Page 87 of A Vegas Crush Collection #2

hot-sh!t goalie from montreal

Cal

We’re all lined up on the ice in our practice gear, leaning on our sticks while Coach goes through a long list of housekeeping items. Everything from the parental “Clean up after yourselves in the locker room” to the more motivational “I defy anyone who thinks they can get through our first-line this season.”

I’m standing at the edge of the group, and nobody has paid me much attention so far, not even while we were suiting up. Evan gave a nod, but that was about it.

Coach changes all that, though. He says, “You all know Manny is recuperating nicely after his car accident. I think most of you have been over to see him in the rehab facility, and I know he really appreciates that. He’s got about three weeks of inpatient time left before he can head home, and then probably twelve weeks of outpatient therapy after that. ”

“Is he coming back, Coach?” someone asks.

Coach shakes his head, a sad expression on his face.

“Unfortunately, I think his hockey days are over, boys. His knee was shattered, and the head injury just added another layer. He can’t be crouching down, willing pucks to fly at his head.

He may come back to work for us in the front office, and we’d be glad to have him, but not on the ice. It’s early retirement for Manny.”

Poor fucker. That’s depressing shit to be forced out of the game early.

There’s a chorus of sounds. Some disappointed, some sad.

Either way, it’s obvious that Emanuel Legace was a beloved goalie among his Crush teammates.

He was in a near-fatal car accident over the summer, one he wasn’t initially expected to survive.

That accident is the reason I’m here, the reason I was abruptly traded.

I’m contemplating how it all went down when I hear my name.

“He nearly stopped us from winning that Cup,” Coach says.

“His innate ability to predict the angle of a shot so accurately is second to none. I’m sure many of you have been frustrated in the past by his often-impossible stops.

” Anyone would think Coach is genuinely happy to have me.

That the team will share his enthusiasm.

I doubt it. “Everyone, say hello to Calum Lefleur, hot-shit goalie from Montreal, here to stop all the shots and help us retain our title.”

There’s a series of grunts and nods. A few guys tap their sticks on the ice.

I look at all of them without making eye contact.

Well, I make eye contact with Dante Castellano, the dark-haired wall of a second-string goalie who saw all of about thirty minutes of ice time last season.

In fact, our eye contact consists pretty much of me smirking at him and him responding with a middle finger shot in my direction.

Just about the reception I’d expect from a guy who was probably hoping I’d die in a plane crash on the way here.

Coach gives a few more notes then tells everyone to pair up for skills training. I’m paired with starting left wing Mikhail. I noticed him earlier in the locker room…scowling. “I remember you from the finals,” I say.

To which he swears at me in a language I don’t recognize. I look around to find Evan laughing and shaking his head. “He’s prickly on a good day, new guy. Don’t take it personally.”

I pull on my mask and take my spot in front of the goal.

Mikhail doesn’t speak; he just starts lobbing shots like he’s firing the pucks from a baseball pitching machine.

I’ve taken his shots in games, and I know how fast and accurate he can be.

He’s somewhat inconsistent though, which is why he’s never taken the top spot among scorers like center forward Boris or right wing Evan.

Still, he’s riled up today, which means everything is coming straight at me, like he’s willingly trying to take my head off.

And maybe he is.

Still, by the end of the skill set, I’m sweating and bruised and feeling a bit like a punching bag. Mikhail gives me a nod, so I guess I did okay against him, but he still doesn’t speak to me.

“Does he speak English?” I ask the next guy who comes up to level shots at me.

“Yeah, dumbass,” the blond guy says as he drops the puck in front of his stick. I remember him from the conference series. Defenseman who likes to fight. “He’s from Detroit.”

“Oh.” I digest that information. “He swore at me in what I guessed could be Russian.”

The guy laughs. “Czech actually. First-generation parents but he’s an American hockey player if you can believe it. I have a thing for second-language chirps. My personal favorite is the Russian mudak, which just means, like, shithead or something.”

“Well, I’m from Canada, so most of the second-language swearing happens in French.”

He shoots at me. It’s wildly off target and he just sort of shrugs. “I’m Tyler, by the way,”

“Defenseman. I remember you from the finals.”

He takes a few more shots and then announces that he needs a water break. I finish out the skills sessions and we move into a scrimmage formation with me at one end and Dante at the other. That’s an impressive stink-eye, Castello. Not that I give a shit.

Clearly, he’s pissed off though, as he follows me straight into the locker room after practice, getting up in my grill before I can even fully turn around to face him.

“This is bullshit, you know,” he says, teeth bared, finger pointing into my face. “You just waltz in here and take a spot I’ve been waiting on for three years? And you get a contract no kid your age should have?”

All I can do is shrug. What can I do about it? “First, I don’t want to be here, and I’d gladly have not come if I’d been given a choice. Second, don’t you think the contract would’ve been yours if they thought you were good enough?”

Dante’s fist sails past my head and slams into the metal with a satisfying crunch before he turns and stalks off.

The defenseman Tyler snickers. “What a little bitch.”

I don’t know if he’s talking about Dante or me. Well, what the hell ever. I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to do my job. But it certainly wasn’t the first day I expected. Nothing feels right, and probably won’t for a long time.

When I get home, I’m beat and lonely and feeling totally out of sorts.

I’m very routine-oriented, and I’m nowhere close to figuring out a routine here in Vegas, which makes me feel comfortable.

As a result, it feels a little like I’m wearing skin that doesn’t quite fit my bones.

I need to talk to someone who knows me, so I call my girlfriend, Emily.

