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Tanner
Why is getting Hoss to simply shoot the shite with me harder than fucking contract negotiations?
With the way she huffs and puffs and verbally kicks me in the dick, you’d think I was asking her for a twelve mill, four-year franchise extension when I’ve spent the last six months on LTIR.
And it’s only me she puts the “fuck off” crest on her chest for.
And honestly?
That’s really not the “only me” privies I’m looking for.
“You haven’t answered a single segment question this week,” Hoss grumbles from where she’s sitting on our bench in the rink. “You want me to get fired?”
“I want to get to know you.”
“Maybe she doesn’t want you to know her ,” Khurana rudely interjects in tandem with lowering his camera. “Maybe she doesn’t want someone who was caught over the summer putting a Barcelona bunny into a Lyft after a quickie in a club back alley to know her. Maybe she doesn’t want someone who can’t think with anything besides his dick to have that much personal information about her.”
“First off, that Barcelona bunny wasn’t a bunny, but a mate’s very lost sister in town for an architectural conference.” My glove covered palms land firmly on the banister at the same time I bite, “And maybe you weren’t invited into this conversation.”
“Maybe she wants me in it.”
“Maybe it doesn’t matter what she wants.”
“And maybe that’s why she would rather ride a Zamboni than you.”
Hoss snickers and extends him her fist for bumping.
One check.
That’s all it would take to scratch his Machiavellian tactics from a play.
Stick taps to Father for that crossword answer this morning.
Double stick taps for it finding its way into another part of my day.
“Snowman, I have to show Hennington something from this Masked Moron reality nightmare by the end of the day and raw footage of you lacing up your pracky skates isn’t going to cut it.”
I take the open shot to speak the only language I swear she understands.
Asshole.
Cocky. Asshole. To be more precise.
Impishly bouncing my eyebrows is attached to the smug question, “You want more of me, aye?”
“I – Hoss – want nothing from you as I’m not looking to fall into an STD thirst trap.”
“ I do not have an STD. ”
“STI then,” she brushes off with an unbothered roll of the eyes.
“Not that either.”
“The Hot Rocket that signs your paycheck – on the other hand – wants the world to get to know you and all your William Wallace like drive.”
Pushing away the arrogant act mindlessly occurs while leaning closer to ask, “Was that a Braveheart reference?”
Genuine excitement pierces her gaze. “You’ve seen Braveheart ?”
“ You’ve seen Braveheart ?”
“Did I or did I not just make the reference, Frosky?”
Light chortles can’t be helped; however, they unfortunately can be interrupted.
“Line ‘em up, boys!” Our head coach, Milano Blanc, commands from the opposite side of the rink.
“Gotta get to work,” I casually announce preparing to skate off. “You should do the same.”
“I am doing the same,” she unhappily hisses. “I’m not here for fun.”
“Perhaps you’d have better results if you were.”
Getting the last line in has me hastily exiting to prevent hearing her retort.
I don’t need to have the final word.
I just need her to not always have it.
My arrival next to Patrick Peck – occasionally known as Pecks – our black hair and blue-eyed second year center who probably spends equal amounts of time on the ice and on the phone with his girl has him cheerfully greeting me. “Snowman!”
His too enthusiastic tone prompts me to quirk an eyebrow. “You good, Pecks?”
“I’m fucking amazing!” More players begin to congregate around the space across from the coaches. “Wings flies in tonight!”
“That sounds oddly redundant.”
An almost bashful smile precedes him explaining, “That’s my fiancée.”
“ Right. ”
Can’t forget this fucking beauty is faithfully off the market.
It makes him the undisputed champ of cock blocks.
Which is exactly why Cap had him babysitting me and Becks every chance he could last season.
Definitely brought down my SOG.
For sex.
Not hockey.
Ironically enough it helped bring that average up.
Sometimes I think if I would’ve intervened a little more or a little harder like that with Becks, he’d still be here.
On this team.
In our sport.
Not debating whether or not to interview for bullshit podcast host positions.
“She can finally move in with me,” his glee continues to pump out of him. “ Again. ”
“Again?”
“We lived together back in college.”
“Why didn’t she move with you when you signed?” My head cocks itself to the side in question. “Didn’t wanna live in Texas?”
“Nah.” A bit of the brightness in his stare immediately dulls. “Health shit.”
Concern instantly coats my gaze. “She’s good now, aye?”
The shrug he offers is half-hearted. “ Better. ”
“Where is fucking Potato?” shouts Thomas Ewers, our assistant coach, to the group. “And that other call up, Payne?”
“Med,” replies Cap during his slow skate over to my side. “Pre-season piss tests.”
Ewers grumbles his understanding and hits Coach with a questioning look. “Wait?”
“How long, Cap?” Blanc tosses out.
“ Pyat'. ” Almost instantly he grunts to himself as a reminder to translate. “Five minutes. Tops.”
“We’ll wait,” Coach casually declares presenting me with the perfect opportunity to do something I can hardly believe I’m gonna do.
