FLYING across the ice for our pregame warm-up, my muscles burn in the best way. Better my muscles, my body, and my skin than that pesky organ inside my chest. I needed this game after not playing for five days.
I don’t want to think, to dwell on the fact that I have no family to spend these so-called vacations with. To know everyone else on the team has that. That they’re immersed in festive activities with their loved ones.
Not me. But I don’t need that, I need this. The challenge to my mind and body. To use my muscles for what they’ve been expertly honed in for. Everything I’ve ever worked for. The only good thing in my life that ever lasted.
For eighteen years, I’ve dreaded any kind of vacation. School vacations, summer breaks, and now… NHL time off for holidays. All that time off only means one thing: too much time to think.
Glancing over at the plexiglass, I take in the sight of my teammates fawning all over their offspring and wives on the other side. The kids all wear tiny jerseys with their fathers’ numbers on them, and without seeing the backs, I know they says daddy on them. I sniff out an annoyed breath. So freaking cliché.
The guys wave and blow kisses to their girlfriends, which looks ridiculous with their gloves on. The girls don’t care, waving right back, like these big, sweaty hockey players are the greatest thing on earth.
This is the worst part of home games. And the exact reason I prefer away games.
With a groan, I hit one of the pucks toward our goalie, Bruce. He’s distracted, watching the families with a big grin on his face. The puck hits his helmet, causing his head to whip in my direction. He narrows his eyes at me, but a smirk plays at the corner of his mouth. Bruce seems to be the only one on the team who’s not offended by what the rest of them call my “surly countenance.”
Bruce has dirty-blond hair and green eyes full of mischief, everything about him is cheery and bright. Like a burly Christmas elf. He seems more suited to working in Santa’s workshop than being a goalie, but he’s actually a badass netminder. Best in the league if you ask me, but I’m biased.
“Don’t be a grump!” Bruce yells across the ice—like he was reading my mind—before hitting the puck back in my direction.
I roll my eyes. “I’m just ready for the game to start already,” I lie. I mean, I am ready for the game to start, but I was definitely thinking about how annoying the guys are acting. Like they didn’t just spend an entire five days with their families.
Hitting another puck into the net, I spot a kid off to the side behind the glass. She’s probably not quite ten, watching us in awe. A disheveled D.C. Eagles beanie covers her hair, but brown pigtails trail down her shoulders. The rest of her clothes look just as worn. She isn’t surrounded by adoring parents or siblings, not decked out in the latest Eagles attire, and she didn’t come with one of those giant, ostentatious posters that say something like “#1 you’re my hero!” or “#00 can I get a selfie?”
She’s an underdog, and I can appreciate that. Skating over toward the girl, she makes eye contact with me. Her bright eyes widen in surprise. Not sure if that’s because someone noticed her, or because it’s me… and I’m not known for interacting with fans. But weirdly, I see myself in this little girl. My pathetic childhood self. Which is why I take my stick and raise it up high so it slides right over the plexiglass separating us, and into her shaky hands. Her jaw drops as she reaches for my stick.
I read her lips through that glass as she nervously mouths the words thank you. Nodding my head in response, I hear our coach’s voice yelling over the crowd. When I look up, Coach Young is signaling for us to head back to the locker room, warmups are finally over.
As I’m about to enter the tunnel, I hear Bruce’s voice behind me. “I saw that, by the way. Better be careful, Mitch. Fans might realize you have a heart.”
I know he’s joking, but he’s right. I need to be more careful unless I want fans seeking me out.
No, thank you.
We get settled in the locker room in our designated spaces and wait for Remy, Remington Ford, our team captain, to dole out our pregame pep talk. He stands at the front of the room, next to Coach Young, waiting for us to settle down.
Weston Kershaw joins them up front. Already donning the A for assistant captain on his chest. He’s been on the team a little over a year and already moved his way up. I can begrudgingly admit he’s a good player… It’s hard to argue that fact when he’s the highest goal scorer in the NHL this season—okay, fine. Last season too—but he irritates me. Not sure if it’s the fact that he enamors people so easily and works them over with his “charm.” Or if it’s because he’s already more settled in Washington D.C. in a year than I am after being here for five. Or because he and his fiancee will likely be adding to the “daddy jersey” club in the next few years. He’s just one of those people everyone instantly likes, he has a loving family, and everything comes easily to him. He’s like the comfort show you turn on after a long day, the show everyone’s in the mood for and can quote incessantly. West is the FRIENDS of the team. And I hate him for it.
Colby Knight, seated to my right, elbows me in the ribs. I look up to see Remy and West staring at me.
“Hey, Mitch! You hear me?” Remy’s booming voice is heard easily all the way across the locker room.
I run a hand through my already sweaty hair. “Sorry, I was focusing on the new plays.”
Bruce, whose locker is to the left of mine, sends me a look that tells me he knows I’m full of crap.
Remy smirks and crosses his arms, and West looks at me with a bemused expression. Probably relishing in the fact that I wasn’t paying attention and got called out for it.
“I said, let’s all stay out of the sin bin. We don’t need to be racking up penalties and giving the Renegades the advantage.”
Bringing my chin up in a slight nod, I run my tongue along the edge of my teeth, trying not to be annoyed by the blatant call-out. But I know I deserve it. Last season I had to sit out five games and pay thousands of dollars to the NHL for slashing another player. It’s not my fault he started a fight afterward and ended up tearing his ACL. Don’t start a fight you can’t finish.
Coach Young takes over the pep talk and everyone’s attention is turned toward him. He’s saying something about kicking ass for our first game, but I’m looking at Remy, whose eyes are laser focused on me. Apparently, I’m not the only one who has noticed that I’m especially prone to penalties after a break—and even more so against the Carolina Renegades, our biggest competition in the Metropolitan Conference.
Thirty minutes later, we’re getting into position on the ice, ready for the game to start. I take a quick glance at the stands, the girl from earlier isn’t there anymore. But I see a bunch of women with signs asking Weston Kershaw and Colby Knight to marry them and look away, swearing under my breath. There isn’t a single sign with my name on it, which is fine. I like flying under the radar. But it’s also a reminder that I’m the troublemaker of the group… the unlovable one.
I can practically feel my bottled-up energy and aggression rolling off of me, like water eroding away at the rocks beneath it, that’s my self-control dwindling away with pent-up energy. And that can’t come out in my hits tonight.
Freaking finally, the puck drops and I rush toward it, remembering our plays from practice. Number thirty-seven from the Renegades skates up next to me, his white jersey flashing in my peripheral vision. I’ve been expecting this. Not only does the smack talk that comes out of his mouth cross all normal smack-talking boundaries, but the guy I tripped last season was apparently his bestie. Whoops.
I try not to make direct eye contact with Ilya Adrik, I might turn to stone from how evil he is.
“Anderson!” His accented voice comes out with a lisp since he has his mouth guard in.
I ignore him, but he keeps yelling over the noise. “How was your Christmas, man?”
I bite the inside of my cheeks so hard I almost draw blood.
“Nice and… quiet? Just the way you like it?”
I flex my neck from side to side, making it crack and pop.
He snickers. “Or did you visit your daddy?”
My scant amount of self-control instantly shatters, just like his face is about to.
