Page 11
Ten
Ryder
O lympus Arena is packed. The league commissioner and a bunch of rich and powerful people are in attendance to watch The Hydras' first home game. Not only do we have the typical ceremonial puck drop, but there’s even some crazy shit going down with the owners, Hayes, Payton, and Zander Olsen before the game starts. The Olsens are billionaire brothers who decided to bring hockey back to Atlanta, build a multimillion-dollar sports and entertainment complex, and, I guess, get to shoot pucks at me as part of the public relations team’s plan to entertain the crowd, given this isn’t a city known for hockey fans. Football, baseball, and even basketball, sure. We’ll have to win over their loyalty, which is where my participation comes in.
I was voluntold to defend the goal as the Olsens all took shots at me. It wasn’t explicitly stated that I had to let them score, but I got the idea that blocking their shots could be seen as unsportsmanlike, as this is all in good fun. I was also told that my part in this was to help revamp my image, and I wouldn’t be able to decline, given that they have me on some kind of disciplinary action plan with Mark’s help. So here I am, suited up, ready for the game, and I have the owners’ pack of kids sending pucks flying down the ice with mini sticks, though not necessarily in my direction. Anything that gets close, I let them by because that’s what you do for kids. They’re pretty cute.
Suddenly, one hellion of a toddler hurls his stick at me, which I manage to block. He kicks the puck and screams like a fucking banshee as he rushes toward me, launching himself at my leg pad and hanging on like a monkey. He’s beating a tiny fist against my pads like I wrecked his life, and honestly, I feel for him and know this sort of expression of emotion. I try to gently shake him off and hear cheering and laughing from the crowd. This was so not in the cards. His dad, Zander, hurries up to us and pries the child off my pads, throwing him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.
“Sorry, man. Axel is a terror on a good day, but give him anything resembling a weapon, and suddenly, it’s war. I didn’t expect him to take it out on you.”
I tap my glove on my leg pad. “At least I’m prepared for it. Get a stick into his hands, and put that kid on skates. You’ll have a real bruiser on the ice in no time.”
Zander laughs and pats the toddler on the back. “Maybe we’ll hold off on the knife shoes and wooden death stick for this one.” I grimace at the truth in his words.
Once Axel is safe with his mom and the rest of the family, the billionaire brothers are squaring up with me like they’ve waited their whole lives to take on an NHL goalie and test their luck. Well, fuck you very much, you’re not scoring on my net, no matter your net worth.
I easily bat away Zander’s shot with a bored sweep of my stick just to play with him because of Axel’s antics. Hayes shoots next, and while his form is good, he sends it straight to center mass, and I easily deflect. As the final brother, Payton, takes a stick for his turn, I skate out of the goal to his girlfriend, Ainsley. The last part of this pre-game show is a little something special I’m helping with. I hand her my stick.
“What are you doing?” she asks, looking around, confused.
It’s a pretty cute proposal idea, so I’m happy to help with it. If it helps rehabilitate my image so people forget about the viral video of me, which now has four million views, even better.
I lift my mask. “Everyone thinks that the Olsens aren’t making their shots because I’m in the net. I think you need to give your man hell and stand in for me. Show all these fans it’s not who’s in the net that matters, it’s their poor shooting skills keeping them from scoring.”
I give her a wink and put my blocker on her other hand before pushing her toward the goal. I flip a puck to Payton and skate after her. I make sure she’s positioned in the net, show her how to stand, and where to put the stick.
I move to the back of the goal and let Payton do the rest of the work. The puck I gave him is all marked up in silver Sharpie, telling Ainsley to look up, so when it stops at her feet, she finds Payton on his knee with a ring. Of course, she says yes to him, and they look so fucking happy. Watching them hug and kiss, sprawled on the ice in front of thousands of people, gives me a new feeling of longing that lodges in my chest and pokes at something like loneliness I hadn’t realized lived there already. I’ve never thought of settling down all that much, but I have to admit, coming home to another person has been kind of nice, especially when he does all the cooking. The theatrics settle when the Olsen family clears the ice, and we finally get the game started.
