Page 3 of Sin Bin (BU Hockey Season 2, #1)

Mickey scoffs. “She’s the assistant equipment manager. She sees a whole fucking lot in that locker room, I bet. And besides, moving her down here isn’t gonna change the view. I walk around naked all the time.”

It’s true, but I can’t really yell at him for it, since I’m also guilty.

My phone buzzes with a reminder, so I snap a lid on my coffee cup and turn to my friend. “You ready to head to the Wolf’s Den for the first official team meeting of the season?”

Mickey smiles. “Hell, yes. This year’s gonna be fire. I can feel it.”

I hope he’s right. But then I remember that Mickey has kind of a bad history when it comes to fire.

The locker room is quieter than usual, but that’s probably because Santos isn’t here to release his signature howl.

And Rosco’s ear-splitting whistle isn’t gonna quiet this place down when it does start to get rowdy.

Van’s still around, but he’s officially a member of the coaching staff, so it’s not quite the same.

Still, I’m fucking glad he’s part of our team.

The man understands the game of hockey like no one else does.

I toss my bag into my locker and shake the melancholy thoughts from my mind.

Some philosopher once said that thinking negative thoughts will only breed negativity.

I’m not sure who it was, though I probably should know the answer since I’m majoring in Philosophy.

But who needs to remember stuff when the internet exists, you know?

I’m joking. Mostly .

Coach Baylor’s office door opens, and JT walks out, looking a little shell-shocked, which is surprising. Yeah, things got a little rough last year when JT and Coach’s niece got together but kept their relationship—and their impending parenthood—a secret.

Things are better now, though. Just a couple weeks ago, we were all at Coach’s house to celebrate Will and Booker going to the pros, and things seemed great between Coach and our goalie. Hell, Baby Calla’s only a few months old and she has Coach wrapped around her tiny little finger.

“Daddy!” Mickey hollers his new pet name for JT before tackling him in a bear hug. Mick has to fight to keep every pound on his lean frame, but he’s bulked up this summer, and it’s made a difference because JT has to take a step back to keep from falling over.

“Dude,” JT says, unable to keep a laugh from escaping, “We’ve talked about this. You’ve gotta come up with a better nickname.”

“Because it’s sexual? Wow, bestie. Didn’t know you were such a prude.” Mickey seems genuinely crushed.

“Because I’m not your dad. And because Calla’s gonna start calling me that in a year or so, and that’s just weird.”

Mickey considers this, but I decide to add my two cents, because I’m helpful like that.

“Here’s the thing, Norris. All due respect to Calla.

I love that little princess, but in all fairness, Mickey called dibs on the nickname.

If your daughter wants to call you Daddy, she should have said something sooner. ”

He blinks at me in the way most of my teammates do. They can never tell if I’m serious or fucking with them. The answer is simple: it’s both.

“She can’t talk yet, Ollie. She’s only four months old,” JT says.

I shrug and do some quick calculations. “And Mickey’s only two-hundred-and-fifty-seven months old. What’s your point?”

“My point is that my grown-ass best friend—who happens to be older than I am—should find another nickname for me instead of Daddy.”

I nod slowly. “Would you consider Papa?”

JT shakes his head as Mickey leaps in the air. “You’re a fuckin genius, Olls.”

“Always glad to help,” I answer, and it’s true. After leaving Coach’s office a few minutes ago, JT looked shocked, but now he’s smiling and laughing. Never underestimate the power of a well-timed joke.

Van and Coach Novotny stride into the room and gather toward the front.

While I’ve been messing with JT, most of the rest of the team has assembled.

We’re missing a lot of guys with big skates to fill, and I’m not sure what that means for our chances of a repeat at the national title.

Hell, half our team is underclassmen at this point, so we might spend our spring telling stories about our glory days instead of reliving them.

We’ve got a new goalie, straight out of high school, by the name of Mason Tenerovich.

I’ve seen him around because JT’s taken him under his wing.

It’s like he knows he’s on borrowed time, so he figures he might as well help out the player who’ll defend the net after he’s been called up to play for Portland.

That’s the kind of guy JT is, which is probably why the team elected him Alternate Captain.

He’d have the top spot, no doubt, except he’s a goalie, so he’s limited in how often he can leave the crease in the game. But he’s earned that A, no question.

I’m feeling gloomy again, so when Coach calls the meeting to order, I’m relieved. His speech is always short, but it signifies the start of the year, even if training won’t officially begin for another two weeks. We’re all back in the game, and it feels good.

“Gentlemen, I’ll make this brief because we’ve got work to do, and standing around talking about it won’t win us any games. You’re all here for one reason, and it’s because you’re damn fine hockey players. Each one of you brings a certain necessary skill.”

I look around the room, taking in Coach’s words.

There are a few new faces and some younger guys back for more.

I’ve got faith in so many of these men, but there are a lot of unknowns.

Santos’s younger brother Leo is here, but he’s a winger.

He’s itching to take Booker’s spot from Jenksy, and he just might do it.

I’ve seen him play and he’s damn good. There’s a freshman named Bergeron that I vaguely remember from a visit late last spring.

He’s gonna give Hainesy a run for sure. But the rest of these guys?

I’m really not trying to be negative, but there’s not a guy in here who’s as big as Pete Santos.

And there’s no way we’ll find another Will Franconetti.

I’m starting to feel like there’s no way we can recapture the magic we had, even though I know it’s a shitty mindset to have.

Coach clears his throat. “I want you to remember that each one of you was chosen for a reason and if you reach the potential we see in you, this ice is yours. We’ve built a strong roster, and it’s only going to be made stronger by two transfer students we’ve added to the team.

