3. BILSON

THREE

BILSON

Miles Olsen? Complete opposite of what I was expecting. Sure, he’s still got that fratty dude-bro vibe, but off the ice and up close, I get the impression he’s faking his cockiness.

Would a guy who thinks he’s the next best thing in hockey be giving out friendship bracelets?

Friendship bracelets. Are we in fifth grade?

Not going to lie though, it eased my mind about settling in with the new team. Made me feel welcome.

When Stoll, a veteran D-man who’s been in the league about as long as I have, arrives and dumps his bag in the cubby next to mine, I notice he’s also been Olsen’d. Though instead of MY DUDE CB, he has BIG D STOLL.

“Big D? Am I going to have to ask to move cubbies so I don’t get a complex if we’re naked near each other?”

“No one can compete with me, so someone has to do it.” Stoll claps my shoulder. “Welcome to the team, old buddy.”

“Thanks. That’s one way to feel welcome.”

Stoll smiles. “You can relax. Miles started calling me Big D last year as in big defenseman. I saved his ass on more than one occasion.”

“Well, that makes me feel marginally better.”

Stoll turns and folds his arms. “Now you tell the truth. Why did you sign with us when Seattle made it to the Stanley Cup game last season? We didn’t even make the playoffs.”

“Needed a change of scenery.”

He whistles. “Bad breakup? I didn’t even realize you’d gotten married again.”

Having a reputation is fun. “Don’t have to be married to have a bad breakup. But it’s not only that. I needed out of that city where old Bilson was an idiot.”

“Are you saying you’re no longer an idiot?”

“Answering this is a trap, isn’t it? Of course I’m still an idiot, but at least here I don’t need to be reminded of past mistakes. I can start fresh. And hey, now I’m here, maybe this team will make the playoffs.”

From across the way, I hear a deep laugh. A fratty laugh.

Both Stoll and I turn to where Miles is sitting on the bench in front of his cubby.

“Think that highly of yourself? From memory, how many goals did you get against me last year?”

He’s doing it for show, I remind myself. At least, I think he is. So I use the brand-new information I have in my back pocket.

“How many times did Big D stop a goal for you last year?”

That makes his face fall, and now I feel like a jackass, but he recovers quickly and says, “Touché.” Then he turns and gets back to paying attention to … is that rocks inside his cubby?

He pets one of them, and I look at Stoll to see if he’s seeing what I’m seeing.

Stoll shrugs. “I’ll take pet rocks and friendship bracelets over Czuchry’s need to sage everything and urge us to put raw garlic up our butts any day.”

“Goalies, man. They’re an odd kind of species,” I say.

“Heard that,” Miles singsongs but doesn’t turn to look at us.

As the room fills with more and more players, I watch as Miles hands out bracelet after bracelet. He’s charming and easygoing, but I notice the breath of relief each time someone takes it from him. Like he’s anticipating someone rejecting it.

It must be a rookie thing. Sure, I’m nervous about fitting in with the team, but that mostly has to do with gelling on the ice, getting our lines right, and kicking ass. He seems to genuinely want people to like him.

He’s going to get eaten alive.

I’ve been in the league long enough to know that there are teammates who’ll become your best friend and those who you’ll have a professional relationship with only. Not everyone is going to love your personality, and as long as you keep it civil and respectful, it will all be okay.

For forwards, it helps if you’re close with your linemates because you need to be in each other’s heads. Same with D-men pairs. But as a goalie, Miles is kind of on his own.

I should take him under my wing, but I still don’t know the guy well. Though I’m quickly realizing he’s not as cocky as I first thought he was. He’s young. Green.

I’ll make sure to take it easy on him.

Fucking cocky little shithead.Screw taking it easy on him.

We’ve been running shooting drills, and I haven’t gotten one past him. Not a single one.

And the more I try, the more frustrated I get and the cockier he gets.

I will not let this twenty-four-year-old baby get to me. I won’t.

Yet, when I miss again and let out a hissed curse in frustration, all I get from him is a wink and an air-kiss.

I only need one. One score against him will make me feel better.

“Taking it easy on the new kid, huh, Bilson?” Finch asks.

“You can’t tell through my gloves, but I’m flipping you off.”

Finch doesn’t look at all offended. He’s the other winger on my line, so we need to be able to work together.

“It’s like the guy can read me. Do I have a tell?”

“Statistically, you should’ve gotten one by him by now.”

“Not helping,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Does it really matter when he’s on our team?”

Yes, I want to scream, even though it doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. I’d just like to not be bested by a rookie goalie who somehow knows where I’m going to put the puck every single time.

On my next shot, I tell myself not to think. Not to prepare. If I don’t have a plan, he won’t be able to read it on me. Still have no idea how the hell he does it, but I’m going to win.

Just. This. Once.

I shoot. Hold my breath. And then watch as the puck skims the top of his glove but keeps going, hitting the net.

“Yes. Fucking finally!”

Miles takes off his helmet and shakes out his sweaty blond hair that looks darker when it’s wet. “Congrats, CB. One out of one hundred is a one percent success rate. Want me to call up the Writers’ Association and tell them to start engraving your name on the Hart Trophy for this year?”

The team around us “Oohs” and laughs.

I skate up to Miles. “Just watch, Rook. Now I know how to get one past you. There’s no stopping me.”

“Bring it.” Miles lifts his chin, pops his helmet back on, and challenges me with his blue, shining eyes.

So I do.

And the talented motherfucker stops every last shot.

I don’t know whether to hate him or be impressed. Maybe it’s both.