My attention flies back to the younger dude on my right. “Can I ask you something about your sitch with Wings?”
“ Neena ,” he firmly corrects. “Only I can call her Wings.”
“Right.” Both glove-covered hands fly up in surrender. “My mistake.”
A small boyish grin precedes him kicking his chin at me, wordlessly insisting I continue.
“Was it love at first sight between the two of you?”
An uncomfortable chuckle is accompanied by an even more uncomfortable scratch to the back of his neck. “Uh…for me it was.”
“And for her?”
“Probably not.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I was…fucking… weird , man,” he confesses right above a whisper. “And awkward…and clumsy…and just…a…complete pylon.”
“What changed?”
His face cycles through cringes and winces. “I…embarrassed myself in front of her.”
“How bad?”
“Uh…” leaves him in a high pitch, “think ripping your breezers during your rookie lap and missing your slapshot.”
“ Fuck, mate. ”
“Yeah.” Peck shakes his head as though still in disbelief. “ But… ” the gleam in his gaze swiftly returns, “I think that showed her the other side of me she needed to know existed. The unperfect one.” Another small wince is flashed. “Not that I’m perfect on the ice. None of us are. But that’s where we push to be our best. To be the most perfect players we can be for ourselves as much as each other. And I think seeing the goofy human versus the hockey god scored me my first real dub, which eventually led to others.”
Huh.
That makes an unusual amount of sense.
“No Payne, no gain!” chirps Kiernan Payne upon entering the rink.
“ Oh good, he has a catch phrase, ” I mutter to Cap under my breath.
“Youse guys ready to gain more W’s than you ever have before?!”
“ And an ego, ” quietly huffs the man who led us to many victories last season.
“I just wanna learn what I can,” Fredrick “Potato” Potapova declares coming in behind him. “Whatever happens here, I know I can use it back there if I go.”
That’s why Potato is our kind of callup.
He knows his place.
And he knows he’s replaceable.
Which is what you want in a new recruit.
Especially when going from minors to majors.
Shits different here.
Harder.
More ruthless.
It’s like war.
Know your role and we all have a greater chance of survival.
“Welcome home, boys,” Blanc warmly greets all of us. “Most of you know our motto – as it trickles down through the ranks – but for those that don’t , prepare to learn it.” His attention gradually works its way through the crowd. “ And live it. ” He continues scanning the team. “You will see these words. You will hear these words. You will taste, smell, and touch these words in this barn and for this barn.” The small shift on his skates assists in keeping him balanced. “You will say them. You will believe them. You will be them. Am I making myself clear?”
“ Yes, Coach! ” gets echoed back.
“Cap,” he effortlessly calls on Eeyore. “Tell the boys what those words are.”
“Work hard.”
“ Ra! ” we bark out in tandem at the same time we pound a single fist against our chests.
“Play hard.”
The gesture is instantly repeated.
“Fuck hard.”
One more repeat of the action is executed prompting Coach to take the reins back afterward.
“You will see the edited version of that in the locker room and use it in interviews; however, the entire motto matters, just like every single member of this franchise that signs up to put this dragon,” he taps the emblem on his jacket, “on their chest whether they’re front office or scrubbing the team bus. And you will treat them that way, or you will not play. You will treat them that way or you will not stay. ” Blanc folds his hands behind his back. “Have I made myself heard?”
“ Yes, Coach! ”
“Good.” A suspicious smile suddenly slips into place. “You boys ready to train?”
“ Yes, Coach! ”
His nodding is followed by him giving a small wave to someone in the distance. “I’m a firm believer in building success off the basics. So, practice starts with the basics, ain’t that right, Matty?”
The small grunt out of our Czech player gets most of us chuckling.
“ Balance is what you boys need. On and off the ice.” The grin on his face wildly grows. “So, balance is where we begin.” Our equipment team brings unsuspecting items to all four of our team coaches. “Who here got pegged by a giant bouncy ball in Mites or lower?”
Random hands fly into the air, including mine.
“That’s the shit we’re doing today,” Coach proudly declares. “We wanna minimize ankle injuries – we had at least three last season. We wanna cut back on those pulled muscles – we had at least four of you nursing them when it could’ve been avoided. And most importantly, we wanna shave down the amount of time you spend on your knees versus your skates.” Bricks hands him an oversized, neon pink ball. “You don’t hit the ball. You simply use your body to take the hit. You stay upright you get to stay on my ice. You don’t?” He kicks his head in the direction of the locker room. “You hit dry land and do balance drills for the next sixty.”
Cap curiously angles his head to one side and asks, “The catch?”
“All four of us,” other balls are delivered to the assistant, skating, and goalie coach, “will be throwing these.” An even more villainous expression takes over his almond shaded face. “Meaning at any time you could be being attacked from all directions.”
To my surprise, Cap lightly chortles. “ The real challenge. ”
“For some of you,” Coach offhandedly chuckles back.
“That’s it?” Payne cockily pokes. “You called us up here to do Bush League shit?”
