Page 9

Chapter Nine

Cam

Sweet . I have team-sanctioned time with Christina which will give me time to get to know her better and maybe get her to go out with me.

I lay awake for hours after the ball trying to talk myself out of pursuing her. Lusting after a team owner is the epitome of a career-limiting move for sure. But she’s so much fun to dance with, and she’s smoking hot besides. I haven’t been interested in dating in ages, and after those sleepless hours of reflection, I know my interest isn’t just physical. We’ll just have to be careful. Even though it can’t go anywhere, I’m determined to get more time with her.

Coach Steele claps several times walking through the locker room indicating our break is over so I shut all thoughts of her down. My head has to be one hundred and ten percent on training right now to win that starter position.

This first morning of training camp we have full-team drills to shake the summer off. After lunch, the teams will work with their skill coaches. That means endless T-pushes, shuffles, and butterflies. I have no idea how older goalies deal with the impact of the ice on their knees, even with all our pads, but hopefully I’ll have the opportunity to find out in a decade or so. Meanwhile, the intensity of training camp is always a reality check. Fortunately, pro teams employ the best sports physical therapists, and the Tornadoes are no exception.

Later today, they’ll give the rest of the team an opportunity to take shots on goal with each of us in the net. I’ll be able to assess my teammates and figure out who I’d want on my first line if it was up to me.

Chirping is low-key as the friendships aren’t cemented yet. Buzz and Jack are tight, and welcome everyone. The rest of us are keeping a close eye on our teammates. Until the roster is finalized, we’re all competitors. My perspective in the net lets me assess everyone, but I’m especially interested in my rivals for the starting position.

After a long day and hot showers, management has catered dinner so we can continue to get to learn more about each other off the ice. Jack is still getting food when I sit down.

“What’s your story, Prancer?” a French-Canadian wingman asks. I think his name is Boulanger.

“No story. Just hockey. Indiana U then Peoria Wild.”

“That’s your resume, not your story. Why goalie?”

“So I can see the whole board. I like knowing where everyone is on the ice, their strengths and weaknesses.”

“You let fewer in than Murphy or Wayman. Keep going like that and you’ll be starting goalie, eh?”

“That’s the plan.”

Talk moves around the table and I relax back against my chair. I have no desire to spill my childhood woes to these guys, especially on night one. Let them see my past as my draft placement and my AHL stats. That’s all they need to respect me. No one needs to know about my dickhead father or the fact that I have a half-brother I’ve never met.

“Yo, Petrovksy,” Jack calls as he joins the table. “Prancer here shut you out. You’re gonna have to do better than that if you want to play with the big boys.”

“Et voilà, the trash talk begins,” mutters might-be-Boulanger.

The Czech player narrows his eyes. “I’ll do better tomorrow. I’m not worried.”

I murmur, “If you keep hunching your right shoulder just before you shoot, you should stay worried.”

Jack hears me and whistles. “Ooohhhh, burn. Milo, you have a tell.”

“No way.”

I shrug. “I guess we’ll find out tomorrow, won’t we?”

Boulanger catches my eye and gives me a small nod. He’s seen it too, apparently. Still, Milo Petrovsky is fast, and can manage the puck on a breakaway like no one else except Buzz or Saint. Boulanger is slow, or at least slower. It’ll be interesting to see who’ll make first and second offensive line.

Petrovsky is pouting, so I keep my head down and eat.

* * * *

The next day, we’re doing drills in the morning and scrimmaging in the afternoon.

Us goalies go to a separate rink and do some extra stretching on-ice before refreshing our muscles with a shorter version of the T-push and shuffles.

Coach has us line up and do five back-to-back reverse vertical horizontals. I excel at RVH’s with my flexibility so hopefully this will win me points toward that starting spot. A goalie has to drop one knee to the ice, while keeping the other vertical. Usually the leg closest to the post goes flat to the ice. After the first five, the coach and trainers see that I’m the fastest in and out. They turn the line so that the other two are behind me and tell them to keep pace with me.

