Page 2 of The Call-Up
Still stunned, I finally look up at Coach. “You’re not joking?”
My remaining teammates all come over and start jostling me around. They’re patting my back and our goalie is lifting me out of my seat and into a bear hug.
“I’m not joking, son.” Coach smiles. “Go make us proud in St. Louis.”
As soon as my skates touch the floor again, I’m quickly swallowed up by everything this means. This is my shot. This is the opportunity I’ve been waiting for from the Mules since I was drafted by them almost four years ago. The NHL has come calling. It’s also at this moment I remember the fact that Ryan Christianson, my first crush and former billet brother, plays for St. Louis.
The Mules aren’t a team like the Blizzards, or any of the other major cup contenders. It’s easy for most people to forget who’s on their roster. But not me. I’ve been following Ryan’s career since the moment he stepped foot into my family’s house when I was fourteen. That sneaky backhand Coach said he was going to miss is Ryan’s. My entire game is Ryan’s. I’ve modeled so much after him I’m shocked no one has ever noticed or made the correlation.
TWO
ST. LOUIS MULES TRAINING FACILITY
Ryan Christianson
I love being a Mule. This is hands down the greatest team in the league to play for. Sure, we’re currently sitting four points out of a playoff spot, but that’s great because it keeps us hungry and our fanbase excited. We’re so close to finally ending our playoff drought. An issue that’s been going on since long before I got here. We just need one last piece. It’s so close I can taste it.
I think Coach Chris is that piece. Since his arrival, there’s a new energy spreading through all of us. The press calls it a new coach bump. A push to be the best we can be, whereas for the last few seasons we’ve been resting comfortably by at least not coming in last place. We’re lucky. St. Louis loves hockey. It’s a hockey city despite being located in the southern Midwest instead of the frozen confines of Canada or the upper states that live for winter entertainment to distract them from their bleak weather. And maybe it’s because this city’s hopes and dreams aren’t hinged upon how well their team is doing, they genuinely just seem happy to have us here no matter where we sit in the standings.
It’s the best. I can come to the rink, play hockey, and most importantly, collect my paychecks worth five million a seasonfor the next four seasons without anyone looking at me with too much scrutiny.
My agent wanted to strangle me for signing that contract last summer. He thought I should have held out for more. He even suggested I look at offers from larger market teams where I could land better endorsements looking for a handsome face for their ads. But he doesn’t understand. The St. Louis Mules is the perfect team for me. There’s no pressure here. And more importantly, there’s no international spotlight.
I mean, come on, after watching what happened to Marshal after he was outed, why on earth would I want to put myself in a position where that could happen to me? No, thank you. I’d rather chill out in St. Louis with my fellow Mules than risk being the center of a gay hockey circus where my entire life, past and present, could be scrutinized. This laid-back life on a small market team is where it’s at.
Though I suppose that has the potential to change now that Coach Chris has officially taken over the helm as head coach.
But so far, Coach Chris has been great. Like I said. I think he’s the final piece we needed to push us into the playoffs. His systems are easy to understand, and his coaching style is very player friendly, which we all enjoy. We’re even on a four-game win streak. Which thankfully, nobody outside of St. Louis has bothered to notice. He does keep making mentions of the team needing to find a new forward to play off my right wing, though. That’s an idea I am intrigued by.
Though I’d never say it out loud, my current right winger, Roysy, isn’t really a first line player. But there’s no one else on our roster who can replace him, and the trade deadline has come and gone, so I’m not sure where Coach Chris thinks this winger is coming from.
“Hey, Ryan!” Danton yells from the weight bench he’s sitting up on after a round of chest presses. We skated this morning and now we’ve moved on to strength and recovery training.
Between swings of the kettlebell I’m holding, I answer. “What’s up, Cap?”
“Did you hear?”
“He hear nothing. Too busy looking at reflection in mirror,” Ivanov, our goalie, says from the squat rack.
“Lies!” I say as I place the kettlebell down and switch to the battle ropes. “I hear you bitch and moan all season long about how…” I pause so I can prepare my best impression of his Russian accent, “… American players not tough like Russians.”
“Ivanov’s not wrong,” Clemmers says from the stationary bikes while I work the ropes.
I narrow my eyes at Clemmers. “About which part?”
“Both,” Roysy says, grabbing the kettlebell I put down to start a round of swings of his own.
I take a break from the ropes to grab a sip of water and catch my breath. Red faced, I look back at our captain. “Seriously, though, Cap. What’s up?”
“Your boy!”
My boy?What on earth is he talking about? My mind is racing to figure out what he knows. I haven’t had a boy, well, man, in ages. It’s far too complicated to try to have a downlow relationship as a semi-famous athlete. Anonymous, one-off hookups work much better, particularly with men who couldn’t point out a hockey player in a police lineup even if I had my entire kit on. And in the way-off chance I did have a boyfriend, there’s no way I’d tell anyone on the team about him.
“My boy?” I ask, striving for nonchalance, as I grab a nearby towel and start drying the sweat that’s dripping down my neck.
“Bouchard,” Danton says.
“Bouchard?” I wipe my forehead. “Isn’t he one of Marshal’s boys?”