“Hey,” she answers.

“Hey, Em. How was today?”

“Mostly spent at the library,” she says. “Research day.”

“Ah, and how’d that go?”

“Fine. Tedious.”

“Sorry to hear that. I had about a thousand shots lobbed at my face in practice.”

“That sounds like a normal day in the life of Cal,” she says distractedly.

“Half of the guys seem like they genuinely wanted to slice my head off with a puck. Especially the second-string goalie.”

“Well, that one makes sense.”

“I guess.”

“Do you like it there?”

“No,” I say sharply. “I hate it. It’s too hot.”

“And it’s unfamiliar. The people. The places. You’re not good with change.”

“All true. And I miss you.”

“Aw. I miss you too.”

“Can I fly you in for the weekend?” I ask. “Friday night to Sunday night maybe?”

“Sorry, babe,” she says. “This isn’t a good week. I’ve got a hard deadline for Monday afternoon on the first section of my thesis project.”

A long silence stretches between us. I can hear her fingers flying over the keyboard of her laptop.

She’s multi-tasking. I’m used to the sound because she was always working on her laptop, often while we were in bed together at night.

She’d be working, I’d be watching video replays.

It was familiar, and the sound calms me a little even now when we’re so far away, but at the same time annoys me she’s working when we have only this small amount of time to talk.

“Maybe I’ll make a countdown clock,” I say to fill the silence. “Days until you finish your master’s degree and can move here to be with me.”

She lets out a vacant laugh. “Why would I move to Vegas? You just said you hated it there.”

“Okay, then, a countdown clock until this contract is up and I’m a free agent, then, and I can come back home.”

She doesn’t answer. Obviously, she’s focused on something else. I still hear the click of typing in the background.

“I know we can make this work, Em.” I say the words even though she didn’t do a thing to indicate otherwise. At least, not in this conversation.

It’s something I’ve been saying since we got the news of the trade. We can make it work. It’s only for a little while. We’ll figure it out.

The truth? Emily wanted to break up immediately.

She said it would be too hard to make it work if we lived so far away from each other.

Still, I was sure this wouldn’t be permanent, that I’d find a way back home again.

I told her she was important to me, and I convinced her we should give it a go.

Frankly, my travel schedule and her school schedule meant we hardly saw each other during the season anyway.

And with my new contract, I’d be making enough to fly either one of us back or forth whenever possible.

I assured her it wasn’t a forever thing, me being here in Vegas. That she needed me. That I needed her.

And I do. She knows me. Knows my routine and my quirks. I feel more comfortable when she’s around. More…whole.

“We can, Em. I truly believe—”

“You keep saying that, Cal. And I know lots of people do the long-distance thing all the time. I just…don’t know if I can do this with you.”

“No, Em, you can. We can. This is just new. We’ll figure it out.”

Emily sighs. It’s the sigh I most dislike.

For some time now, I’ve heard that sigh regularly.

And it’s normally followed by an exit, whether it be in person or over the phone.

Am I really the only one in this relationship who thinks we can make it?

“Whatever you say. I’ve got to run. There’s a study group in thirty minutes and I need the feedback on my research methodology homework. ”

“Okay, cool, I’ll call you tomorrow. Same time.”

“Okay, Cal.”

“I love y—”

The line is dead before I can finish. Panic crawls up my insides as I try to figure out just how the hell my life has become utter shit.

How the hell did I go from knowing what’s in front of me to being stranded in a city I don’t know, away from all the people I care about, with a team that doesn’t seem to want me?

This is all too…new. Too…different. And my girlfriend?

She’s made it clear how much she doesn’t want me.

Fuck, surely, I don’t have to lose her too.

And it’s not just because I’m a creature of habit. I love Emily. We’re good together, having spent nearly three years together. How can she want to end things as if I’m so easy to discard? Right now, the only comfort I have is the game of hockey.

Times like these, when I’m feeling out of sorts, I’d head to my mom’s place. Instead, I have to text her, and thank fuck, she responds quickly. As usual. Some things never change.

She knows me, knows when I need attention.

She tells me all the right things. I’ll find a routine in Vegas, too.

It will just take time. This is good for the long-term, as I can save money, and then when I’m a free agent, I can play wherever without worrying about the payday. It’s short term. It will be okay.

I wish I had her confidence. But do I want to live my life just waiting for it to be okay?

Mom: Have you been playing your guitar?

I look over and see it sitting in the corner of my living room.

Cal: No. I haven’t played since I’ve been here. Been busy.

Mom: Hook it up and play, Cal. It’s what you love. It’s what soothes you.

She’s not wrong. That and Emily are what keep me calm on a normal day.

Mom: Why don’t you find a place that has good live music?

I ponder that for a moment. This is Las Vegas. Not everyone will know me here, so I could probably head to a bar and see who’s playing.

Cal: Good idea. Thanks, Mom.

Mom: How’s Emily? Busy with her master’s, I bet. When is she coming to see you?

Annnnd there’s the kicker. I can’t tell my mom the truth that I’m pretty certain Emily won’t ever be visiting me.

Cal: You’re right. She’s pretty busy at the moment with her studies, but I’m sure she’ll come out to see me soon.

Mom: There you go. Vegas will feel like home for you in no time. Be patient. I love you.

Cal: Love you too, Mom. Thanks for the chat.

But when we finish our conversation, I sit in silence, knowing two things that I couldn’t tell my mom.

I can’t see Vegas ever feeling like home.

And things are anything but fine with my girlfriend.