The ice beneath my skates feels slick as I race down the rink, the puck gliding effortlessly with the guidance of my stick.
A breakaway. Finally.
I love playing in Vegas. Their arena is always buzzing with energy and noise, but for today’s Thanksgiving Special, it’s even more electric than usual.
And it’s turning out to be quite the game. We’re tied 2-2 and there’s just under one minute left in the third period. The outcome could be squarely in my hands. The crowd roars, but their voices fade into the background, white noise shimmering in the distance as my focus hones in on the net that’s fast approaching.
Pressure has never been a problem for me.
I freaking thrive on it. And after a year together, me, Mal, and Colton make a pretty great line, playing effortlessly as a unit, in total sync with each other.
And right now, thanks to a perfect pass from Colton, I have no intention of doing anything that isn’t scoring. I have one of the best slapshots in the entire league, and I finally have a chance to put it to good use this afternoon.
I tear down the ice faster, my thighs pumping, my skates sliding across the ice with perfect precision. Adrenaline flows through my veins and I feel the tension in my gut, the focus of my entire concentration as I swing back my stick, and strike.
It’s a good shot. Exactly where I want it.
I look on as the puck sails past the goalie’s outstretched glove and into the top right corner of the net.
GOAL!
The arena erupts with a mixture of boos from the Vegas fans, and cheers from ours. My teammates pounce on me, yelling and pumping their fists. I love it when games come down to the wire like this. Reminds me of playing junior league hockey in grade school, how my dad would always be in the stands, ready to give me a secret little thumbs up when I sought him out in the small crowd of parents when my nerves threatened to get the better of me, silently letting me know that he believed I could do it.
Today, in the middle of the jostle of bodies and yells and helmet smacks in an arena filled with almost twenty thousand, I glance around at the sea of screaming fans. Another nice thing about playing in Vegas—there are so many visitors in this city that, at any given time, the likelihood of the away team having more of their fans in the crowd is higher than when we play an away game anywhere else. And the cheers coming from thousands of maroon-jersey clad spectators are plentiful.
I’m soaking it all in. And then, for some reason, my eyes zero in on an unexpected familiar face…
Lady M.
AKA Maddie.
I’ve barely seen her since our kitchen and bathroom run-in at the beginning of last week. But I’ve sure heard her. On the flight out here, she sat with one of the physios, Georgia, and talked her ear off for three hours. Right now, she’s on her feet, a few rows behind our bench, cheering. Her hair’s in a sloppy braid, her cheeks are flushed apple red, and one hand is gesticulating wildly in a gesture I can’t decipher as she…
Talks into a phone?
I almost laugh. For a moment, I thought she was cheering for the goal alongside everyone else in the arena. Like a normal person watching hockey would do.
But nope, she’s on the phone.
Strange one, that girl.
“Nice shot, Sebby my man!” Colton smacks me on the back. I return the gesture, strange girls long forgotten as the rest of the guys on the ice surround us and we all slam into the corner with shouts of victory.
Because we won. And even though American Thanksgiving is in an entirely different month to Canadian Thanksgiving and they have extremely questionable yam toppings for their holiday dinner, I am feeling very, very thankful right about now.
After the final buzzer blows, I skate off the ice on a high. Sweat is dripping from my brow and I’m sure my whole body is going to hurt for the next week, but I’m happy as I pile into the locker room with all the guys.
“I’m talking mashed potatoes. Roast potatoes. Sweet potatoes. Potato casserole. Those thinly sliced potatoes with that cheese sauce on them. Potato salad, even.”
“Jimmy?” Dallas says with a startlingly sweet smile.
“Yeah?”
“Shut the hell up about potatoes.”
“But they’re the best part of Thanksgiving dinner! Everyone knows that.” Triple J puffs out his chest and glowers at our teammate. “It’s my Irish blood, makes me love the things. Can’t get enough of ‘em.”
Jake Griswold, another of our stellar defensemen, takes a seat on the bench next to Dallas, rolling his eyes. “Binge-watching Collin Farrell movies while you eat Lucky Charms doesn’t make you Irish, dumbass,” he grouches.
