Chad Jensen, drama queen
GIGI TEXTS LATER THAT NIGHT ASKING IF TOMORROW WORKS FOR our first private session. It’s weird seeing her name on my phone. Or maybe it’s weird seeing it as “Gigi.” She’s been Gisele in my head for years now. I feel like my phone should probably reflect that, so I pull up her contact info and change the name, chuckling to myself because I know how much this would annoy her if she knew.
ME:
Tomorrow works for me. But we have to clear the ice time with Jensen or Adley to see when we can use the rink.
GISELE:
Actually, I have a more private place for us to practice. You cool going somewhere else? Has to be at night, though. After 8.
ME:
Got it. You need me to be your dirty little secret.
GISELE:
It sounds so shady when you say it like that.
ME:
Doesn’t make it any less true.
She’s typing again. I’m sure some explanation for why she can’t be seen fraternizing with the enemy. I send a follow-up before she can respond.
ME:
Is it cool if Beckett tags along? Have some drills in mind but we need a third, preferably a d-man.
The dots disappear, then return.
GISELE:
Fine. If you think it’ll help.
ME:
Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he keeps our dirty secret to himself. Won’t tarnish your good girl reputation.
GISELE:
I’ll message you tomorrow to confirm the details.
GISELE:
Delightful chatting with you as always!
I grin, grabbing a beer from the fridge. I twist the cap off and join my friends in the living room. It’s Friday night, but nobody made any plans to go out. Shane’s on the couch with a dark-haired cheerleader in his lap. He met her on the quad earlier while she and some friends were suntanning topless on the grass. Now her tongue is mining for gold in his mouth. When I enter the room, they don’t even notice me.
Beckett sits in the armchair, playing a video game. His eyes twinkle when he notices where mine are focused. He nods toward the couple. “I keep asking to tag in, but…”
I chuckle and settle on the other end of the sectional from the kissing couple, mindlessly watching Beckett shoot zombies on the screen. He loses the level when the horde traps him against a chain-link fence, then sets down the controller and reaches for his phone. He checks the screen.
“Still no lists,” he says.
I nod. Training camp wrapped up this morning, but the final roster still hasn’t been released. Jensen said there’d be two lists: the full roster, and the nineteen or so starters he plans to dress for our first game.
I’m worried about some of my Eastwood teammates. There’ll be guys who won’t make the cut, and that’s going to be a tough pill for them to swallow.
“I assumed it would be emailed at the end of the day,” Beckett says. “Like, regular business hours.”
I lift my beer to my lips and take a swig. “Maybe the asshole likes the drama.”
Beck snorts. “Right. Chad Jensen, Drama Queen.”
A soft moan sounds from the end of the couch. Shane has his hand up the cheerleader’s shirt.
“Yo,” Beckett tells them. “Take it somewhere else.”
Shane pries his lips off hers. His eyes are a bit hazy, but there’s an unmistakable gleam of humor. “Says the biggest exhibitionist I know,” he taunts at Beck.
“Fine, I’ll own that.”
“Besides, it’s not like you’re not enjoying the show.”
“Of course I’m enjoying it,” Beckett groans. “Kara, what are you doing over there with this asshole? I’m clearly the better man here.”
Shane’s hookup partner slides off his lap and settles beside him. I notice him do some strategic rearranging, as if we all haven’t seen it before. Dude’s been making a sport out of hooking up since his girlfriend dumped—sorry, mutually dumped his ass.
He throws his arm around Kara’s shoulders and reaches for the IPA on the coffee table. “Still no list?” he says, also checking his screen.
My phone dings, and both guys lean forward.
“Is that it?” Shane demands.
“Jesus Christ. Relax. No, it’s just Owen.”
OWEN MCKAY:
Got time to chat?
I’m about to text back, then think Fuck it and decide to give him a call.
“Be right back.” I’m already dialing Owen as I duck out of the living room.
I walk barefoot toward the glass sliding doors in the kitchen. It’s early September and the sun has already set, but it’s still warm outside. The houses on this street have decent-sized backyards, and I sit on the top step of our small cedar deck. Shane’s parents bought us a patio set to put out here, but we’ve been too lazy to assemble everything, so the table is still in its box in the garage, the chairs covered in plastic wrap.
