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CHAPTER 1

DECK GILLESPIE

HOCKEY PLAYERS DO NOT DANCE

“Quiet down, you jackwads,” Coach Merritt said, looking down the line at the Wombats sitting along the bench, bent over with hands on knees, huffing and puffing, and standing expectantly against the boards. “Those LA turds aren’t going to take it easy on you Tuesday, and I sure as hell haven’t this week either. You guys deserve your day off and it’s been a long week, so I won’t keep you too long, but we need to talk about one thing.”

“Wasn’t too bad, always worth it when we get to see Corny yak,” Rock Stevens called out, earning dirty looks from both the coach and from Tyler “Corny” Cornwall, who was finally getting some color back in his face.

“Look, I need to give you a guys a heads up is all,” Coach went on.

I exchanged a look with John Samuels, our starting goalie. Last time we got a ‘heads up,’ we found out Mizzoni was leaving and Samuels was becoming the youngest starting goalie the FHL had ever seen. It turned out to be a good move. Maybe this news would work out well too. I hoped so—this team was more than just my job. It was my family and my foreseeable future.

“You ever heard of the Savannah Bananas?” Coach went on.

“Like…the dancing baseball guys?” Sly Remington asked.

“Exactly,” Coach said. “Had you ever heard of them before they were the dancing baseball guys?”

I did not like where this was heading one bit. I couldn’t dance to save my life. If that was going to be a new prerequisite for being on the team, I was in trouble.

“Sir,” Cade Simpson interjected, his deep baritone coming from somewhere within his massive red beard. “Are we going to have to dance while we play hockey?”

Coach scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “Lord, I hope not,” he said. “Listen, first of all, this was not my idea. Second, you’re all going to be good sports and comply.”

“He’s totally making us dance,” Solamentes said. “But it’s okay. I got moooves.” He gyrated his hips as he said this and for a second I thought Corny might not be the only one to lose his lunch today.

“No dancing!” Coach roared.

We immediately shut up, all the little side conversations cut off abruptly. No one wanted to be sent back out to do Herbies until we did puke.

“The thing is, I guess the owner thinks we have a publicity problem,” Coach continued. “And he’s brought in some kind of consultant to help us fix it.”

“PR problem?” Samuels asked, voicing what we were all thinking. “What does that mean?”

The coach looked up to the ceiling and then let his gaze slide around the empty stands in the arena. “Honestly? I have no clue. But I don’t ask questions that might put my job at risk and I suggest you yahoos don’t either. This PR guy is coming in to help bolster the image of the Wilcox Wombats, and you’re going to cooperate, whether that means dancing on the ice or signing more autographs or kissing babies, or whatever.”

“Kissing babies?” Panther Aspen mouthed, looking bewildered.

“The rep will be here tomorrow morning to do some initial interviews,” Coach finished. “Be nice.”

With that, the coach turned and headed back to his office, leaving us to exchange confused looks and get ourselves cleaned up to go home.

We’d be facing the Cruisers on Tuesday, and tomorrow would be the only day off we’d get this week. That meant tonight was my favorite night of the week, the only night when I could really relax—stay up late, play video games, and maybe even sneak one little drink in.

I was just about to pour a couple fingers of Scotch when my phone rang. One look at the screen and I decided to pour myself a whole hand instead of just two fingers. I capped the Scotch and took a healthy sip before answering.

“Hey, Dad. Mom.”

“Son.” My parents had never been big on affectionate greetings. This was their version of gushing.

“How are things?” I asked, sinking into the dark brown leather couch that faced the big screen on which I’d be playing video games later. For now, I had a tape of our last game going with the volume off.

“Much the same, Declan,” Dad said. Mom was a bit more conversational, though.

“We miss you, honey.”

“I miss you guys too,” I said, though it was hard to decide whether that was really true. I hadn’t seen my parents in person in almost five years. I missed the idea of them, but I wasn’t sure if I really missed them. “How’s Lamb?”

My mother released a frazzled sigh at that. “He is…Lambert. About the same. Adequate, I guess?”

“Barely,” Dad added.

My older brother had been a bit of a handful since he hit puberty, and neither age nor maturity had seemed to do much to calm him down. I would have said it was pretty much impossible to get into too much trouble back home—the place was restrictive, to say the least—but Lambert always seemed to manage.

“I’m sure he’ll straighten out soon,” I said, but even I wasn’t certain. I hadn’t talked to my brother since the last time I was home, when he made it pretty clear that his acting out was all my fault. I left him wearing the mantel of responsibility. Literally. I didn’t like the distance between us, but he’d rebuffed every effort I’d made to reach out. And lately, I hadn’t made many.

“We have watched your latest games,” my father said. “I don’t feel like you are playing enough to warrant?—”

“Dad.” I didn’t want to hear this again.

“I just wish you were here, Son.”

“This was decided years ago. You let me go.”

“We didn’t know it would be forever,” Mom said.

“It’s not,” I told her, exasperated with the same conversation we always seemed to have. “But I’ll play as long as I can. And then I’ll figure out what’s next.”

Dad coughed then, unleashing a horrendous gravelly cacophony over the line, and Mom’s concerned voice said, “Erik. Dear…” There was some muffled sound then, and Mom came back on.

“Maybe we’ll see you soon,” she said, sounding tired.

“Maybe,” I said, knowing it was extremely unlikely. I didn’t have time in the season to travel that far. And my parents were certainly not coming to see me.

“Be well Deckkie. We love you.” Mom didn’t wait for me to respond before ending the call.

And that was why I didn’t love chatting with my family. There were certain…extenuating circumstances surrounding my life that I preferred not to dwell upon, and talking to Mom and Dad brought them all back. I couldn’t help but feel like I was shirking some kind of responsibility to them, staying away. But they’d agreed to this when I was ten, allowing me to move to the United States to live with my Uncle Jericho in Colorado. They allowed me to follow my dreams, away from the restrictions of the life I was born to.

And as far as I was concerned, there were no take-backsies.

I took another sip of the Scotch, scowling at the glass and thinking better of the enormous pour I’d given myself. Once I’d swapped it for a cup of tea instead, I settled myself again and started my game, doing my best to put any thoughts of whatever was or was not happening at home out of my mind.