5. Chapter Five

Chapter Five

Cody

This is what I’ve been waiting for since the age of six. What all my teenage dreams have consisted of. Stepping out onto that ice. And not just any kind of ice, no. NHL ice. Perhaps I’m imagining things. Perhaps I’m still lightheaded from the past couple of days. After all, everything has happened in a flash—one minute, I was playing for the Dockers, and the next, I’m standing next to Coach Bassey in the locker room, being introduced to the rest of the Lions. After a quick round of nods, hesitant stares, and mumbled welcomes, I quickly threw on my gear to catch up with the rest of the team for morning practice. Slightly on edge, I take a deep breath, filling my lungs. There’s a crispness in the air. A bite that spreads like a river of anticipation throughout my body, making the small hairs at the back of my neck rise to attention.

I can almost see them, skating across the ice to settle in front of the goal. All the great ones. I’ve watched their games numerous times, paying close attention to every little move, pass, and detail. Even though the stands are now empty, I can hear the roar of the crowd echoing against the sideboards, sweeping across the pristine ice as the names of the greatest ring through my head. Roy. Hasek. Brodeur. Sawchuk. Plante . And Mitchell. Yeah, perhaps one day my name will be added to that list of all-time great goalies. One can only dream, right?

Tonight’s game night. Our team is playing against the Tulsa Tornados. I don’t expect to get much time on the ice, if any, but just the idea of sitting on the bench, rooting for my new teammates is enough. It’s huge. Hell, it was huge when I started playing in the AHL, so this is fucking epic. Life-changing, Cody. It’s life changing. I know that. If I can make a decent impression on the team, I may get a shot—a real shot—at the best of the best. Even if I can’t stay in Colorado once McKinney returns from his injury, maybe I’ll be spotted by some other team, and they’ll trade me.

To be honest, I don’t care where I go—no place has felt even remotely like home since my dad and Danny disappeared down that road in a cloud of dust and broken promises. They can send me to the fucking North Pole for all I care, as long as I get to play hockey. I have zero preferences. No family I want to live close to. The farther away from Mom, the better.

My new teammates are piling out onto the ice, shooting the usual hockey shit, stretching, or adjusting their gear. They were on somewhat good behavior in front of Coach Bassey in the locker room, but now everyone seems to let loose a little before the morning skate. It’s strange how I know all of them by name, following every Lions’ game relentlessly like an obsessed fanboy, taking note of every move and pass. The defense players and their strengths and weaknesses are especially imprinted in my mind. For a goalie, the defensemen are the most essential players on the team. Without a great defense, it doesn’t matter how well I play.

Crane is good, and he has what it takes to become great even. He possesses an unparalleled explosiveness, shooting up the ice like a rocket. Over the past few months, he’s become a key player, a weapon in transitions for the Lions. However, he still needs to work on his positioning in front of the goal. Virtanen, who’s currently doing his stretches, is wicked, too, not only a great defenseman but also known for his goal scoring skills using the slap shot. And he’s huge. Fucking intimidating to any player facing off with him.

And then, of course, there’s Carrington. Yeah, he doesn’t really seem to have any weaknesses—at least not that I’ve noticed—and he’s only twenty-two. If he’s this good this early in his career, there’s little doubt that he’s headed places and can easily be traded to one of the top teams in the League. Even though it’s only his second year in the NHL, it’s hard to find another defenseman who’s as creative and crafty a skater as Luke. He uses his edges as well as anyone else in the game. His ability to change directions and create space is pretty advanced for any defenseman, let alone for that young a player. And he scores a lot of goals.

Skating towards the crease of the right end goal, I bend to adjust my knee guards. I’m injury free at the moment—have been for a while now—but I know that playing on this level can easily cause a flare-up of my old meniscal injury. I didn’t have surgery at the time of the injury. The orthopedic surgeon initially suggested minimally invasive surgery, but my mom couldn’t afford the copay on my insurance, so I ended up with a conservative rehab program instead. It wasn’t ideal; the old injury still bothers me from time to time, but I know how to move so as not to expose my left knee too much.

A couple of the other players linger around in front of the goal, engulfed in a loud, animated conversation, hands gesturing wildly, broad smiles on their flushed faces. They each nod briefly when they see me, but don’t stop their hefty teasing.

“Yo, Finland, when are you gonna get that gap fixed?” Crane smirks obnoxiously, skating lazily in a circle around Virtanen.

“Never,” the Finn booms, a cheeky grin lighting up his face that’s usually the image of calm during games. Eerily calm, actually. Staying back a little, I start doing some hip and groin stretches, loosening up my joints.

“Whatcha mean, never?” Buckhammer asks, adjusting his goalie mask, his voice slightly muffled.

“As in I’m not. Greta likes it,” Virtanen grins, licking his bottom lip suggestively, a dopey look on his face.

“Greta? What the fuck does your woman have to do with it?” Crane shouts, a puzzled frown between his brows.

“She says it makes the cunnilingus more pleasurable,” Virtanen looks smug as he fails to bite back a deep moan.

“The what?” Buckhammer looks like steam is about to come out of his ears, while I have a fairly good idea where this is going.

