6. Chapter Six

Chapter Six

Luke

Our new goalie can fucking play. Even though Coach told us that Mitchell came with a 2.15 GAA from the AHL and that he’s been showing great promise, you never know. Not until you see someone in live action. And during our morning skate, we’re all eager to see our new cub and what he can bring to the ice. After only fifteen minutes of scrimmaging, it becomes pretty clear the newbie is good—as in really good—and after thirty minutes, there’s no doubt that he’s great. And that inevitably means better than Buckhammer. Because our current first goalie—the lovable Texan who doesn’t have a mean bone in his body—is nowhere near great. Decent, but not great. And once it settles amongst the guys that Mitchell has come to Colorado to play and not be an anonymous benchwarmer, the entire dynamic suddenly changes on the team. Because we all know Coach Bassey’s approach to the game. He always sends his best players out first.

I throw a quick glance at Buckhammer, who just shrugs back at me after Cody’s latest save, a weak smile playing at the right corner of his mouth. What can you do, eh? He seems to say with his eyes. So damn close and yet so far away from obtaining the dream of becoming first goalie.

“Fucking shit!” Tanner yells at his stick after yet another failed attempt at driving the puck past Mitchell. I’m just glad that I’m on the same team as our new goalie during practice or I would’ve been the one screaming ‘ fucking shit ’ or ‘ motherfucking ass sweat ’ like our French center, Bardét, had one minute earlier.

Every time someone misses the mark, Mitchell just shrugs inconspicuously, and a shy smile coasts across his lips. He doesn’t talk much—in fact, the joke earlier was the most I’ve heard him talk this morning—but his granite-gray eyes are alert and brilliant, always reading the game before anyone else. Coach has to let him play tonight against the Tornados. He just has to. Of course, I feel bad for Buckhammer, but the Texan knows just as well as the next guy that it’s the name of the game. It’s about winning. That’s all there is to it.

“Fuck me, you motherfucker!” Our left-wing, Jamie Walker, aka Caps, our team captain, yells at no one in particular as Mitchell blocks another shot without a trace of an effort. He blushes adorably when I skate past him and salute him, mumbling, ‘ Good job, rookie. ’Yeah, I’m no longer a rookie—a nickname that followed me around last year until Coach swapped it with Carry on, Kid —and it feels good no longer being the new kid, but it wasn’t so long ago either that I can’t remember how it feels. All eyes on you, constantly being scrutinized and evaluated. Luckily, I did well during my first year and we’re all doing pretty lousy during my second, so I don’t stand out one way or another.

“Good one, guys,” our assistant coach, former NHL wing Terry Carter, hollers through the rink. “Go home, get some rest and I’ll see you guys later.” We all start yapping about today’s game against Tulsa as we skate across the ice. Tulsa is good but not great. And far from unbeatable if we can just pull our heads out of our asses long enough to focus. Skating up next to Mitchell, I pull off my helmet, my ginormous head of hair embracing the freedom by going all rogue on me like usual.

“Good practice, man,” I smile at him, his cheeks turning a bright pink at the praise.

“Thanks,” Mitchell speaks softly, biting his bottom lip before continuing, “you too.” Blinking at me, he seems to hesitate before deciding to go for it. “Then again, you always play well.” The blush increases to a scarlet and he looks at the ice instead of at me.

“Nah, I don’t know about that, man. This season’s been pretty pathetic so far,” I end with a sigh.

“The season, maybe,” Mitchell smiles tentatively, his gray eyes the color of steel, lighter in the middle, close to his pupils, with a much darker outline around the iris. I don’t recall ever having seen eyes such a remarkable gray before. Either they’re a very light gray, almost blue, or they’re kind of blurry looking. But no, not like these. Mitchell’s eyes are… “…you.” The ‘ you ’ drifts towards me and I realize I’ve completely zoned out.

“Sorry, what?” I wake from my newfound appreciation of the color gray at the sound of Mitchell’s mellow voice. “I didn’t get that.” We’ve reached the opening in the boards, where most of the other players are already removing their top parts, others on their way to the locker room. Mitchell’s lips vibrate just a tad—you would probably not even notice if you weren’t standing as close to him as I am—before he continues as he leaves the ice.

