2. Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Luke

Late. Late. I’m notoriously late. Story of my goddamn life. My mom went ten days past her due date because ‘ someone felt like living rent-free for just a little longer.’ It’s a standing joke in the Carrington household that I’m late for everything and I would probably still live at home long after my twin sisters, Elly and Lilly, had left for college.

Boy, were they wrong! I love when people are wrong, and I’m right. It doesn’t happen often, though. But when it does, it tastes sweeter than a half-melted Reese’s you forgot in your coat pocket. I’m a long way from Lancaster, Pennsylvania now, ain’t I? All the way over in Aurora, Colorado, of all places. Everyone knows of Denver, of course, but very few know of the town just outside the larger city. Well, that changed three years ago when Aurora got their very own NHL team, the Aurora Mountain Lions. If the guys can just pull their heads out of the puck bunnies’ butts long enough to remember that we’re in the NHL to play hockey and not chase tail, we’ll perhaps be able to compete with the Colorado Avs one day. The last couple of games could’ve fooled you, though. It doesn’t exactly help that our goalie and my roommate, McKinney, is now out with a pretty serious shoulder injury.

No one who knows anything about hockey—or claims to do so—anticipated that a smallish town like Aurora would ever get its own NHL team. Okay, so maybe Coach Bassey did. He coached in the minors in Aurora, while running his own gym on the side, and when outside investors were looking for someone local and experienced to lead the new team, eyes quickly fell on him. Originally from Chicago, Coach Jamal Bassey was one of the first black players to really make it big in the NHL, playing for the Detroit Detonators for more than a decade. Who would’ve thought that the son of two immigrants from Nigeria—a country that is more than 60% desert—would end up becoming one of the greatest right-wingers of the 90s? Not many, I can tell you that. When a reporter from Detroit News caught on that Bassey means God in the indigenous language of the Efik people, the rest was history, and a hockey legend was born.

Fiercer than a mama bear, Coach is relentless—and loud—in his faith in his boys.

‘Are you mice or fucking mountain lions?! Do you need a lamb like the motherfucking Kansas Cannoneers to beat you in your own town? In your own goddamn arena? You need an escort to find your way, or are you fucking lions chasing prey? Are you out for blood or here for the tail? Because tail will only get you so far whereas blood, sweat, and tears will get you fame.’ With his ebony skin revealing a slight blush and golden-brown eyes burning fiercely, Coach roared through the locker room thirty minutes before our epic game against the Cannoneers two years prior and I sure as shit felt it. The promise of fame cutting through the stale locker room air.

Yeah, Coach Bassey is a sucker for questionable animal metaphors, but his boys aren’t exactly academic masterminds expecting analogies of Shakespearean proportions. We aren’t dumb, by any means—I, for one, hold a degree in History and International Conflict Management from the University of Albany. But the curse-drenched pep talk did seem to do the trick because the Lions indeed roared and beat the Kansas team comfortably by 5-2. But now, two years later, it has all turned to shit, and our morale is at an unprecedented low. Fans are still loyal and supportive, but the media is smelling blood, raising doubt if a small town like Aurora really belongs in the NHL or should just leave it to the pros from Denver.

Bzzzzzzzzz.

Shit! The dreaded sound of the intercom nearly makes me spill my protein shake all over my gray sweats. Now I’m really fucking late. Pushing the door button on the wall station, I bend to get my boots. Hopping around on one leg, my shake sloshing all over the laminate floor, I scan the cluttered hallway for my parka and gym bag. It’s fucking freezing in Colorado in January and even though Pennsylvania isn’t exactly known for its mild winters either, it’s got nothing on a Colorado winter.

The heavy thump, thump, thump on the stairs caused by my fellow D-man and best friend extraordinaire, Riley Cameron, transfers to my heart, and beads of sweat break from my forehead. Shit, where are those goddamn keys? Brushing a hand through my hair, I stare at the empty spot on the small table in the hallway where they’re supposed to be.

A heavy fist connects with the door, causing the hinges to rattle ominously, and I quickly place my drink on the table to avoid any more mishaps.

“Yo, Carrington, open up for Daddy!” a deep voice thunders through the door, and I can’t help chuckling, still making a desperate inventory of my hallway.