I sweep my stick along the painted lines of the crease, scraping ice away as the team sets up for the face-off. My body buzzes with awareness, watching the puck as the players quickly jostle for possession. Chad takes control and passes to Westin as they push down the ice. Our captain, Sebastian Montenegro, Monty, opens up, and Westy passes to him. A winger from Colorado steals the puck, and the play turns back toward me. Our defensemen, Rook and Campbell, skate like their asses are on fire to get back into position, but Colorado has the advantage with the turnover and quickly passes the puck back behind the goal to a waiting player on the other side.
I drop to butterfly and slide to the other post, blocking the corner as I track the puck and where these players are to anticipate where a shot could come from. Campbell and a player from Colorado get into a puck battle in the corner before Campbell manages to flick the puck out to Chad, who works to get it out of our zone.
Fucking Smith from Colorado has a screen on me, keeping me from having a clear field of vision as the game moves across the ice in front of us. He loved putting his ass in my face any chance he got when I played in Boston, too. I shove him out of the crease to give myself space so I can see. It’s a habit I have that I don't even think about. If a player has a problem with me getting physical when they’re in my goal and wants to get in my face about it, my team has always had my back and shuts it down. I just don't know what my new team will do. Hopefully, they feel like most teams that the other team shouldn’t touch their goalie, but we’re not that tight yet.
Smith pushes back into the crease, letting his elbow ram into my face mask as he moves across the goal, following the play. This motherfucker wants to test my patience tonight. As a new team, we have something to prove, and no one has respect for us until we show them we’re worthy of it. I sweep my stick at Smith’s skates, and his feet fly out from under him as he goes down in a heap on the ice. Finally, I can see what’s happening in front of me, and it’s a break in play as the refs blow a whistle and position for another face-off.
Unfortunately, a few Colorado players watched the exchange and skate toward me like they’re going to do something about it. Campbell and Rook see the Colorado players and pursue, with Monty, Chad, and Westy turning to see where everyone is going and immediately joining the exodus down the ice.
“The fuck, man,” Jonesy, a Colorado forward—and mouthy bastard—calls as the ref blows a whistle further down the ice.
“Keep your dogs on a leash, Jonsey. He can’t be smashing me in the face if he doesn't want to get it back,” I say, standing to my full height and skating forward.
“Stay in your fucking goal and don't run your damn mouth, Kingsy. You don’t have a team worth shit, and no one’s here to back you up this time,” Jonsey calls as he comes to a stop, sending a snow shower onto my pads, and pushes my chest so I slide back toward the goal. That’s rude.
Before I can move forward to do anything about it, Rook throws an arm around Jonsey’s neck from behind and pulls him down and onto his back on the ice. “Welcome to Atlanta, bitch,” he says as he bends over the other player. He straightens up and goes for Smith next, who is up on his skates again. “Don't touch my fucking goalie. I saw that elbow, jackass.”
A Colorado player grabs Rook before he can throw a punch, but Campbell gets past and grabs the front of Smith’s jersey, pulling him in and landing a hit or two before the refs can pull them apart. Campbell’s mouth runs even as the refs push him away, and I hear the threats and chirps he’s throwing Smith’s way. Looks like Campbell is going to be an enforcer .
Finally, the Hydras feel like a team that has my back. Or feel like a team at all. Usually, Rook and Campbell are fighting each other. Seeing them work together to go after someone else gives me hope that we can make this work. Monty stops at the net next to me, where I have my mask off, squirting water on my face. Once I realized I wouldn't have to finish the fight, I moved back for a hydration break.
“Was it necessary to drop Smith like that and start a fight in the first few minutes of play, or were you just making a statement?” my captain asks.
“Establish dominance, Monty. I’m not letting anyone push us around because we’re a new team. Smith got in my space, so I made room. When his elbow was introduced to my face mask, I made a bigger correction to ensure I could see around the distraction in my crease.”