My heart pounds with hope from that gesture. Another sign that I’m being seen as a leader and will be a strong consideration for starter. This is why I chose yoga and dance as off-season focuses.

Bonus clauses in my contract aside, I want this. I’ve worked too damn hard my whole life to let this opportunity pass, or even be delayed. If my closed-minded asshole of a father had even an inkling of the injuries, the swollen knees and quads, the bruises, and the sheer amount of sweat I’ve poured into this, maybe he’d begin to understand that this is a job. It’s work. Work I love. More than just a game. We bring thousands of people together over a shared passion. We give them a break from work they may not enjoy. And we entertain millions around the world, crossing boundaries in a way that only food and art and entertainment can.

Whatever. I don’t even know why I still let him in my head. I’m over it. I’ll build my own family, and every member, right down to a damned pet, will be loved harder than they could ever dream.

A long whistle blow brings me back to the ice. I was going through the ups and downs alternating legs by rote, lost in my thoughts. The trainers, along with Murphy and Wayman, are all staring at me.

Murphy says only, “Dude. You’re a machine.”

The trainer asks, “Didn’t you hear the whistle?”

I shrug. “Guess not. I was in the zone.”

I look behind me at the ice as we skate off to return to the main rink. I’ve practically filled a Sno Cone machine with what I’ve chocked up, whereas the other two sets of marks are significantly neater. Turning back, I shake my head. As far as I’m concerned, that’s what it takes to win, and I’ll make a mess if I must.

Just before lunch, the coaches call for another round of players shooting on goal with each of us manning it.

When Petrovsky gets the puck, he looks determined. He’s my teammate and I try to help him fix it. When his shoulder curls up, I yell, “Hunch!”

He startles and shoots wide so I don’t have to worry about blocking the shot. He stomps off the ice as soon as he can.

Over lunch, I find out he’s won the nickname “Quasi” for the hunchback of Notre Dame because of my chirping. Oops . I duck my head to hide my grin.

We get ready for the afternoon scrimmage. Jack told me in the car this morning that he’s going to test some of the European players to ensure they’re ready for the physicality of the NHL. I feel a little sorry for the wingmen. Maybe I should warn the trainers more ice baths might be needed tonight. But I don’t want to get in trouble for inciting more physical play; the goal of training camp is to evaluate players while avoiding injuries.

Jack heads for any player by the boards, careening into them and grabbing the puck away with his stick that I swear bends at will, he’s so good. They all shake it off. A few take precious extra seconds to get their heads back in the game, whereas others immediately chase after him, and that difference is what he’s watching for.

No one says anything in the locker room with the coaches around, but afterward a group of us go to dinner. The complaints start with the first round of drinks.

Jack laughs. Clapping me on the shoulder, he says, “Gotta support my goalie and keep you guys out of our zone.”

“That’s probably how he lets so few goals in,” grumbles one of the players from the other “team.”

I’ve had enough. Us roommates have to stick together. “First, that’s the very definition of the defensive line—to help me defend against goals. What hockey have you been playing?” I don’t give them time to answer. “Second, I let so few goals in because I’m that good. And you have tells.”

Emil Bergstrom, a winger, is barely twenty-two, over from the Swedish Hockey League. He’s been super quiet throughout training camp, but now he pipes up. “What is my tell, please? I’d like to fix it.”

“You look left and right before you decide to shoot, even if you’re by the boards.” I smirk, recalling Jack plowing into him at least once. “When you’re passing, you only look to the person you want to send the puck to.”

He nods, thoughtful. “Thank you.”

“Dude, I’ve been playing in the NHL, not the peewee league. And scoring. There’s no way,” another guy says while shaking his head.

I lift a shoulder. “Not against me.”

Jack flicks a glance at me and shakes his head once.

I twist my lips but subside. It ain’t bragging if you can back it up.