4. Chapter Four

Chapter Four

Luke

McKinney isn’t coming back. We already suspected that. It doesn’t take the team physician to explain in detail the severity of our goalie’s injury. It was pretty evident from the way he landed on the ice last night. If anyone was in doubt about whether McKinney was coming back, his screams from the medical room next to the team locker room were enough to convince you he wasn’t. McKinney’s right shoulder was separated from the AC joint. An injury like that doesn’t normally require surgery, but our goalie isn’t that lucky. Coach Bassey’s serious frown when he stepped into the locker room ten minutes earlier cemented that. So, in not so many words, the Mountain Lions’ third NHL season has just gone from struggling to thoroughly and definitively fucked. No matter how optimistically you look at it—and I’ve always considered myself a pretty positive and optimistic person—we probably won’t be roaring any time soon.

“… in good hands with the best medical professionals the team can provide,” Coach drones on. Looking around at my teammates’ desolate faces, I realize that I’m not the only one who seems to have lost faith. Even Nowak, our Polish wing, who’s known for his goofball antics both on and off the ice, looks shell-shocked, to say the least. Shit . I throw a glance at Riley, who just shrugs in return, mouthing my own thoughts back at me. We’re fucked.

“… Mitchell was scouted from the Phoenix Chasers earlier this year and has shown great promise in the AHL playing for the Dockers,” Coach pushes out his chest, his gaze resting on me and my two fellow defensemen, Virtanen, who was added to the team roster last spring, and Crane, who was drafted at the same time as me.

I played college hockey with Crane in Albany, but we never really hung out outside of hockey, since I wasn’t into the whole fraternity thing. I had one sole focus in college. Hockey, hockey, and yeah, you guessed it, more hockey. I always managed to put in the necessary amount of effort in my classes to keep my grades at an acceptable level. No need to jeopardize my place on the team by failing my courses. Coming from an upper-middle-class home in Lancaster, I learned the value of a decent education from an early age. My dad, Richard, is an English literature professor at UPenn, and my mom, Hannah, is a part-time yoga instructor/stay-at-home mom to me and my twin sisters. My parents have always supported my dream of playing in the NHL, but with the underlying expectation that I would get myself a degree to fall back on.

A solid player on the ice, always one to push through when the rest of the team is one second away from hanging their skates, Crane has earned himself a permanent spot as one of our key players. However, off the ice, he can be a bit of a dick, occasionally getting himself into a bar fight or some shit like that. Something about the guy has always rubbed me the wrong way, so I’m sure to keep my distance as much as possible.

‘You’re on my bullshit radar, Crane,’ Coach yelled as late as two weeks ago when Crane showed up late for practice, hungover with a huge hickey on his neck. ‘ Don’t think you’re indispensable, son. No one is. ’Yeah, Coach Bassey has a built-in crap detector, and no one is a sure thing.

“Some of you might remember Mitchell from training camp this summer?” Coach carries on, his eyes landing on Buckhammer, our second goalie, who has become our first overnight. The Hulk-sized Texan nods in recognition, his jet-black hair slicked back, his face serious. He joined the team around the same time as me, traded from the Lewisville Longhorns, and even though he hasn’t played much during his second season, now’s the time to step up. “Buckhammer?” Coach tips his chin.

“Yeah, Coach, I remember him,” Buckhammer murmurs, looking uneasy at the whole situation. Any goalie who has any ambitions at all wants to be the first choice on the team. Hell, any hockey player in the NHL wants to be first choice, period. That’s why you spend endless hours on the ice perfecting every little turn and move. That’s why you bust your ass in the gym every chance you get and try to stay fit during the off-season. That’s why you keep to that bland meal plan the team nutritionist puts up every week on the team schedule. We all want that spot. But not at the expense of someone else’s misfortune. No, you want to earn that spot— your spot—fair and square.

“And?” Coach motions with his hand for our goalie to go on, a semi-impatient frown carved between his bushy salt-and-pepper brows.

“Yeah, sorry, Coach,” Buckhammer shifts his massive frame on the bench, clearing his throat. “Uhm… great recovery. Pretty good transitions. He’s quick but still needs to work on his positioning,” our goalie continues, looking at me and the other D-men, his blue eyes showing discomfort at being called on by Coach. I’ve always wondered how a big dude like Buckhammer has such a light, almost feminine, voice. It seems against the laws of nature that the huge Texan should even be able to produce such a sound. Like a bull squeaking like a squirrel.

“Agree,” Coach’s deep voice sweeps through the locker room. “As I said, he’s showing great promise, but he’s not McKinney, of course.” A few groans resound around the room. “Don’t mean he can’t become one,” Coach cuts through the murmur, raising a warning eyebrow at Crane, who seems to have been the one groaning the loudest. “He holds a 2.15 GAA this season and became first goalie for the Dockers just a few weeks into being signed.”

Virtanen whistles next to me, an impressed tilt to his stoic chin. It isn’t often that the Finn shows any kind of emotion off the ice—not unless it involves a microphone and a 70s playlist. Yeah, Virtanen loves karaoke, which became clear at the team’s annual Christmas party, when the six-foot-six Scandinavian crooned his way through ABBA’s Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight). Well, the Finn didn’t get a man but he sure as shit wooed the Swedish Greta from the women’s NHL team.

“Sweet,” he whispers against my right ear, showing off his distinct toothy grin, one front tooth missing. Yeah, our team may have won in Kansas against the Shawnee Bobcats last month, but it cost the Finn a tooth during an intense altercation.

“And you’re all gonna give him a chance. And you’re gonna have his back both on and off the ice. I won’t stand for anything else, you boys with me?” Coach’s eyes blaze as he looks around the room, his stare connecting with each one of us.

I know what that means. We all do. We need to always act as a unit to the outside world. No signs of doubt or negativity, especially not when the press is around. The press has been giving us a hard time after a rocky—read shit —season. Something—a mere look or a small insignificant comment that isn’t really anything—can easily be taken out of context and blown out of proportion by an ambitious reporter out for blood. In professional sports, nothing can easily be turned into something.

A few mumbled agreements echo through the locker room, accompanied by head nods, muffled ‘Y es Coach, ’ and ‘ Yessirs .’ Looking somewhat assured that his guys will back him and the team management up, Coach’s tense posture seems to ease up just a tad.

“Questions?” he booms, beefy arms crossed in front of him, as he scans the room, which remains quiet, with a few head shakes here and there. “Great.” He forces a smile on his face, a finality to his voice while he claps his giant paws together. “Let’s meet the newest addition to our team, then!”