Voices drift toward me from several houses down. Mostly male voices, with a few female ones in the mix. Loud guffaws of laughter intermingle with a pop-rock song whose lyrics I can’t make out. Sounds like someone’s having a party down there.
“Hey,” I say when Owen picks up.
“Hey,” his familiar voice slides into my ear. “How you doing?”
“Good, brother. You?”
“Busy as hell lately. I got suckered into a bunch of OTAs and it’s been eating up my schedule since July.”
Offseason team activities. I know the lingo. And I will say, it is kind of sick that I know an actual superstar in the form of NHL powerhouse Owen McKay. This must be how Gigi feels.
Sometimes I watch his games and wonder what the hell I’m doing wasting time in college. Owen went to play for Los Angeles right out of high school at the age of eighteen. As a rookie he didn’t see a lot of ice time, but during his sophomore season, watch out. He’s been playing for four years now, each season more explosive than the last.
Owen’s the one who talked me into sticking to the college route. He knew how important it was to me to get an education, so when I was vacillating, debating whether I should go pro after high school and follow in his footsteps, he reminded me of the education goals I’d set for myself.
I think it was the right call. I don’t know how well I would have done in the pros at eighteen years old, as demonstrated by my childish postgame performance in the Worlds. Luckily, I still got drafted despite that incident. Dallas has the rights to me, and I’m excited to head down there after graduation.
Apparently, Dallas is also the subject of this call.
“So, listen, I spoke to Julio Vega last night. He was at the golf tournament the team was playing in. Pulled me aside after the trophy ceremony and brought up your name.”
My back tenses. “What did he say?”
There’s a beat.
“What?” I press.
“He mentioned the Worlds. Made a point to say that the higher-ups are watching you.”
I wince.
Fuck. I hate hearing that. Julio Vega is Dallas’s new general manager. The franchise recently made the change, and I had a call with him a couple of weeks ago. I thought it went well, but now it turns out my behavior at the World Juniors is going to follow me until the end of time.
I let out a breath. “This shit is going to haunt me forever, man. And the worst part is, I never lose my temper. You know that.”
“Trust me, I know.” He chuckles. “You’re like the iceman. Stoic to the core. Klein must have crossed a serious line for you to lose it on him like that…”
Michael Klein is the teammate whose jaw I broke in the Worlds. He had to get it wired shut after what I did to it.
But I haven’t told anybody what was said in that locker room, and I don’t plan to.
“Yeah, yeah, I know,” he says when I don’t respond. “It’s in the past and therefore forbidden from being discussed.”
Owen likes to mock my “It’s in the past” motto, the phrase I tend to throw out when someone tries forcing me to talk about shit I don’t want to talk about. It particularly annoys women. Or people with sunshine and rainbows in their backgrounds—they’re incapable of understanding why I want to keep that door latched and locked.
Behind that door is nothing but darkness and pain. Who wants to trudge through that filth? To ruminate and rehash? Best to always keep the door shut.
“Anyway, I wanted to give you the heads-up,” Owen says. “I promised you I’d keep my ears open.”
“No, I really appreciate it.” I change the subject. “You looking forward to this season?”
“Damn straight. Can’t wait to get back out there. How about you? Everything good at Briar?”
“Fuck no. Training camp sucked. Lots of passive-aggressive bullshit, and other times just plain aggressive, no passive about it.” I pause. “Garrett Graham showed up to our practice this week. Of course it happened to be the one time I was late.”
“Late?” Owen sounds surprised. “That’s not like you.”
“The Jeep’s dead. Transmission gave out on me. It’s sitting at a garage in Hastings now because I’ve got no money to fix it, so I’ve got Shane chauffeuring me.”
“I’ll transfer you some cash.”
“No—” I start to object.
“Bro, I showed you my contract. I can afford it. Besides, I’m investing in future talent here. I can’t have my protégé not making it to practice on time.”