“I dress up for St. Patrick’s day, too,” Triple J responds, defensive.
I swivel from where I’m removing my shin guards to peer at him. “What the hell do you dress up as for St. Patrick’s day?”
He shakes his head at me like I’m incredibly stupid for asking this. “A leprechaun, of course.”
Dallas grins. “Surely you don’t even need a costume for that one.”
Everyone cracks up at this. Even our usually somber goalie, Lars Anderssen, is laughing. In response, Jimmy throws a bottle of Old Spice body wash at Dallas, and I collapse into laughter as it bounces off of my teammate’s skull perfectly, as if in slow motion.
“Ouch!” he yelps.
“Nice reflexes, D.” I snort.
Before Dallas can snap back at me, Malachi Holmes—our team captain who plays right wing with impressive power and finesse—cuts in. “Okay, children, enough fighting. Can we get back to the matter at hand and decide where the hell we’re going for food? I’m starving.”
“Caesars Palace buffet, fo’ shizzle,” Jimmy says.
“Nah, I heard the one at the Bellagio is better,” Dallas responds immediately. I get the feeling the guy hasn’t heard a damn thing about any buffet—he’s just salty about the Old Spice hit.
“No way, I—”
“Don’t we have to eat what Maddie has planned for us?” I interrupt.
“Who?” Aaron asks, rubbing his bare shoulder, where a large purple bruise is beginning to bloom from when an opponent’s high stick whacked him during the game.
“Duh, the new team nutritionist who’s on this trip with us?”
The assistant captain bugs his eyes at me. “Well, sorry I didn’t know her name was Maddie.”
“And you two are acquainted how, exactly?” Malachi joins in, waggling his eyebrows.
I flick my towel at him. “Not in the way you’re thinking, that’s for sure.”
My teammate taps his nose knowingly. “Well, seeing as you know her so well, you should be aware that we all have a dietary Hall Pass tonight. Holiday tradition.”
“I don’t know her well at all,” I reply as I wrap my towel around my waist. “But great news about the Hall Pass. I’m so freaking hungry right now.”
Twenty-five minutes later, all nineteen of us Cyclones who traveled to Vegas are assembled and ready and looking (mostly) presentable. “Mostly” because Jimmy is wearing a knitted sweater with a belled-up turkey on the front. And there’s Colton and Aaron, who keep bickering about something, shoving and ribbing each other like they’re five-year-olds at a waterpark deciding who gets to go down the big slide first. Lars is the only one of us who appears semi-normal, watching over the group from a slightly removed position like a sentinel.
We don’t have another game for five days, so I think I’m going to take this rare opportunity to hit up a buffet with this bunch of goons. Stuff my face with cheat meal food alongside the men I think of as both teammates and brothers.
Because really, the Cyclones are like a big family who have welcomed me as their newest member. And bumbling and dysfunctional as said family is, I’m happy to be part of it.
We’re on our way out of the locker room when I spot a familiar figure in the corridor. Suit, sunglasses, cellphone permanently attached to his skull. I pause in surprise as my eyes meet his, and he gives me a wave.
“Mike!” I walk towards my agent. “What’re you doing here?”
Mike lives in Boston, working with the majority of his athlete clients remotely. I assumed that he’d be spending this Thanksgiving holiday at his condo in Palm Springs, golfing. The last place I expected to see him was here, in Vegas, standing right in front of me.
“Hey, Sebastian.” He scratches the back of his neck, seeming almost nervous. Which is very out of character for him. “Tony and I were hoping we could have a word.”
I make a face. “Torres wants to talk to me… now? With you?”
“Dennis Lieberman, too.”
“Actually?” If that isn’t the oddest request. Why would my coach, my agent, and the Cyclones’ freaking GM all need to see me? On a holiday, no less.
“Yeah. They’re waiting for us.”
I give a nod, a little disturbed by the twist in Mike’s mouth. I turn back to the team. “I’ll catch up with you guys in a bit.”
Then, I follow Mike in the other direction, towards the Coach’s room, while the voices of my dysfunctional pack of brothers fade behind us.