These gentlemen know the game and they play their damn asses off.

It’s one of the reasons some of you dreaded facing their former team.

They made you work like hell for every point, every shot, every win.

And now they’re on our side. Gentleman, please welcome your new teammates, Dutton Wagner and Blue Halliday. ”

I can pretty much guarantee that even at three a.m. in the middle of summer when the school is closed, this locker room isn’t as quiet as it is right now.

Dean’s jaw is on the floor, Jenksy looks like he’s about to throw down, and Mick is in a total state of shock. How do I know? Because he’s completely still, like a statue. For a guy who fidgets even in his sleep, that’s saying something.

Coach breaks the silence. “There’s no need for me to recite their stats or tell you all just how fucking lucky we are to have these two join us.

You know. You’ve seen them play. And Dutton, Blue?

I don’t have to tell you how fucking grateful you should be to share the ice with these men.

You know it. You watched us walk away with a regional title last year that was everything you wanted.

I’ve seen what happens when you play against each other, gentleman, so I can’t fucking wait to watch you play on the same side. ”

Coach has tucked his ever-present clipboard under his arm, a sure sign his speech is over.

This is the part where we clap or nod. Instead, we’re all stunned as we follow his gaze to the back of the roomto see Dutton Wagner and Blue Halliday—our arch-fucking-nemeses—leaning against the wall like they own the goddamn place.

Wagner’s face is cut from stone. The guy’s a dick, and I’m not just saying that because he’s hard as fucking hell to cover.

He’s an arrogant asshole. A puck hog. An entitled prick who thinks he’s god’s gift to hockey.

His teammates—well, his former teammates, I guess—can’t stand him.

I bet even the family dog growls at him.

The only guy I’ve ever met who actually likes him is the man standing next to him right now.

Grover “Blue” Halliday is grinning like he just won the fucking lottery.

In a way, he did. The Bainbridge University Wolves won it all last year while these fuckers sat at home and watched it on TV.

No fucking wonder Blue looks so damn happy.

He’s never been on a team this good. He’s a hell of a D-man, much as I hate to admit it.

And Wagner skates like he was born for it.

But those two carried their team. Sure, they had help, but they were the stars. There’s no question about it.

They’re not stars here. We’re a motherfucking team. No prima donnas. No hotshots. Just fucking hocking players.

I watch as JT puts his hands together. Slowly a round of applause ripples through the room. It’s not loud or boisterous, but it’s there.

Coach nods, turns to leave, and then looks back at us. “One more thing,” he begins. “As you know, this team needs a captain. We’ll take a vote at the end of training camp.”

With those parting words, Coach heads back to his office and Novotny starts his spiel.

I listen half-heartedly because I’ve been here long enough to know the drill.

While our assistant coach yaps about the training schedule and the meal plan, my mind is racing.

Having our two biggest rivals join the team is a total mindfuck, and I’m not sure Mickey’s blinked since Coach dropped his little bomb.

But my mind has veered off that course, at least for now.

Coach didn’t hand me the captaincy. There was no guarantee he would.

I knew that. But somewhere in the back of my mind I must have believed that was how it was going to shake down.

Because now that it hasn’t, I feel like the world’s biggest chump.

No wonder I fucking doubted myself. My own coach doesn’t have enough faith in me to hand over the reins.

Thank fuck I’ve done all this before because right now, I’m on autopilot as I make my way through our agenda.

I meet with the trainers, collect my gear from Liza, and sit through a presentation on nutrition.

I’ve listened to it so many times now that I could probably recite it from memory, but I hold myself in check.

When the day is over and it’s time to head out, my mind is still spinning, but at least I’ve pulled myself together enough to hear Coach’s voice as he calls for me.

I wave to Mickey and Dean, letting them know they can head home without me, but they’ll probably stick close by.

They need to debrief as much as I do because there’s a lot that’s not adding up.

How long has Coach been sitting on this? And why the hell didn’t Van put a stop to it or at least give us a heads up? And how the hell are we supposed to play with these jackasses instead of against them?

These questions run through my mind as I head into Coach's office. I keep my mouth shut as I take a seat on the other side of his desk. I’m afraid if I so much as smile, my angry thoughts will leak out in a tirade, or at the very least, I’ll mutter, What the fuck, Coach?

“Jablonski,” he says, looking up from his tablet to see me.

“Hey, Coach,” I answer.

“I won’t take up too much of your time. You’ve got roommates moving in tomorrow, so I imagine your new place will be a hive of activity.”

I nod absently, since most of the guys are moving in tonight. It’s just Liza and the two transfers who are waiting— holy fucking shit .

I stare up at Coach and it’s like he can read my mind. Maybe he can. The man’s perceptive as hell, and besides, I’m probably doing a piss-poor job of hiding my emotions right now.

“You’ve got an opportunity here, Ollie. Don’t stand there gawking for too long, or it’ll pass you by.”

I’m still processing the news that not only are our former adversaries our teammates, they’re also our roommates, so I barely acknowledge Coach’s words.

“That’s all, Jablonski.”

Coach’s clipped goodbye registers enough that my ass is up and moving a few seconds later.

Just like I predicted, Dean and Mickey are waiting for me right outside the locker room.

We walk down the hall in silence, but I spare a glance into the weight room to see Dutton and Blue working out.

For half a second I debate walking in there to join them or to see if they feel like meeting us at Wolfie’s for drinks.

But that insane thought flies out of my head almost as quickly as it flew in.

Thank fuck.