“Cunnilingus,” the huge Finn shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world to talk casually about oral sex with your teammates. Maybe it’s a Scandinavian thing? They are, after all, less prudish than us. “When I eat her conny,” Virtanen continues unfazed.

“Her conny?” Crane repeats.

“He means her fucking pussy, dude,” the Swedish left wing, Persson, interrupts, shaking his head. “Don’t you Yankees know anythin’? Spendin’ too much time in Bible school and too little between the…” he trails off, smacking his lips loudly.

“Ewww, bro, that’s gross… sorry, Finland, not Greta but the name. Conny. Greta’s not gross. She’s a stellar hockey player and a fine specimen of a Swede woman,” Buckhammer rushes out, and Carrington bends over in a laughing fit, while he manages to squeak, “Swede.”

“What?” Buckhammer looks even more confused at this point, looking at me as if I, by some miracle, know what the correct term of reference for a person from Sweden is. I happen to know, but hell if I’m going to give my two cents. Eyeing Coach, who’s engaged in an animated conversation with one of the assistant coaches, both bent over a whiteboard, I crouch to do a seated-frog stretch.

“Swede. It’s called a Swede,” Carrington smirks, rotating his stick in front of him, alternating hands, to warm up his wrists. “Not a Swede woman, you dufus.”

“Well, excuse me, Mr. Languagist,” Buckhammer mimics Luke’s East Coast dialect.

“Linguist,” Carrington grins, tipping his chin challengingly, a provocative glimmer in his coffee-brown eyes before he does some neck stretches.

“What?” Buckhammer looks close to imploding from information overload.

“It’s called a linguist, dumbass. Not a languagist,” Carrington shakes his head, sighing, just as our right wing, Nowak, skates up to us, resulting in a mumbled, “Here we fucking go again” from Crane. The Polish player was added to the roster in March and is known for being somewhat of a brute on the ice, but the team comedian whenever he’s interviewed by the press, making him a quick fan favorite.

“Hey, guys, why did the hockey stick break up with the puck?” Nowak bounces on his skates, eyes beaming brightly, apparently eager to share his words of wisdom with the rest of us.

“Dude… not again,” Persson groans, rolling his eyes.

“Go on, man,” Carrington speaks as he throws a quick wink at me, a knowing look on his face.

“It felt the relationship was too one-sided!” Nowak cackles while the rest of the guys groan between chuckles.

“Man, that’s horrid,” Buckhammer shakes his head.

“Then why are you fucking laughing?” Nowak counters.

“He’s not,” Virtanen throws in. “It’s just the way his face is. He’s kinda funny-looking.”

“Fuck off,” the huge Texan fails to hide his grin.

“It’s true,” Carrington laughs. “You are kinda funny-looking, dude.” He winks in my direction, where I’m getting up from my crouching position on the ice, his carefree smile contagious, instantly making me feel at ease and included, although I’m not an active participant in their banter.

It’s impossible not to be swept away and laugh, too. The energy between the guys carries an underlying fondness that comes from being together all the time, and with each jab and teasing remark, I feel my nervousness slowly dissipate. There seems to be an unspoken consensus between them they’re going easy on me since it’s my first day, but I know that I’ll soon be the butt of a joke like the rest of them. I can’t wait. The teasing comes easily while they do their stretches, never flowing into something mean or nasty. I realize that I’ve never really had that kind of relationship with anyone. At least, not since Danny disappeared from my life. I miss it but I don’t know how to change it. It’s like he and Dad took a part of me with them I’ll never get back. It will always be missing, reminding me of what I’ve lost. I’m pretty sure that if you carve my chest open and inspect my heart, there’ll be two holes, one for Danny and another for my dad.

“You must know a better joke than that,” someone—Carrington—skates up next to me, whispering against my right ear, his warm breath barely coasting my skin, the smell of spearmint lingering in the air. “Please, save this sad excuse for a comedy show,” he smiles, a lock of wavy, dark brown hair peeking out from behind his helmet. We’re looking straight at each other. I’m a few inches taller than him, but still not so tall that he needs to tilt his head.

“I don’t…” I mumble as I look down at the ice. I hate being singled out, although there’s nothing but genuine friendliness in Luke’s eyes.

“Please, dude,” he continues, nudging my left elbow briefly, the innocent touch sending tiny electric sparks flickering through my chest. Shit, I need to contain my inner fanboy and remind myself that I’m one of them now. No longer on the outside looking in on the pros but part of the team, a spot that I’ve earned fair and square. Still, I can’t help but feel a little starstruck. “Anything’s better than this,” he continues. “Please, put us out of our misery.” Looking back up, I’m met by a pair of hopeful eyes and the softest of smiles, his lips unusually pink.

“Uhm, okay,” I shrug, the familiar tingling in my fingers starting whenever I feel put on the spot.

“Yo, shut up!” Luke hollers and the guys go quiet, looking in our direction. “Mitchell’s got one.” They all look at me expectantly, and at that moment, I want nothing more than to turn around on my heel and skate all the way back to Arizona. Swallowing back the building anxiety, I zero in on that wayward lock of brown hair lingering across Luke’s forehead. If I can just tell the joke to that shiny lock of silky hair, I’ll be okay.

