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JULIAN

It’s one of those rare mornings in April when the weather is just beautiful. I wouldn’t call it warm, but the sun is out, and it’s supposed to be in the sixties. An absolutely perfect day for a thirteen-mile hike.

There are several private hockey clubs in the country for high school students that aren’t run by the state or attached to a school district.

These are alternatives to high school-led hockey and for high schools that don’t have teams. They have their own tiered competitions, ranked by skill of the team, all over the country and into Canada.

It’s a model that aligns with the NHL. There’s the ECHL, then the AHL, and then the NHL. Colleges and universities are the same with their different leagues and shit. This is no different.

A lot of people have the misconception that if a kid is serious about wanting to go pro, this is the kind of hockey they should be playing.

There’s the theory that you get what you pay for.

We all know teachers could be paid more.

They’re worth much more than they’re compensated. The same goes for high school coaches.

The reality is, sure, okay. That might be true as far as training, expectations, and commitment are concerned, but the reality is, it costs a lot of money.

Just because a kid is serious about playing doesn’t mean that their parents can afford to sign them up for a private club.

So yes, these kids are definitely showing the dedication and skill needed to become pro athletes, but there are public school kids who have the same dedication and skill and can’t afford to be a part of the club.

Sometime around Christmas, Coach sent an email to the team asking if there were any players interested in taking one of the local private teams on hikes or through some conditioning routines, mini bootcamps, and the like once the season ended.

Since I enjoy hiking and haven’t made myself check out the trails, I volunteered to take one of the teams hiking.

These programs are considered mentor programs because they give the kids time to talk to me about hockey, ask me questions and for advice, and just get a feel for how they can improve their personal games in an effort to be more appealing to colleges and agents.

The kids joining me today are a Level 1 team, which is the highest of highs in the Chicago area.

Chicago is densely populated enough that this is one of three teams of this caliber.

There are the Chicago Storms, the Chicago Shipwrecks—who I’m told are affectionately called the Sinkers—and the Chicago Lakers.

Obviously, there needed to be a team with reference to Chicago’s position on Lake Michigan.

I’m meeting up with the Chicago Storms today. There are twenty-one kids on the team. At this age, a lot of teams have an age requirement unless there are special circumstances, like they’re just that good. This team is all seventeen- and eighteen-year-old players.

As soon as I open the hatch of my trunk and take a seat to wait for them, they begin pulling into the parking lot. Five cars all at once, with three to five kids climbing out and coming toward me. I’m counting heads as they approach, and it looks like all twenty-one are here.

Talk about punctuality. I was never on time like this, no matter how hard I tried in high school. I’m receiving big smiles as they approach. Does that mean they all recognize me? Are they fans of the Chicago Breeze?

“Hey, man,” one of the guys in front says, offering me his hand. I get the bro handshake, slap combination. “It’s wild to actually get to spend the day with you.”

I grin. One of the weirdest things to get used to as a pro athlete is just how many people know your name.

Having and meeting actual fans . I don’t consider myself a celebrity by any means.

I’m a guy with a job, and that job just happens to be playing a sport I love that often gets broadcast on nationwide television.

Then again, there’s an average of 16,000 people in the crowd on any given night in our home arena. I suppose that should have been the tipoff that hockey players can and do reach celebrity status.

“Good to meet you guys. I’m going to ask for a roll call, though I’m not promising to remember anyone’s names. There are a lot more of you than there are of me.”

“Let’s make it more interesting than that,” the guy who greeted me says. “Name, position, favorite team, favorite player. Cool?” He glances back at his teammates. I have a feeling they’re used to this guy. No one argues.

“Cool,” he agrees for everyone and looks back at me. “I’m Alexei. I’m the captain for the Storms, Goalie. My favorite team is the Vegas Crowns and my idol is Azure Dayne.”

I nod. “He’s mine, too.”

Alexei grins.

We go around the group. I manage to remember the first few names after Alexei—Dominic, Jasper, Kareem—but then they become a blur. I also realize that I miscounted. There are twenty-two guys here. I soon learn why.