There’s no use arguing. Owen’s more stubborn than I am. “You really don’t have to. But thank you, I appreciate that. I’ll pay you back.”
“I don’t want you to.”
The door slides open behind me.
“Dude,” Shane orders. “Inside. Now.”
“I gotta go,” I tell Owen. “Something’s brewing.”
“All right, keep in touch.”
“Yeah. Later.”
I go inside and realize that sometime when I was on the phone, the email from Jensen landed in our inboxes.
In the living room, I find several new arrivals in the form of fellow forward Nick Lattimore, his girlfriend, Darby, and the Hawley brothers. I used to think Rand was the one who dragged his younger brother around everywhere, until I realized Mason mostly tags along to keep his older brother in check.
The triumph in Rand’s eyes tells me it’s good news.
Shane starts rattling off names, and relief hits me when I hear both my best friends made the list. Well, of fucking course they did. Jensen would be an idiot to sideline a solid defenseman like Beckett or a right winger with as much power as Shane. Rand, Mason, and Nick all made it too. And Colson and I have been named official captains, no longer interim.
“Dude, we won,” Rand tells me.
I frown at him. “What do you mean won?”
“The starters list. Eleven of us. Nine of them.”
Shane continues to skim the list, head down. “I mean, in terms of starters, yeah. But the final tally is about sixty percent existing Briar players, forty percent Eastwood.”
“Dude, who cares who’s riding the pine?” Rand counters. “Eastwood dominates the ice. That’s all that matters. Right, Ryder?”
I shrug, distracted. I’m studying the list on my own phone now. Jensen made the right calls here. Solid choices, all around. And the fact that we do outnumber the starters shows he wasn’t picking favorites.
“I guarantee someone cares about riding the pine.” Shane’s hookup partner, Kara, joins the conversation, her expression wry. “They’re probably super pissed right now. And talk about terrible timing—the list shows up right in the middle of Miller’s goodbye party? Brutal.”
“Miller?” Rand echoes blankly.
“Miller Shulick. He’s transferring?” She gives us an amused look. “You know they live like five houses down, right?”
“You’re fucking kidding me. You guys are neighbors?” Rand looks like he discovered there is a herpes outbreak on our street.
“I had no idea,” Shane says.
“Case, Miller, and Jordan live in the corner house at the end of this street,” Kara reveals. “Well, Miller not for much longer. He’s moving out on Sunday.”
“How do you know all this?” Rand demands.
“I used to date Jordan.”
“Trager?” He’s flabbergasted.
She nods.
“That asshat? What’s wrong with you?”
She glares at Rand. “Wow. Dick much?”
He ignores that.
But she’s not wrong. Dude’s a raging dickhead.
Case in point: “I think we should go over there,” Rand says gleefully.
“Come on, man,” Nick speaks up, looking annoyed. “We’re not going to their house to gloat.”
“Yeah, that’s mean,” agrees his girlfriend.
I’m surprised when Beckett takes a different position. “Maybe it’s not a terrible idea.”
“Seriously?” Shane gapes at him. “You want to gloat?”
“No, obviously not that part.” Beckett rolls his eyes. “I just mean, maybe it won’t hurt to make a peace offering. Bring them a case of beer or something. Wish Miller goodbye. It is kind of shitty he’s transferring.”
“You just want to party,” Shane accuses.
Our buddy grins. “I mean, that too.” He looks at Kara. “Everyone swears Briar’s party scene is fire, but I haven’t seen it yet.”
“Classes haven’t even started,” she protests. “Greek Row is basically a ghost town right now. Trust me, once everyone’s back on campus, you’ll see.”
“Well, until then, I vote we walk down the street and extend the olive branch in the form of booze and weed,” Beckett says.
Everyone looks toward me. I don’t know how I feel about this unsolicited crown that’s been placed on my head.
“I’m not making decisions for you assholes,” I say irritably, and Darby laughs in delight. “Do whatever you want to do.”
Rand is already texting our other teammates. “I’ll get the rest of the guys over,” he says.
Right.
Because this sounds like a stellar idea.
