping me on the back with his gloved hand. We hop off the ice, and I grab a bottle from one of the team’s assistants and squirt it at my face and down my throat.

No way am I letting on that I’m near collapse as we head to the locker room, but I lean against the wall along the way. And shit, there it is, the camera, and the lady behind it, Juliette the ice chip. I hope to hell she’s not following us into the locker room.

“Hey there,” Finn says, all smiles for the camera—or maybe for the camera lady—as he takes off his gloves and tips his helmet back.

“Good practice?” she asks.

“Excellent. We’re zoned in. I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Finnegan Reed.”

She moves the camera to the side and takes a look at him. “I know who you are. I do my homework. Anyone score on you today, goalie?” She puts the camera back on her shoulder and in front of her face.

Finn turns to me. “A few. Even New Guy Jason got into the flow. The fucker scored twice on me with that one-timer of his.” He shakes his head and gives me a shove. I nod at the camera and keep going. Or try to.

“What about you, new guy? You look beat. How was your first practice in the NHL?” They both look at me expectantly, and I stop. This is for show, but I can’t act for shit, so I tell them like I would if it was my twin brother asking.

“Fucking fantastic.”

She snorts. She actually laughs and lets out a very unladylike snort. Not that she’s dressed like a lady. She’s wearing what looks like cargo pants in black, with more pockets than a person should need inside a building in the middle of a city. The pants are topped with the same soft black turtleneck sweater I remember from earlier. She looks more like she’s on the set of a Mission Impossible movie than a hockey practice.

“What are you, expecting to catch a spy in that get-up?” She deserves me giving her shit.

I don’t know how I was expecting her to respond, but I didn’t expect the middle finger raised in my direction. Off camera of course. Finn, predictably, cracks up, and as we push into the locker room, he’s still cackling.

“I like that lady,” he says. “She’s clearly out of place here, but she’s doing the job.”

“Sure. She’s great if that’s your standard.”

He shrugs. “What else? She’s filming a documentary, not out on a date.” He gives me a suspicious look, and since he was so amused by the gesture, I give him my middle finger. He grins and nods and wags a finger at me. “No, you don’t. You can’t date that one. She’s off-limits. The non-frat policy around here is tighter than a boa constrictor hugging a rat.”

“Date Ice Chip? It doesn’t matter to me if she’s off-limits or on the menu. I have no interest in anything but hockey for the duration.”

Finn thumps me on the back. “Ice chip, eh?” he chuckles. “Delaney would be proud of you spouting the team’s line without a miss.” I sit on the bench in front of my locker and bend down to unlace my skates.

“Only problem is,” he says, sitting next to me, “you’re a terrible actor. I don’t believe a word. You are so into that hot camera lady I can feel the air crackle between you.” He pauses, but I don’t bite. “And you have a pet name for her already. Very telling.”

An unnatural bubble lodges in my throat, and I make sure I take my time sitting up, trying to ignore him, to ignore the truth of what he’s saying.