Monty laughs and shakes his head. “Okay, point made. We've got your back, Kingsy.”
They’ve got my back .
For the first time since I got the news of my trade from Boston to Atlanta, I’m at peace. Having a team behind me, working to defend me here in my net, I know I’ll be able to do this after all.
Unfortunately, Campbell goes to the penalty box for his part in the squabble, and Colorado has the power play. The line changes, and thankfully, we manage to keep Colorado occupied for most of it. A Colorado player makes a breakaway with the puck and barrels down the ice at me. I skate forward, challenging him and watching every movement for when he shoots. He slaps the puck, and I stretch out, knocking it down to the ice with my glove and smothering it as players converge in the crease around me.
Our first period continues with more shots that I block and the boys hustling on the ice, trying to score, until the horn blows for the first intermission with a score that’s still zero-zero. I fucking hate this. While it’s great that Colorado hasn’t scored on me, we haven’t scored either, and a tie means both teams will be out for blood in the second period, hoping to change that. Will I have what it takes to stop them? Every team in the league wants to see us fail because we’re new and have nothing to prove our merit but individual records.
As I skate off the ice and walk down the tunnel to the locker room, I run through the plays from this period, thankful nothing’s gotten past me despite their many shots on goal. When I get to my stall, I grab my phone in nervous agitation, needing a distraction from the stalemate on the ice and the pressure that rests on my shoulders to provide a shutout game or make sure we don't lose. I rarely look at my phone until after the game, but tonight, everything feels different, and I’m changing things up. I have a text from Knox that I click curiously. We’ve only exchanged the briefest texts with necessary information, so I’m not sure what this could be.
Knox: Good luck tonight, not that you need it because you’re a fucking incredible goalie and bring so much skill and talent that Colorado won’t know what’s hit them. Have a great game, and remember, no matter what happens, you’ve already won because they chose you. They wanted you. Be the fucking star you are.
Knox: And think about what you say before you say it for any post-game interviews, for Goldie’s sake. She doesn't want to end up in Canada or Minnesota or wherever they’ve threatened to send you.
I set my phone down, swallowing the unexpected lump in my throat, and chuckle at his stupid second message. Knox would come at me with a pep talk to hype me up and then wrap it up with a reminder of my current situation. The crazy thing is, he’s out of town for a game, yet he remembered my first game is today and took the time to send me a message. All because the golden boy is actually nice, thoughtful, and wants to do good things, whereas I have to work to not be an asshole as my baseline.
I put my phone away and, oddly, feel more prepared for the next period. It’s not like Knox said anything groundbreaking, and Coach gave a perfectly fine pre-game speech that got us ready to play. This is still somehow different. Knox has every reason to hate me. He could ignore me outside of the short interactions we have to work on whatever it is that will help me learn my lesson and be well within his rights. Yet, he’s making a point to pump me up for a game he doesn't even play, knowing me well enough to anticipate that I’d be in my head right now.
“Don't start any fights this period, Kingsy,” Coach says as he strides in.
“But Coach, you know the rules,” Rook says from his stall. He waves his hand like he’s conducting a choir.
“Don’t touch our goalie,” the team says in unison.
We’re running down the clock in the third period, the score is one-zero in our favor, and we’ll pull off a shutout if we can keep Colorado from scoring in this last minute of play. They’ve pulled the Colorado goalie and added a sixth man to the ice to give themselves an advantage, hoping to get a point on the board, tie us up—and send the game into overtime and potentially a shootout, where the chances of scoring are higher.