“Uhm,” I start, noticing that my voice shakes a little. “It’s a little long.”

“That’s what she said!” Nowak wheezes, immediately sobering when Riley Cameron, who’s joined us, sends him a death glare. Damn, the Canadian is even more intimidating in real life.

“Go on,” Luke smiles at me, and the tightening sensation in my chest eases up just a tad. I’ve always hated speaking in front of people, especially in school. I would take Chinese water torture any day of the week over reading in front of a classroom of my peers, just waiting for me to slip up. Like a school of piranhas just waiting for that small sign of weakness, that one little opening, and they would go right for my jugular. But this isn’t school, and I’m not a kid anymore. So, fuck it. Wetting my chapped lips, I continue.

“Okay, so a Finn,” I gaze briefly at Virtanen whose stoic face is unreadable, “a Swede,” Persson chuckles quietly, “and a Norwegian get caught in a storm while sailing and crash into an island. The island is inhabited by cannibals.” I look quickly at Luke, who just nods for me to go on, the rest of the group going strangely quiet. “They’re given three tasks and if they fail at any one of them, they’ll be eaten. First, they gotta drink a bottle of moonshine, then they gotta go into a tiger cave and kill a tiger, and last, they have to find a woman and have sex with her.” I hate these kinds of jokes, but they always seem to be the crude ones that get the most cheers and laughs in the locker rooms, no matter which team I’ve played for. “The Swede goes first. He passes out after drinking half of the bottle and a cannibal comes and eats him.”

“What?” Persson interrupts, a disappointed frown on his forehead, causing the rest of the guys to snigger.

“Next goes the Norwegian,” I continue. “He drinks the bottle and stumbles to the tiger cave. He enters and after a few screams and roars, it quiets down, and he never returns.” Looking at Virtanen, I notice the anticipation in the air as I hold everyone’s attention. It feels strangely… okay-ish . As if Luke’s presence next to me transmits some sort of unprecedented calm and… safety, even, causing my heart to slow down to a quiet thump, thump, thump. “ Now, it’s the Finn’s turn. He drinks the bottle, but that just gets him tipsy. He drinks another one, but that still leaves him wanting more. He drinks a third bottle and feels like he’s ready.”

“Fuck yes!” Virtanen booms, pumping his fist. “Born ready!” I can’t help laughing with the rest of the guys before I finish the joke.

“He makes his way into the cave and a lot of weird sounds start coming from inside. After about five minutes, he comes out with a smile on his face, ‘Soo, where isss thiss tiger... * hiccup * I’m supposed to kill?’”

It’s funny how everyone looks towards Virtanen simultaneously. As if his reaction to the joke will indicate how the rest of the guys are supposed to react. At first, the Finn’s face remains indecipherable, just as stone-faced as usual. Then, a small nerve starts ticking under his left eye, and I wonder if it’s trying to Morse some sort of death sentence at me. Then, an almost unnoticeable smirk pulls at the right corner of Virtanen’s mouth, and I realize that there’s a fifty-fifty chance that this can go either way. Finally, a snort followed by a deep roar erupts from the Finn’s large frame, his cheeks blazing red, as he starts howling with laughter.

“Greta is gonna love this,” he wheezes between gasps for air. “She’s gonna fucking love this, Mitchell,” this giant of a man near cries, wiping at his eyes, the rest of the guys following suit, laughing loudly, too.

“Good one, Mitchell.” Buckhammer grins, skating up next to me. “No easy thing to get a laugh outta Virtanen.”

“Gentlemen, attention please,” Coach Bassey’s deep bass suddenly booms through the easy banter that erupted following my joke. “Let’s try something new today because I’m tired of getting my ass handed to me by the other coaches!” When Nowak continues blabbering, Coach turns up the volume just an octave. “I’m sorry, Nowak, but are you done or am I interrupting something important?” Everyone looks to the right wing, who shakes his head furiously. “All right, then,” Coach yells, clapping his huge paws together. “Line changes! Kennedy, center. Tanner, right wing. Walter, left.” The players quickly skate towards the assistant coach, who’s handing out blue vests. “Other end,” Coach continues, checking his small whiteboard. “Bardét, center. Nowak, right-wing. And Persson, left.” Coach Bassey continues to shout out the line changes, moving to the defense, while the other defense line is handed red vests.

As soon as the players have been divided into two, they start doing drills against each other. I know the pre-game morning skate routine like the back of my hand. You can wake me at four in the morning and I probably won’t be able to tell you my birthday. But a pre-game skate? I can list that shit in detail for you—anytime, anyplace. To say that I’m focused and dedicated is the understatement of the century. I’ve lived and breathed hockey since that very first skate, where I spent more time on my ass than actually skating.

“Yo, Mitchell,” Luke skates up next to me, holding out a red vest in front of him, that ever-present easy smile on our defenseman’s face. “Looks like you’re with me,” his warm breath sweeps across my chin, a contrast to the chill air between us. “Let’s go,” he winks, nodding at the goal, and I can all but follow, my skates falling in line behind the hypnotic whoosh, whoosh, whoosh of his skates.