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I still do it the same on game day though. Even though I know in my heart it’s a crock of shit, I won’t tempt the fates and not perform the same routines, keeping the good luck flowing.
“Hey, boys.” Ryan “Shawzer” Shaw, our left winger fresh off his rookie season—but still the brunt of our jokes—wanders over to me before the game and sits down as if nothing is wrong and last night didn’t happen. “Ah, fuck,” he says when he looks up to see what we’ve done.
Shawzer got drunk and passed out. That’s a big mistake with a group of hockey players. We waited until he was unconscious before we wrapped him in Saran Wrap, shaved half his head, and took pictures of his metamorphosis from hockey player to the chrysalis state we left him in.
Those pictures are now hanging in his cubby. Side glances turn to double takes as the players who hadn’t noticed the pictures until now erupt into fits of laughter that fill the room.
“Je-sus Christ, Shawzer, what the fuck were you thinking?” Remy, another winger on our team, asks, rubbing the side of Shawzer’s head when he takes off the beanie.
Ryan hasn’t fixed his half-shaved head and has left it that way. Fits him well if you ask me.
“Listen up, boys!” Coach O’Brien comes into the locker room, getting ready for his speech. Same speech, same idea every time, just delivered slightly different each day. He glances at me, then Mase, then Remy, who is beside me, and unfortunately for Coach, his stoic gaze falls to the pictures of Ryan. “Take those goddamn things down!”
Hysterical fits of laughter break out once again.
* * *
Ryan standsnext to me in the tunnel. I’m still laughing as we head out to the ice for warm-ups. “I can’t believe you fuckers. I swear to God, I’m gonna shit in your cubby if you do that again.”
“Show some class, eh,” I say, acting disgusted. I’m not even sure if it’s possible for me to actually be disgusted being a hockey player, but I won’t let him know that.
Ryan snorts, still amused with himself. “Go fuck yourself.”
I shove my stick at his ass. “You’re next, baby.”
“Watch this.” As we take shots, I rib Remy. “Hey, Mase, you see their new D-man?”
“Who’s that?” Mase asks, watching the Predators defenseman stretch.
Lapanta is a big motherfucker, and Mase doesn’t stand a goddamn chance against him. Still, you’ll never stop Mase if he wants to brawl. Mase is ornery like that. He’ll take on guys twice his size just for the challenge. Win or lose, he doesn’t care.
I point my stick at him. “Their new D-man from Australia, Beckham Lapanta.” I taunt Mase, circling him around center ice before I fire a shot at the goal. “He’s lookin’ for you.”
“Mase, he’ll kick your ass.” Remy smiles at me, adding to the conversation, because he knows what we’re doing. Mase doesn’t like to be told he can’t do something. “I wouldn’t exactly send a message right now.” Remy slaps his stick at Mase’s ass. “All right, bud.”
Judging by the smirk Mase is wearing, he ain’t listening to us tonight.
I’m a good hockey player. Remember? First-round-pick good, and I know it. Cocky maybe, but I earn it. I answer plays with goals and make shit happen. I have impeccable speed on the ice and quick stick skills.
Well into the first period and we need goals. We’re not makin’ plays happen, and when we do, we’re being called on penalties that are bullshit.
I circle Mase, knowing he needs a pep talk. “Stay smart. No friends out here.” I knock our heads together. For a brief moment our gazes meet. “Off the draw that guy’s really cheatin’ ya, eh.”
“That fuckin’ D-man sticks to me,” Mase says, glaring and breathing heavily, sweat drenching his face. “How could henotsee that hit was bullshit?”
Mase isn’t crazy. Though some might argue that, but he’s referring to moments ago when I was nailed in the head by Lapanta’s knee. Yeah, it wasn’t called a penalty, but we all know it was one. Mase, he’s my boy and now has it out for the new D-man. You don’t fuck with me and not have Mase call you out.
“Can’t stay up on your feet?” I egg him on, knowing if you want to switch his focus, you provoke him. “You goin’ after him?”
Mase glares in his direction. “I’m gonna fuckin’ nail him.”
Sure enough, Mase goes after him during the second period.
They circle around each other when the whistle blows, and Remy bumps into me. “Fifty says Mase gets his ass kicked.”
After beating my stick on the ice, I shake my head, watching the Predators center shoot up the ice and try to give Mase a push. I want to jump in there and knock the guy out for shoving him, but I’m not paid to fight. In fact, Coach hates it when I do. I get reamed every time. “No way I’m betting on that,” I tell Remy.
He smirks. “He’s gonna lose.”