Sweat drips into my eyes, and I shake my head, not daring to blink or lose sight of the puck that’s being passed like lightning across the ice as my team battles to steal it back. Nico slams a Colorado player into the boards, and they scrabble for the puck. Smith is back in my crease, waiting for his chance to score if they can pass to him. Nico knocks the puck away from the boards to Monty, who skates around the back of my net and passes to Westy. Jonsey from Colorado is there to steal the puck and passes to Smith. He’s ready and takes advantage of the chaos around the goal, sending it at my left shoulder, the opposite side of the goal from where I’ve been crouched. I explode, reflexes running on instinct, my glove reaching up and out as I push off my skate to propel me across the goal. I just manage to snag the puck before it crosses under the top bar.
The arena explodes with noise as the clock hits zero and the horn blows, signaling the end of the game. Holy fucking shit, that was so close. I rise, and my teammates on the ice skate toward me, jumping onto me in a group hug that feels like we’ve won the Cup rather than our first game, but I go with it. The adrenaline is flowing, and that last save has me feeling like we're gods of the ice.
Monty grabs me by the back of my neck, knocking his helmet against mine before moving back and shouting to the team, “That’s how you do it, boys!”
“That’s my goalie!” Campbell adds, sliding into the team hug.
And I do feel like their goalie after this game.
“Celly at the bar tonight,” Nico crows as we make our way back into the locker room.
“Before you boys start your celebrations, I need Kingsy and Monty to do the post-game pressers. Then you boys can do whatever the hell you want. Go answer some questions, shower, and get out of here. You have tomorrow off, but I’ll see you bright and early the next day for morning skate before we leave for the plane. Don’t do anything that will land you in jail or my office,” Coach Kennedy shouts over our raucous noise.
I groan. Of course he wants me to field media after our first game being a shutout. I strip out of my pads and put on a team shirt and shorts. I slide a hat on backwards and join Monty as we follow our head of PR, McKenna Kresley, into the media room.
I see that fucking reporter who ambushed me on media day and started the downward trajectory of my life with her stupid questions. The piece she published the following day about toxic masculinity in sports blasted my stunted emotional empathy and intelligence. She can fuck right off with her questions, I won't be entertaining her after that warm reception.
“Ryder, that was an amazing last-second save right before the buzzer. What was going through your mind during that play?” a reporter asks. I’m not familiar with the cadre of journalists in the room, though I’m sure I’ll learn all their names and who they work with, whether a major network, a local newspaper, or a sports podcast, within the season.
Finally, a piece of cake question I can answer easily. This is what media day should have been. “I was dialed in, thinking like a winner. There’s not much you can do in a chaotic play like that other than know where the key players are and follow the puck with anticipation. Everything worked together for us, and that’s the mindset I’m taking with me into the season,” I say, my answer professional, finally using my years of team media training and post-game press experience to give a soundbite-worthy response.
A reporter asks Monty about his goal, the game's only one. I look around the room while he answers and catch the catty reporter’s eyes. Her red lips are set in a slight smile that looks scarier than you’d expect after a win like this. I’m not looking forward to whatever she has up her sleeve.
“Speaking of mindsets, how were you able to focus and get your mind off your viral video going into the game? The video of you has reached a wide audience, nearly four-point-five million views now, and that can’t be easy to forget. Did it have any impact on your playing style or focus? How have you been working to correct your attitude regarding other athletes’ alleged sexuality?” The reporter, Lilah, I remember, crosses her arms, her phone held out, recording my answer.
I tense in the hard plastic chair, her questions striking like arrows in battle, each one hitting my one exposed weakness. She couldn’t just let it go and let me move on. Heat rises in my blood, anger building fast, a sharp retort already forming. But before I let it out and rip her a new one, I look over at McKenna and clock her wide eyes as she fiddles with the end of her shiny red ponytail nervously. I know she’s telepathically communicating with me to keep my shit together and be careful about the words that come out of my mouth next. I bite my tongue and stop myself before answering rashly as I remember Knox’s text. He told me to think before I speak, even if I’m angry. And Lilah is a woman who makes me mad enough to spit flames, which is what I fucking want to do. Instead, I dig deep for a calm that desperately eludes me and pretend she’s anyone else, asking any other question. I nod at McKenna to let her know I got her message before I answer.
