Page 15
Story: Man Advantage
CAM
When Trev told me that training camp would be held at the team’s practice facility, I’d envisioned something like where he’d played and practiced with his youth teams. A bleak, dark, concrete building with ancient vending machines and a sketchy concessions stand.
A crooked bulletin board covered in flyers for skating and hockey classes, people looking for babysitters, and someone selling a lawnmower.
Glass so marred by pucks that it was almost impossible to see through.
The combined smells of overcooked hot dogs, aged mildew, and piles of hockey gear marinating in adolescent sweat.
It had an ambiance that was somewhere between a crumbling bowling alley and a parking garage. Our friends had even had a betting pool to predict if and when there would come a day when all the overhead mercury vapor lights were working (no one had ever collected).
On some level, I knew professional players wouldn’t have to make do with a shithole like that. An organization paying people that much money to play hockey could afford to give them a nice facility.
But I hadn’t anticipated it being this nice.
For one thing, the place was huge .
Like, there were two whole rinks inside, plus a store selling team merch, a place to get sticks cut and skates sharpened, and—according to some signs—two workout facilities.
There were three giant trophy cases out front, jammed full of enormous cups and plaques, plus the case that held the team’s three Cups.
Everything was clean and new, the scents of coffee and rubber hanging in the air but not the stench of sweat or mildew.
I whistled. Wow. Swanky.
There was a concessions place that appeared to sell sandwiches, pizza, salads, and myriad other things.
The facility also had a coffee shop.
A coffee shop . At a hockey rink. Seriously. My Seattle heart was in heaven. They had the usual array of pastries and other snacks, plus machines to make every imaginable variety of coffee. And it smelled a lot more pleasant than the other place had. Definitely a plus.
Off to the side, tall windows overlooked a gleaming rink beneath bright LED lights. There were banners from the Rebels’ past Cup victories, as well as a couple of retired jerseys and a scoreboard that probably didn’t have a single burned-out lightbulb.
Rumbling across the ice was a Zamboni that looked like it had just been delivered fresh from the factory—pristine ads on the outside and machinery that seemed to be working, rather than just sputtering along while alarming tendrils of smoke curled up from the undercarriage.
Beneath the windows was a long counter on which people were setting up laptops. Reporters, probably; some had jackets with logos from what I assumed were local sports networks, and at least two were wrangling large cameras onto their shoulders.
This was definitely a different world from all those practices and games I’d gone to when we were younger.
Zach snapped me out of my thoughts. “We have to get one of the papers before we go in.” He pointed sharply at the front desk. “So we know where Dad’s playing.”
“So we know—wait, what?”
Zach sighed in that exasperated “how can adults be so stupid?” way that kids were so good at. “There’s two rinks. We need to know which one he’s on.”
“Oh. Okay. Right.” I continued up to the front desk.
It was too high for the boys to see over, but I quickly zeroed in on what Zach had been talking about—a printout of everyone who’d be participating in training camp, split into three teams and listed in numerical order.
I skimmed over it. “Okay, so it looks like your dad is on the gold team, which will be in Rink A.” I looked around. “How do we get to Rink A?”
“We have to go up the stairs.” Zane gestured at a staircase beside the front desk. Beside it was a sign: To Rinks .
Well, all right, then.
I glanced at the concessions counter. “Do you guys want any snacks or drinks before we go in?”
Their eyes lit up, and I had to wonder if I’d just inadvertently given in to something their dads didn’t allow. Trev hadn’t said anything about it, though, so we trooped over to the counter.
I ordered a gigantic bougie coffee that Trev’s ancient practice facility never would’ve served. The boys each got a hot chocolate and a bag of fruit snacks. I also bought a couple of bottles of water; we were going to be here a while, so it couldn’t hurt.
Snacks and drinks in hand, we headed for the stairs.
“You guys should see what your dad had to practice in when he was younger,” I said as we started up.
“Was it small?” Zane asked.
I almost laughed at the innocent question. Small? Compared to this place? God yes. “It was tiny. But it was also really dark and run down.” I paused. “Like if someone turned this place into a big haunted house.”
“They should do that!” Zach said. “We could trick-or-treat and they could do a haunted house on the ice!”
“That would be great!” I said. “And they’ve got plenty of goalie masks, so it’ll work.”
Zane turned to me, brow furrowed. “Why would there be goalie masks in a haunted house?”
“You know, from—” I stopped myself. “Right. Right, you guys probably haven’t seen those movies.”
“We’ve seen all the hockey movies,” Zach declared.
Zane frowned. “None of them used hockey masks in a haunted house.”
Crap. I didn’t need to be the reason Trev’s kids suddenly started asking to watch Friday the 13 th . “It was… one of those movies that almost no one has seen.”
“So it was bad,” Zane said.
Eh, I’d enjoyed them, but it was as good a reason as any to derail the conversation before I told them too much about some horror movies. “Pretty bad, yeah.”
“No, thanks,” Zach said.
“Yeah,” Zane agreed. “Nobody wants to watch bad movies.”
I just chuckled. Maybe someday I’d tell them just how much their dad loved stupid movies, and that included movies that were so terrible they were hilarious. In fact, that was something for them to figure out when they were in their “oh my God parents are so embarrassing” phases.
We found a place to sit in the bleachers, and we settled in to wait for camp to start.
Trev had strongly recommended bringing seat cushions, and I was glad he did—the bleachers were hard plastic, and even with the cushion, my ass was feeling it after about fifteen minutes.
The boys were still up and wandering around right now—all the kids were—but I suspected they’d appreciate the cushions too once they took their seats.
At about 8:15, they did exactly that, parking on either side of me and gazing out at the ice.
