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ERIK

H ave you ever heard of hate at first sight? Like, have you met someone who instantly gets your blood boiling? Okay, maybe hate is a strong word, but I’ll leave blood boiling on the table. That person gets under your skin, and you’d be better off without them. Period. We’ve all had one, right?

For me, that someone was Kayden Preston, also known as God’s gift to hockey. If you asked him, I mean. This story’s a real doozy. Let me tell you how it all went down.

It started on the first day of practice.

I’d been in the United States for a week and still lived out of a suitcase.

Not that I’d travelled far to reach Buffalo, New York, but you wouldn’t believe the amount of red tape in crossing the border from Canada for a hockey scholarship.

I didn’t do anything wrong either. All I did was enter the locker room and do the natural thing I would’ve done back home.

I found the vacant team captain’s locker near the entrance, loaded my gear inside, closed the door, and attached my combination lock.

When I turned around, I was immediately confronted by this goon, a guy whose parents obviously hadn’t taught him the first thing about personal space.

He was so totally in my bubble that I could smell his spearmint gum.

I noticed his green eyes right away. His chest heaving out of his tight-fitting white shirt nearly brushed against me.

The way he parted his dirty-blond hair down the middle made me want to tell him the nineties had called and wanted its hairstyle back.

That wasn’t all. He’d fixed those green eyes on me like the jock version of a death stare. All over nothing. Seriously. No one back home ever did that even if they’d had a reason. And anyway, I wouldn’t sweat guys like that.

“Jeez, man, can you get any closer?” I asked.

“Dude, what do you think you’re doing?”

His voice sounded steady, controlled, but I still detected brewing hostility that threatened to boil over.

I paused, trying to register the exact brand of stupid he’d meant to push on me. When I couldn’t figure it out, I stood up straight and waited for him to fill me in.

“Trouble speaking?” he asked. “I asked you what you think you’re doing.”

“Putting stuff in my locker. What does it look like?”

He sputtered, suppressed a laugh, and glanced around the locker room to see who else might’ve shared his amusement.

Everyone went about their business. Big surprise.

“You know whose locker this is, right?” He pointed to the sign above the locker that read ‘CAPTAIN’. To him, it might as well have read ‘PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES’.

“Yes, sir. I sure do.”

“You’ve got the wrong locker, bud. I’m the captain.”

He pointed to his chest as if his status was the most obvious thing on earth.

Seriously. You should’ve seen the stupid, cocky look on his face.

He really believed what he was saying. I secretly wanted to fish my phone out of my pocket and snap a picture to give you a better idea, but this description will have to do.

“I don’t know who died and made you captain,” I said, “but I’m team captain. And I’ve already put things away in the locker. And I’ve got places to be. So, if you don’t mind . . . ”

I flitted a hand at him in a flimsy gesture to shoo him away, even if he didn’t budge. I really meant to leave it at that. Why wouldn’t I? For one thing, I didn’t know who this kid was from Adam, and he thought he could march into the locker room and boss me around. It doesn’t work that way. Sorry.

Also, I know how guys like him operate. I’ve seen his type around for years.

The best thing you can do with these dudes is to refuse to feed them.

They have egos the size of Toronto. When you take them seriously, you fuel their ego, until it balloons to the size of an entire province.

The smartest move is to cut off their energy supply—which was exactly what I did with him.

When I proceeded to the locker room door, he blocked me. I tried stepping past him, but he slipped in front of me again. Obviously, he wouldn’t let this conversation die until he said it could. Think of it as the gospel according to Kayden Preston.

Again, no sweat.

“Going somewhere?” he asked.

“Yeah, class.”

“Not until you’ve answered me. Why do you think you’re the team captain?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Why wouldn’t you be? What kind of stupid answer is that?”

“I don’t think it’s a stupid answer at all. I was always the team captain back home. It’s a natural role for me.”

“Back home. Wait, aren’t you . . ..”

“Erik. Erik De Ruiter.”

Normally, I would’ve stuck my hand out to offer a proper greeting but didn’t this time. I knew exactly what guys like him would think of my handshake and refused to take the bait. Besides, you never know where his hands have been.

“Oh yeah, I know who you are now,” he said. “You’re the Canadian guy.”

“How do you know?”

“Your voice. You talk a little differently than the other guys. Like ‘oot and aboot.’”