“Mindset is the most powerful tool a player can bring onto the ice with them,” I begin, hoping Lilah can feel the holes I’m burning in her face with the anger I know is still in my eyes, even if my voice remains calm. “We can’t let the outside world distract us from what’s happening right in the moment during the game. I leave the past where it belongs and move on, knowing I can’t change how I’ve played before, or even what I said or how it came off. I can only work to do better going forward.” That’s an answer worthy of the training Knox is driving into me. McKenna and her entire PR staff couldn’t even find fault in that.
Lilah considers me, her whiskey eyes shrewd and calculating. I turn away as another reporter asks Monty about the offensive tactics that were used. Once he’s answered, she springs another question on me.
“Sources say you’ve moved in with the very man you slandered in that video. How did that come about, and has it influenced how you see him now?” Lilah thrusts her phone back toward me. I cannot believe her audacity or her sources.
What the actual fuck? Who told her I moved in with Knox? I don't have to answer this. It’s not a question about the game or even hockey-related, but I have a feeling Lilah will take my refusal to answer as a cop-out or infer some kind of nefarious meaning into it when she should just mind her own business. I have to answer it and put a stop to this train of questioning for good.
“As I’ve told you before, I knew Knox back in the day, and we use the same agent. I needed a place to stay, and our agent arranged it. That’s the last personal question I’ll answer. If it’s not focused on the hockey game, don’t bother asking me.”
I’m seething, my voice tight as I grind my molars around the words that I can barely grit out. At least I didn't tell her to fuck off or flip the table like I wanted to. I didn't even say anything too telling or go off on some belligerent tangent that would get me canceled and traded, or worse, put on waivers and potentially hidden away in some minor league team or overseas. McKenna looks relieved from her spot in the corner and points at another reporter for the next question.
Thankfully, Lilah leaves me alone for the rest of the post-game press. I’m able to get through the remaining questions, which are all focused on hockey, as they should be, and much easier to field.
Monty pats my back as we enter the locker room after the media circus finishes. “You handled that well. I didn't know you moved in with the footballer. What happened to your place?”
“It’s the fucking video, man. My landlord kicked me out,” I explain. “I never should have opened my mouth in the first place, but damn, it feels shitty that someone had to capture the worst of me and share it like that’s all I am. ”
“We know you’re more than your words from one conversation. We all say shit we don't mean on occasion, and sometimes what we say comes off the wrong way, even if we meant it differently. It’ll get better.”
Monty sounds every bit the dad he is, reminding me that I’m more than this one crappy situation, and that he believes in me, even if he doesn’t say the words outright. His kid, Enzo, has it good with a dad like that. I wish I’d had a dad like him. I wouldn’t want to be a single dad like Monty, but he has a troupe of nannies, and his parents moved to Atlanta to help him, so at least he has a support system in place for our insane schedules.
I shower and change back into my game day suit to go out with the boys to a bar that Nico picked called The Hideout. It’s outside of the sports and entertainment complex, so hopefully, there won’t be too many hockey fans who were at the game. It’s high-end because that’s how Nico rolls with his Miami vibe. We’re given a semi-private section with several booths to fit our group of big athletes and the collection of people we’ve picked up on the way from the arena to the bar.
Davy brought his wife, Tatiana, who looks like a model and probably is. They converse quickly in Russian and sound like they’re fighting, then suddenly they’re making out, which confuses the hell out of me. Several players brought their stunning wives and girlfriends, who are all talking to one another at a booth together because they’ve already grown tight. There are suddenly a lot of people around. It leaves me feeling inadequate and lonely again.
I look for the single guys. Chad, Westin, Monty, Rook, Nico, and Campbell have a booth that looks a lot friendlier than a bunch of couples. Monty scoots over and makes room for me to sit down.
“The star of the game needs to celebrate,” Rook says, passing me a beer. How he managed to get a bucket of iced-down beers already is a mystery in this busy place.