“ Nová?ek, ” Matty mirthfully mutters underneath his breath, having made a similar mistake last season.
“Shit they probably don’t even do in Beer League?” Payne continues to complain. “Shit that-” Skating Coach Keats Bass’s bright neon ball suddenly hits him in the face not only knocking him off balance but his ass onto the ice. “ Fuck! ”
“Dry land, call up,” Wahl smugly snickers.
“That’s not fair!” whines Payne already proving to live up to his nickname. “I wasn’t ready! I wasn’t-”
“You don’t make the rules, you fucking pheasant,” grunt the Goonie Tunes in tandem.
“Off my ice,” Coach commands prior to diverting his attention back to the crowd. “As for the rest of you?” Childlike joy clomps through his complexion. “ You might wanna wheel. ”
There’s no hesitation for us to part in various directions.
Some of us choose to skate backwards to keep our eyes on those with weapons while others rush to find the “safest” zones they possibly can.
Too bad it doesn’t matter where you end up, so much as how you handle the hit.
Having stability.
Being centered.
A neon ball comes soaring my way forcing me to skid to an abrupt stop near the glass; however, rather than hit me – which is what I brace for – it hits Wahl who happens to plant himself between me and the object. After the child’s toy effortlessly bounces off his solid figure, he glances over his shoulder and chuckles, “ Always on the D. ”
That he is.
The type of defenseman who always protects his team.
Quickly glancing around the rink leads me to noticing that Cap is out there doing the same, swiftly extending his frame into a t-shape to protect nearby forwards or centers.
He calls for them to fall in line.
Commands that they get to where they’re not in the direct line of fire.
Puts himself in harm’s way rather than them.
All of a sudden, I realize the other purpose for this exercise.
Team dynamics.
Like he said.
Pracky starts with the basics.
And knowing who has your back versus who just has their own is one of the core fundamental parts of any successful team.
Spotting Peck a short distance away with his hands out and head on a swivel about to take an unknown ball to the back of the head has me rushing over, puffing out of my chest, and absorbing the hit. It slightly stumbles me backwards into him prompting his arms to Superman extend backwards to catch me on his back instead of letting me fall.
“Thanks, Pecks,” escapes as I regain my footing.
“Anytime, Snowman.”
Fairly certain the heat is off of him, allows me to direct a glance towards our bench to see Hoss is still here.
Except now she’s alone.
Completely alone.
Just watching.
Filming.
And fuckme , smiling.
Actually. Smiling.
Full fledge, straight white teeth, shimmering in the tacky barn lights smiling.
Messierhavemercy is there anything more incredible than that?
Unable to resist getting a better look – a closer look – I slyly begin skating towards her around stopped players and sandwiching myself perfectly between coaches, forcing them to hit each other instead of us.
Laughter reverberates around the arena alongside ice carving symphonies and cursing solos from those getting kicked off.
The instant I arrive safely at our bench, I cheekily inquire, “Where’s your talking bird, Archimedes? Did he fly off back to his clock?”
Amusement – thank fuck – remains in her gaze as she lifts her eyebrows. “ The Sword in the Stone? ” Additional snickers hit my ears, speeding up my already racing heartbeat. “ Seriously? ”
“It was my favorite non hockey movie as a lad.”
“Same!”
“No shit?” Excitement pushes me to lean over the edge towards her. “Because it is the tale of King Arthur?”
“Exactly.”
“Have you seen other variations?”
“Pretty much all of them.”
“ Really? ” It’s impossible not to move closer. “What’s your fa-” is all that manages to dart past my lips due to not one, not two , but all four bouncy balls nailing me at once. Staying upright is an impossible feat given the divide and concur tactic of hitting my head, torso, and both legs, yet the loud, beautiful melody of Hoss’s giggles over watching my ass hit the ice immediately erases any ounce of embarrassment I might have considered feeling.
Despite knowing I should focus on my failure, on what to do better, on Coach’s clear demands I get to the training room, I don’t.
I simply admire the way her head is thrown back.
How the dark strands that missed her messy bun are hypnotically swaying.
How her white, long sleeve, shirt covered top half is uncontrollably shaking.
Damn.
I’ll sign up to play in hell when it freezes over if it means being the only one that she laughs like this for.
“I prefer sweaters to hoodies. Hoodies tend to swallow me whole. It always looks like I’m wearing a carnie tent,” is thoughtlessly rambled into the camera I know is still filming. “And my gran’s spicebush berry honey cookies are my favorite fall treat. She always sends me a box – no matter where I am in the world – right before the season starts.”
Her smile – which I’m admittedly addicted to – immediately softens.
Sweetens.
Transitions into something so inviting I can’t help but continue to ignore Coach’s yelling that I’m sure I’ll pay for later in training.
“And your favorite fall beverage?”
“Pumpkin spice latte.”
“God, you’re so fucking basic.”
“Gotta know the basics to building something that lasts, Hoss.”
The woman I’m not ready to give up hope on unexpectedly lowers her device and warmly coos, “ I couldn’t agree more, Tanner. ”