I waited for him to crack up laughing like every other moron who attempts a bad (and I mean bad ) Canadian accent. Those same types loved adding comments about maple syrup, socialism, and Alex Trebek. Give me a break. He had enough pride not to say those things—I guess.

Instead of answering him, I glanced around the room, searching for a quick out, but wouldn’t worry if one didn’t come. Again, no sweat.

“And you’re the farmer too?” he asked.

“Yeah. Have you heard of me?”

“Maybe. Isn’t that a life for bumpkins?”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

He shrugged as if to say he wouldn’t call it good or bad.

It’s true, though. I grew up in the farming town of Stevensville, Ontario.

That’s part of greater Fort Erie, right across the Canada-United States border from Buffalo.

Like I said, I hadn’t traveled far to live in another country.

The farm was home. It stood for principles and hard work.

On the De Ruiter farm, you keep plugging away until the job is done.

If he’d wanted me to feel ashamed of my background, he would have to try a whole hell of a lot harder.

“And who are you?” I asked.

“Kayden Preston. Hold the applause. I don’t need an introduction.”

“No, you definitely don’t.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re Kayden Preston, the Buffalo hockey player who was thrown in jail because he used his fists off the ice one time too many.”

He froze, looking stunned as if I’d slapped him across the face. Once you’ve heard all I can tell you about Kayden, you’ll wish I’d done it for real.

“It was only one time.” He paused once the words left his mouth, like he hadn’t meant to dignify my comment with a response. “Wait a second, what am I telling you that for? You’re nobody. And who told you about that anyway?”

“It’s no secret, Kayden. You’ve got a reputation.”

“Yeah, well, the charges got dropped, I have no record, I kept my scholarship, and—” He choked back any further words, grunted, and threw his hands into the air because I’d screwed him up again. Pro tip: You do that by staying cool while the other guy loses his head.

My comments had stunned him enough to create an opening for me to breeze past him and out the locker room door.

Of course, he followed me. No surprise there either. He wouldn’t have been Kayden Preston if he’d just stood there with his thumb up his ass, accepting his obvious defeat.

In a weird way, I found the whole thing sort of entertaining.

“Just because you were team captain back home doesn’t mean you’ll automatically be team captain here,” he said.

“I know, but I’m confident.”

“Yeah, but?—”

“But what? Hell, why don’t you tell me why you should automatically be the captain?”

“Because I’ve always been the captain of every team I’ve ever been on.”

“Jeez, that sounds familiar. Isn’t that the same logic you tried to use against me less than two minutes ago?”

“No way, dude.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve been playing in America, dude.”

This again. He didn’t have to say anything more.

I sure as hell hoped he wouldn’t, actually.

But if he did, I knew where he would go with this.

He would say Americans were better hockey players than Canadians—and better than everyone at everything by default.

Or he would make some stupid-ass comment about how Canadians would dare remind the hockey world that we invented the sport.

Oh yeah, I saw his line of bullshit coming a mile away.

“Nice try,” I said.

“Look, I’ll be a nice guy and a good teammate by giving you until the end of the day to take off that lock and move your shit someplace else.”

“That’s so charitable, Kayden. Thank you soooo much.”

“Ah, a wiseass, I see.”

I arched my eyebrows at him to communicate how weird I found his proposal—no, this entire conversation. Again, you can’t feed egomaniacs like him…so I didn’t.

When I tried breezing past him a second time, he planted a hand on my shoulder to stop me. Oooooh, he was making physical contact now. That meant he was totally serious. I was soooo scared I could’ve shit my pants.

Like I’ve been telling you, you can’t sweat these guys.

“I’ll be going now,” I said, “so, if you’ll just take your hand off my shoulder?—”

“You think I’m joking.”

Kayden’s voice jumped an octave, trying to create this weird joking tone. You should know that guys like him don’t know the first thing about being funny.

“Oh, I’m sure you’re not joking,” I said, “I’m just choosing not to take you seriously.”

Kayden pursed his lips and his chest puffed out. If we hadn’t been surrounded by a locker room full of hockey players, he might’ve slugged me.

“Are you even listening to me?” I shrugged. If I’d looked scared, I would’ve played right into his hands.

“Remember what I said. You’ve got until the end of the day to follow orders, pal, or there’s going to be a whole lot of trouble.”

I half-smiled at him. “Noted.”