I wave off the compliment. “The team made it happen, and if anyone is a star, it’s our captain, with the only goal of the night,” I say, raising my beer to Monty, and the boys follow suit, clinking our bottles together.
“Let’s keep that energy going into the next game against Carolina, and we’ll see who rules the dirty South,” Monty says before tipping his bottle back.
“Atlanta isn’t as bad as I expected,” Nico says, setting his bottle on the table. “The food is amazing, the nightlife is more than decent, and there’s every sport you would want to see live.”
“It’s hot as hell, though, and the humidity is something else,” Rook complains, wiping his face like he can feel the humidity inside the air-conditioned building.
“That’s the Minnesota talking,” Westin says, laughing. “You’ll get used to it.” He came from a team in Florida and knows heat and humidity.
“My brother has been keeping the thermostat at seventy-five like the cheap ass he is,” Rook goes on. “I told him I can afford to keep the place feeling like a Minnesota winter if I want to, but he said something about it being better for the environment.”
“I didn’t realize your brother moved here with you,” I say. “You’re a twin, right?”
“There are two of you?” Campbell asks, horrified. “That’s another level of messed up. You’re bad enough on your own.” We all laugh, and Rook shakes his head, though he’s smiling.
“Knight moved with me to take care of my dog when I’m on the road, since he works from home as a telehealth therapist, rarely leaves the house, and didn't have anything keeping him up North. He’s nothing like me,” Rook insists. “He’s a total nerd. His idea of fun is reading a shit ton of books instead of having a life, or going out to do things that would actually make sense.”
“Wait, your brother’s name is Knight, and you’re Rook? What the fuck were your parents thinking?” Westin asks, his face a priceless blend of shock and humor that has Rook turning red.
Rook puffs his chest and punches Westy in the arm. “Fuck you, man. My dad’s a chess grand champion.”
“Your dad’s a chess master, and your brother’s a nerdy therapist who is probably super smart, too. What happened to you?” Campbell asks, the blow landing on Rook’s pride and making everyone at the table laugh.
“I was smart enough to know I should focus on hockey and make that my end goal rather than chess club or a career in rocket science,” Rook counters once his flaming cheeks are less nuclear-looking.
I shake my head as I laugh and let my gaze wander the bar absently while the guys continue to poke and prod at each other’s egos. Tan, smooth legs that look a mile long capture my attention. The sleek real estate leads my eyes up to a short skirt and a cropped shirt that shows a flat stomach. Silky black strands of hair fall to a tiny waist that highlights an unbelievable rack that wants to spill out of the low neckline of a strappy white top. The face that finally grabs my attention is mid at best. She’s pretty, and she knows it, but she’s trying so hard to be stunning that she looks like every Instagram girl with her plumped lips and contoured, heavy makeup hiding whatever she naturally looks like. What captures my interest the most are her eyes, which are the same espresso shade as Knox’s.
What. The. Actual. Fuck? Did I just compare this chick in the bar to…Knox? That won’t do. Why is he even in my head right now when I’m looking for a hookup? I’m hanging out with the boys, my teammates, and we’re having a good time without any need for a sensitivity lesson or correction of my behavior. There’s no reason for Knox to come barreling through my thoughts. Yet, here I am, seeing his face when this girl caught my attention, and I can’t have that. I think back through the day and realize this isn’t the first time I’ve thought of Knox. I’ve let my thoughts flit back to him far more than I’d care to admit to anyone, more than just trying to keep my an ger under control or watching what I say. After a few weeks of living with the guy, and a few opportunities to try out being the nice guy for a change, suddenly I’ve got him on my brain. I think the fuck not.
I need to prove to myself that Knox isn’t the only one on my mind and that he doesn’t control my choices when it comes to who I take home. I rise from the booth, cross the room to the exotic smoke show with legs for days, and introduce myself. With any luck, we’ll be getting to know each other a whole lot better soon, and I’ll be a little less lonely in the morning.