“Just a sec!” I yell as my gaze finally connects with the familiar key ring next to my muddy running shoes—a small puck in black and silver that my teen sisters had custom-made for me when I was drafted by the Lions. Bending to pick them up, I grab my bag and go through the content. Compression shorts, check . Sports tape—Howies, not Ruban— check. Gatorade —the pink, not the blue— check, and a year’s supply of Reese’s Cups—check . Everything else is at the rink. Balancing on one foot, hastily putting on my other boot, I reach for the door and let Riley in.

“What the heck, man?” Riley takes in my dump of a hallway, a disapproving frown between his auburn brows. “Looks like someone dropped a bomb in here. A bomb of… trash .” The six-foot-six Canadian defenseman rubs at the back of his auburn hair, snow melting off his broad, coat-covered shoulders, drops of water glistening in his equally auburn beard. Riley Cameron, light as a feather and elegant as a Russian ballerina on the ice, resembles the love child of a Canadian lumberjack and a feral grizzly bear in real life. And most of the time, he behaves like he’s been raised by a pack of wolves. He can clean out your fridge if you give him thirty minutes alone in your kitchen and most encounters on the ice leave him standing and the opponent crumbling on the ground. Trusted teamies and self-proclaimed besties forever and ever, you rarely see me without Riley or vice versa. We’ve been attached at the hip for the past two years since we were both drafted at the same time. He’s as real and as solid as they come.

“Shut it,” I murmur, throwing a final glance around the room, cursing myself for not spending ten minutes last night going through my shit. But I was too wasted—and too discouraged—from the game. Our fourth loss in a row during an already abysmal season. Yeah, the Lions aren’t exactly roaring now and even the mice are sniggering at our pitiful attempts at playing hockey.

“Bro, no wonder you can’t drag any tail back to your crib,” Riley shakes his head, pulling what appears to be a half-finished Snickers bar from his coat pocket, inspecting it briefly before stuffing it into his mouth. Riley is addicted to Snickers but won’t touch a Reese’s ‘ with a ten-foot pine trunk’ which he never fails to let me know. I don’t get it. Both are peanut chocolate treats, but Riley doesn’t like the way that Reese’s stick to the roof of your mouth, whereas I argue that it prolongs the taste. These are the philosophical discussions that we have daily, proving that we’re both academic scholars disguised as pro hockey players and often idiots. Our teammates moan and groan when my fellow D-man and I start on our recurring—and dreaded—Snickers vs. Reese’s rant.

“‘ Tail will only land you eighteen years of child support,’” I mimic Coach Bassey’s deep voice, and a broad grin spreads across Riley’s face before he bro-knuckles me. “Sticks over chicks, man,” I continue, and Riley near-chokes on the remnants of his Snickers.

“Duuude,” he wheezes, shaking his head as he bends over in a laughing fit that I’m sure makes the entire building shake. Coming up for air a few seconds later, his eyes watery and his cheeks flushed. “Dicks in your case, man,” he corrects. Riley is the only one on the team that knows that I’m into guys instead of girls. Well, in theory, anyway, since my love life is non-existent. “Where’s McKinney?” he sobers, looking at the empty spot on the floor where our goalie’s gym bag is missing.

“Flew home to Ontario last night.” I shrug, my shoulders slumped. “I guess that’s why Coach called the meeting.”

“Whatcha mean? I thought it was just a dislocation?” Riley rubs at his beard, his light-blue eyes finding mine.

“Nope. More complicated, apparently. He’s out for the season, man. He’s not coming back anytime soon,” I sigh, rubbing at my forehead.

“Fuck! Man, that’s bad… That’s real bad. That means…” Riley trails off, rubbing his large hands across his face roughly, perhaps to shake himself out of this epic nightmare.

“Yeah, exactly,” I exhale in resignation. We both know what that fucking means. We’re stuck with our second goalie, Dale Buckhammer, and although he’s okay, he’s second goalie for a reason. It isn’t that Dale is bad or anything. He has the potential to be great even, but he hasn’t really managed to get his game together during practice, and once you sit out too many games… Yeah, not good. Still, McKinney didn’t exactly excel before his injury, either… None of us have if I’m being honest. To play this badly is a joint effort, and even though the sports reporters are harder on some of us than others, we take the heat as a team. Always as a team.

‘ You’re playing like you’ve already lost,’ were Coach’s departing words after last night’s horrid defeat against a team that’s usually a sure win. ‘ What will it take for you boys to believe that the ice is yours? You earned your way here, now you gotta claim it. What will it take, Lions?’ Yeah, that’s exactly it, isn’t it? We still play like a group of fucking pretenders, missing passes that we should be able to do in our sleep, our stamina crumbling in the 3rd period, often causing us to throw a lead.