“I said… uhm, never you.” Uncertainty is painted across his face as he eyes me over his shoulder, his voice turning into nothing but a whisper at the end, the word ‘ you ’ lingering between us. “I don’t recall you playing a single bad game this season… well, maybe the one against Milwaukee…” A frail smile does something to his face, a softness making him suddenly look a lot younger, almost boyish. My heart beats faster at the earnestness in Mitchell’s face and the edge of nervousness in his voice. No trace of anything but sincerity—and admiration, perhaps—in his words. Taking a step forward, I nearly trip my way off the ice, having to steady myself against the boards.

“Yeah, I had a wisdom tooth removed the day before. Hurt like a motherfucker,” I mumble, collecting myself, my eyes not leaving our goalie’s.

“Yeah, well, that explains it, then. Because I did wonder… I mean, you missed passes and shots you wouldn’t normally miss.” He nibbles on his bottom lip, an apologetic lilt to his voice as he remains standing in front of me. Then the rest of Mitchell’s words suddenly surface, and I realize what he just said. A single bad game.

“You’ve watched all our games?” I ask, dumbfounded.

“Of course,” Mitchell grins. “Gotta learn from the best, right?” His blush deepens again, that hesitant smile playing at the corner of his mouth as if it hasn’t yet decided if it’s okay to smile or not. If it was anyone else, I might’ve found it a kiss-ass thing to say, but there’s nothing but sincerity and perhaps a tinge of awe reflected in Cody’s eyes. No pretense or ill-disguised mockery.

“Yo, ladies, if you’re done speed dating, then get your asses in the showers,” Crane yells across the players’ benches, that obnoxious smirk on his face that I just want to punch from time to time. “We’re going out for burgers after,” he grins.

“No burgers before game.” Badura, our Czech wing, throws Crane a death glare that’s not to be ignored. Badura never speaks much, but when he does, his English comes out in staccato, like he’s throwing small bombs at you or issuing a command. I don’t know why, because I’ve never really cared about authoritative figures, but I always feel like saluting and clicking my heels together whenever Badura opens his mouth. Crane glares back, but eventually loses the staring contest, almost shrinking under the Czech’s penetrative stare. Riley shakes his head and pushes Crane’s shoulder in passing, chuckling.

“You heard Papa Bear. No pre-game burger for you, my friend,” he cackles, rubbing his hands together, before looking at me and Mitchell, nodding towards the locker room. “You guys comin’?”

“Yeah, right behind you,” I nod, trailing after Riley, throwing a brief look at Mitchell, who luckily seems unfazed at the speed dating comment. I’m not out on the team. Not because I’m, in any way, trying to hide that I like boys instead of girls, but mostly because, until now, it hasn’t been relevant. I’m not dating—never really have been—so there’s no reason to put it out there unless I’m forced to.

I’m not na?ve. I know hockey is like most other professional sports, projecting a stereotypical image of masculinity that I’ve never agreed with. I was brought up to believe there are no typical male or female ways of behaving. We’re all individuals and just because you are a dude doesn’t mean you have to act in a certain way. I hate all that toxic masculinity bullshit with a vengeance, not buying into the whole idea that a “real” man has to be all rowdy and badass, beating his chest like some wannabe Neanderthal. My mom’s uncle Leland is like that, catcalling random women in the streets, then calling them sluts when they reject him or flip him off. I used to hate going anywhere with him, and already, as a kid, recognized that he was a pathetic excuse for a man. There’s nothing badass about being a misogynist jerk or a prejudiced bigot. It’s just sad that there are still men in this world who hurt so much that they need to make others feel bad about themselves, too. These days I just call him out on his bullshit. I don’t think he gets it—that he ever will—but at least I speak out and let him know that not everyone shares his views.

So, when the time comes— if it comes—and I get involved with someone, I’m not going to hide who I am. I’m not going to ask someone to stay in the closet for me. No fucking way. Authenticity is what I’ve been taught from an early age by my parents and that’s what I firmly believe in. Be who you are and be proud of it.