A moment later, players started to trickle out of the locker room.
A lot of players. The long list should’ve tipped me off—and Trev had said something about prospects, professional tryouts, and minor league players joining them—but wow, there were a lot .
And this was only two of the three “teams” they’d all been broken into for training camp. The third wouldn’t be out until later.
Above the ice, several offices had a balcony that overlooked everything, and a number of people in suits and Rebels jackets gazed down.
If I’d understood some of Trev’s comments from last night correctly, those were the general manager and other front office staff.
The GM and the coaches (who were on the ice) would whittle down the long list of players to the opening night roster of twenty.
Better them than me, because that sounded like one hell of a task.
Beside me, Zane pointed sharply at the glass. “There’s Dad!”
I followed where he was indicating, and sure enough, that was definitely Trev.
He was just stepping onto the ice, and he glided a few feet as he fussed with his glove.
Something about that look of concentration—even when he was just messing with his glove—gave me a fluttery feeling I didn’t want to think too much about.
This wasn’t easygoing Trev hanging out at home.
This was Trev at work, doing the thing he loved.
I’d always loved watching him on the ice.
Not just in the heat of a game, but also when he was still relaxed and warming up.
There was something amazing about seeing him in his happy place.
In his natural element. The way he made everything he did look effortless, from the high-speed maneuvering to lazily skating backward while he chatted with a teammate.
From the time we were kids, he’d always had an air of contentment about him when he had on his gear. As if everything else in his world just fell away, and nothing existed except hockey.
I was glad to see that after his tumultuous divorce and all its fallout, he still seemed to find that calm and contentment out there.
And what could I say? Trev’s practice facility wasn’t the only thing that had been massively upgraded over the years.
I’d thought he looked hot at home. Grownup pro-hockey-player Trev on his skates with all his gear on? In the physique that professional hockey had blessed him with? Whoa .
“There’s Dad,” Zach said.
“I know,” Zane snapped, and pointed sharply at Trev. “I just said?—”
“No. Dad. ” Zach pointed in another direction.
I craned my neck, and…
Aww, fuck me. Their other dad. The one who’d put Trev in a position to need me in the first place, and who didn’t do a whole lot to hide how much he didn’t like me.
As he came closer, Bryan smiled at the boys, but the expression faltered when he caught sight of me. The unspoken Oh, you’re here came through loud and clear.
Um, yeah, dude? Because the boys want to watch Trev and you’re the one who said he had to hire a babysitter. Where’d you think I’d be?
In fact, why was he here? He wasn’t due to get the boys back until?—
Ooh. Right. He was here because he was banging one of Trev’s teammates.
Not an awkward state of affairs. Not at all.
As Bryan settled on the bench beside Zane, Zach came around and sat on his dad’s other side.
I didn’t mind. I was the nanny. I would never begrudge either of them wanting to sit near one of their dads.
Not even if Dad B was a complete douchewaffle in dire need of a visit from the Decent Personality Fairy.
My own catty thought amused me, and I pressed my lips together to suppress a laugh.
As the crowd on the ice thickened, Trev broke away, skating toward where we were sitting. When he held up a couple of pucks, the boys jumped to their feet and hurried down to the glass.
God, if there was one thing more beautiful than grownup Trev in hockey mode, it was Trev in Dad mode. The way his face lit up as he tossed pucks over to his sons was the sweetest thing ever.
Zach and Zane triumphantly held up their pucks, and Trev just smiled and smiled, fist-bumping them through the scuffed-up glass.
He was just about to skate away when another player came up and skidded to halt beside him. Trev turned, and the instant they made eye contact…
Holy shit. His expression went so dark so fast, it was like half the rink’s lights had blinked out.
My heart jumped into my throat. What the fuck?
Oblivious to Trev’s reaction, the other player tapped a stick—no, two sticks—against the glass. I hadn’t realized until that moment that he was carrying two.
Both boys bounced excitedly, and they squealed with delight as the guy carefully put the sticks over the ice.
Bryan rose and helped them catch the handles so they didn’t get hit in the face or something.
Then he and the other player exchanged smiles, the player tapped the glass with the back of his glove before he and Trev headed back toward their teammates, who were now gathering in front of a whiteboard.
As soon as the guy’s back was turned, I understood.
Across his shoulders: Chatsworth .
So that was Chats. Trev’s teammate and Bryan’s boyfriend.
And now he was trying to one-up Trev with the twins?
My dude, that is low .
The boys sat down again, each clutching a puck and a stick. Bryan was smiling like the dickbag he was, somehow managing to combine fatherly warmth with ex-husbandly smugness.
I could not roll my eyes hard enough.
I did at least turn away when I rolled them, though. Bryan was just conniving and petty enough to decide I was copping an attitude— uh-huh, guilty —and use that to convince a judge I wasn’t fit to take care of his sons.
Ugh. And Trev had been married to that piece of work? Fucking why , man?
Okay, I was one to talk, given the years I’d pissed away partnered with Daniel. At least we’d never had kids together. Yikes. We’d talked about adopting but had never pulled the trigger, and thank Christ for that. Daniel probably would’ve found ways to be a worse co-parent than Bryan.
Bullet dodged.
Maybe I should’ve been grateful Trev hadn’t dodged that bullet. After all, even with all the hassles Bryan brought and kept in his world, I couldn’t imagine he’d trade his twins for anything.
And if Trev and Bryan hadn’t adopted the boys…
If they hadn’t had a messy divorce…
If Bryan hadn’t given Trev a bullshit ultimatum…
I’d still be living with my mom, unemployed and without Trev back in my life.
I guess every cloud—even a shitty-ex-husband-shaped one—really did have a silver lining.
Table of Contents
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