“Nick,” the last guy says. “I’m not part of the Storms. I play for the high school; I’m Dom’s neighbor and he invited me to tag along.

We don’t get these kinds of things being on the high school team.

Anyway. Favorite team is Ottawa and I swear I’m not just saying this to suck up, but you’re my favorite player.

I’ve followed you since you were first drafted. ”

“That’s why I invited him,” Dom says, grinning.

I grin. “That’s sweet. Thanks.”

With a huge smile, Dom shoves Nick playfully.

“All right, I see some of you have packs. What are the rest of you doing about drinks?” I ask. “This is a long day to go without hydration.”

I should be used to people talking over each other, but I don’t know what anyone’s answer is. After a minute, I hold up my hand to get them to stop talking.

“Let’s try this again. Do you all have water?”

“In the car,” one of the guys says. There are many nodding in agreement.

“Go get them and meet us at the trailhead,” I say and drop from the trunk of my SUV.

I brought a backpack with a handful of snacks, a protein shake, a three-liter water bladder, a first aid kit, and a bunch of random shit.

Just in case. Had it just been me on the hike, I probably wouldn’t have brought so much but I’ve never been in charge of a group of teens before so I’d rather be over prepared than get seven miles from the trailhead and our cars with some kind of emergency that I’m not prepared for.

As soon as we start off, Alexei joins me at the front. I have a feeling he could run circles around us all as we hike up the hill. Goalies are just incredible like that. The fact they move like gymnasts while in their damn mountain of pads is always remarkable.

“Are you up for trade again?” he asks.

I shrug. “Dunno. I feel like it’s a pattern now, so I half anticipate it.”

“That’s a bummer. You’re like the only player that remained consistent on the team this year,” Alexei says.

I’m not sure how to answer without making it sound like I’m throwing my teammates under the bus, so I don’t. I shrug. “Every team has a different vibe, and it’s a learning experience.” That was neutral, right?

“Is this year different from when you were on the Chicago team the first time?”

I nod. “Much. Two-thirds of the players are new from when I was here last.”

“Doesn’t look like that change worked for Chicago,” someone behind us says.

“I’m sure you understand what it takes to gel well with your teammates,” I comment. “It’s not always immediate and sometimes it just doesn’t happen.”

“We can’t all be the Buffalo trio,” another voice behind me says.

“I can’t believe it’s already been a year since Jakub Bozik retired,” Alexei says, shaking his head. “And three since Deryke Schneider retired.”

It didn’t come as a shock to anyone when they retired.

Deryke retired in preparation for his and his husband Max’s baby to be born at the end of the year.

Jakub retired as soon as the season was over after his and his husbands’ kid was born.

His husbands, also his prior teammates, Ethan Wilder and Credence Ayrton, still play for Buffalo, though there are constant rumors that one or both will retire soon to concentrate on their family.

I’ve not seen any credible sources quoting that claim, but it wouldn’t surprise me.

“Are you glad not to have any gay guys on your team?”

Not going to lie. My feet stop all on their own as I turn around to look at who asked the question. Their tone sounded carefully neutral. Since I don’t know these kids, I’m not immediately sure who asked until everyone begins looking at the guy. One of the few whose name I remember—Kareem.

“No,” I answer.

“You wish there were some gay players on your team?” he counters.

I frown. “Believe it or not, someone’s sexuality doesn’t mean much to me. It doesn’t affect their game at all.”

He gives me a smirk, and I get the distinct impression that he’s satisfied with my answer.

“But there were gay guys on your Arizona team,” Dom says. “Did it bother you then? Weren’t you worried they were checking out your junk?”

What the hell is this?

“Keno and Etna are two of my absolute best friends,” I tell him, hearing the abrasiveness in my tone.

“One thing that pisses me off more than anything is the absolute fragility of a straight man’s ego.

They get defensive at the idea a man might check them out and then get butthurt when a gay man says they’re not in the least bit attractive. ”

I receive bursts of laughter from several of the guys surrounding me.