“C’mon,” I smile at Mitchell, who’s trailed after me down the tunnel towards the entrance to the locker room. I hold the door open for him as he moves past me, mumbling a low, “Thanks.” Heading straight for my cubby across from Mitchell’s, I start stripping off my gear.

“You’re probably pumped to see the condo, right?” I wink, clasping my hands together.

“Is there a bed, a fridge, and a shower?” Cody tips his chin, a teasing glimmer in his eyes as he looks up from where he’s rummaging through his gym bag.

“Of course, man. State-of-the-art.” If you can see past all my crap, that is.

“Sounds good. In Phoenix, I lived at home, and back in Duluth, I shared an apartment with three other players, so this will be like the Hilton in comparison.”

“The Hilton with smelly gym bags and empty takeout containers,” I grin, cursing myself for at least not tidying the kitchen and the hallway a little last night or this morning. The last thing I want is to appear like a slob. I am, of course, and Cody is going to find out eventually, but I may as well keep up the pretense just a little longer. Maybe I can race up the stairs and get rid of the worst? Then again, that’ll seem like I’m hiding something, won’t it? Fuck… I hate sprinting, anyway. At least Cody’s room is clean. I got a text this morning that a team staff member would come around this morning and pack up McKinney’s stuff until he’s back and also clean the room.

“I’ll take it,” Cody tugs at his bottom lip with his teeth, while he shakes his hair, strands of sweaty shaggy locks sticking to his forehead. The haircut makes him seem younger than his twenty-three years, but hell, I’m often told that I look younger too, my twin sisters often joking that I look like the baby in the family. For some inexplicable reason, my fingers start tingling, itching to reach out and run through Cody’s hair. Even though it’s damp from practice, it looks soft. The straw-blond strands are not just an ordinary yellow color but more like a warm, shimmery, and… huh? That’s weird. Was I just wondering how our goalie’s hair would feel if I ran my fingers through it? Hmmm, maybe I was. Am I attracted to Cody? I let the unfamiliar feeling settle in my chest. Huh, maybe I am. I mean, it wouldn’t be weird if I was. He pretty much ticks all the boxes for me. No, the weird thing is that I rarely find myself attracted to anyone.

Cody continues to stare at me, a puzzled frown between his slightly darker brows, apparently waiting for me to say something. Shaking off the unfamiliar—but not unpleasant—sensation coursing through me, I clap my hands again because that’s apparently what I do now.

“Great!” I blurt a little too loudly as I start tearing at my compression shirt, while Cody pulls some body wash or shampoo or whatever from his bag. As far as roomies go, it seems I’ve once again won the fucking lottery. Cody seems genuinely nice, easy-going, and pretty cool underneath the shy, hesitant exterior. Yeah, I could do a lot worse for sure. Hell, I could bunk with someone like Crane. Or even worse, someone like our center, Kennedy. The guy apparently makes a habit of sleepwalking, often ending up in Virtanen’s bed during the night, one time even pushing Greta over the edge and onto the floor. Most of the guys have bought their own places by now, moving in with their girlfriends or fiancées, but there’s still a handful of us who have opted to share a condo with another player. Virtanen and Kennedy foster a Syrian Hamster named Vinnie together and it would be a never-ending custody battle, I’m sure, if they were to go their separate ways. Poor Greta, she’s a champ. To me, rooming with someone is convenient since I’m saving for a house and because I’m kind of a social bird and like having someone around. Someone who makes sure I don’t sleep through my alarm.

Yeah, the Goddess of Assigning Roommates must like me. I think I’ll get along just fine with Cody. Maybe I shouldn’t be nicknamed Carry On, Kid anymore. Or Luke, the Late like my family always teases me at home. Maybe it ought to be Lucky Luke instead. Yeah, I kind of like that. Lucky Luke. Perhaps it’ll even rub off on the team? Who knows if our new goalie will change things around for the Lions. The Lucky Lions… Yeah, maybe he will. Maybe Cody will end up being exactly what we need…