“Well, that’s just perfect, ain’t it? This season’s already fucked…” Riley groans, the echo of his bear ancestors ringing through the small hallway.

“Yeah, I know…” I know. Of course, I do. Sure, there’s still an atom-sized chance that we can turn it around, but it will take a miracle of biblical proportions and not even Coach Bassey looks like he believes it anymore. Fuck.

“Awww, man, come here,” Riley winks, holding out his beefy arms. “Give Daddy some sugar,” he croons, and I instantly fail to bite back the grin breaking free from my mouth. Leaning against Riley’s broad chest, smelling of frost and fucking timber, I chuckle half-heartedly as I melt into his bear hug.

We’re an odd pair, the massive Canadian and the much smaller Pennsylvanian. It’s not that I’m teeny or anything; with my six-foot-three athletic build, I’m a decent-sized player. Still, I’ve always been on the smaller side for a D-man, but usually, people shut up the minute I start playing. I didn’t get my nickname for nothing . I’ve fucking earned it.

‘ Carry On, Kid.’ The three words have been Coach’s favorite sentence since my first year on the team. Whenever I was thrown against the ice by an opponent or slammed against the boards, the words would boom through the arena. ‘ Carry the fuck on, Kid!’ Whenever Coach Bassey’s words rang through the rink, they would somehow enter my bloodstream and take root. They would manifest before my very eyes and now—during my second year in the NHL—I’ve learned how to turn my smaller physique into an advantage. Sure, I still take a lot of hits and falls, but I’m getting better at predicting every move and turn on the ice—and I’m fucking quick at getting back on my feet within seconds.

‘ That’s it, son. I see it now.’ Coach’s eyes beamed with pride and admiration when he stood in front of me in the locker room after a particularly ruthless game that cost me a busted eyebrow but earned the team a win. ‘ The lion came out tonight and it was a thing of fucking beauty, Carrington. A thing of fucking beauty.’ Winking at me while I was untying my skates, he spoke the famous words that, from that day forward, have followed me everywhere. ‘ Carry on, Kid.’ If I’m not mistaken, God himself got all misty-eyed for a second or two until he went back to shouting keep it ups and one beer tonight, onlys at the other players, a mean-ass look on his face.

The press caught on quickly too, naming me the Comeback Kid because I apparently always have a fast comeback no matter how many times I’m slammed against the sideboards or thrown into the ice. After the NHL Network did a two-minute feature about me last year, I had my mom screaming on the phone for what felt like half an hour, repeating the broadcaster’s words back to me. ‘I don’t know what your lucky number is, folks, but in Aurora, Colorado it’s number 5 these days. Luck seems to be sticking to the Mountain Lions’ D-man, Luke Carrington, like mud on a tire.’

“Dude, cut it out,” Riley finally pushes at my chest, nearly causing me to tumble over.

“What?” I grin stupidly, feigning innocence.

“You know what, fucker!” Riley laughs, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “Stop grabbing my ass, man.”

“Just checking,” I wink, biting my bottom lip.

“Fuck you, Carrington,” Riley sucker punches my shoulder. It’s a standing joke on the team that the huge Canadian is so whipped by his long-term girlfriend, Katie, that it’s only a matter of time before she buys a strap-on. “Nothin’s coming nowhere near my ass.”

Shaking my head, I tsk-tsking, while pulling on my parka, followed by my navy beanie and bright teal scarf, both with the team emblem on them.

“Famous last words, bro. Famous last words,” I grin.

“Just shut it and get going already. We’re gonna be fucking late again. I don’t know why I even put up with your lazy ass, dude.”

“Stop bitching. You love my lazy ass.” I follow Riley out of the condo, slamming the door shut behind me, wiggling my butt. “We’re taking the truck, right?”

“Of course,” Riley nods just as my phone pings. Pulling it from my coat pocket, I wince when I read the message. “What?” Riley frowns.

“It’s Nowak. Coach’s in a mood. Must be that time of the month.” Meaning, that when his wife Meredith goes to see her sister in Oklahoma, Coach is left to fend for himself with TV dinners and getting harassed by their pet parakeet Sugar, aka Satan. “We better get going,” I shoo him out the door.

“The fuck you tellin’ me for? I’m not the one making us late, bro.”

Yeah, I may as well put it on a business card. Luke Carrington aka Carry on, Kid. Aurora Mountain Lions D-man. Procrastinator extraordinaire and always fucking late!