Page 10 of Rookie Attraction

“This rookie is ready.”

“Finn has speed and agility,” Sel remarks. “He’s got this.”

Kuznetsov raises one eyebrow at Sel. “Coming from you, that’s high praise.”

It sure as fuck is. I grin at Sel, and he nods and shifts between his feet.

“And Chicago’s loss is our gain,” Tullmore adds. “I mean it, Kirkland. They were stupid to let you go.”

Sel nods but says nothing. There’s a moment of awkwardness that’s thankfully interrupted by Berg introducing us to the roster of forwards. All eleven of them. Many of the guys make the usual small talk and then move on to get changed. The ones who stay to chat with us—Gus Ranken and Mats Makela—are talkative like me. Well, Makela sure has a lot of opinions about a lot of things. These guys are close to my age at twenty-three and twenty-four respectively. I’m old for the rookie title. Still, getting a tryout contract is amazing. If all goes well and I get offered a permanent spot, holy shit, I’ll be celebrating for weeks. If I play my best this week. No pressure, though, it’s just my future in this sport that’s at stake…

Finally, we meet the goalies, Stewart Sorensen and Luc Druin. Sorensen played for Montreal before being traded here two years ago. At twenty-four, Sorensen’s our first run, cool in the net, always direct when it comes to his opinion, and apparently, a wildcard outside the rink. Players respect him, fans adore him. Druin is our second run. He’s also talented but hot-headed. Both goalies have impressive stats, and I can’t wait to get to know them better.

Druin nods at Sel. “Glad to have you and Finn join us. You guys are gonna love New York.”

“I hope so,” Sel replies, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Change isn’t easy.”

“I don’t know the details about what happened in Chicago, but here we don’t give a shit about your sex life,” Druin states bluntly. “Just saying.”

The conversation around us quiets to barely a whisper.

“What Druin means is, do your job and there’ll be no issues,” Sorensen adds. “Fuck up on the ice, however⁠—”

Sel nods.

“Understood.”

Sel looks visibly relieved as his shoulders drop, his expression losing that tight, polite smile that is so not him. At least there are no homophobic dickbags in the room. Or, none that I can tell so far. I’d hate to get into a fight on my first day. That’s not my normal, but I can scrap with the best of them.

“We better get a move on,” Druin reminds us. “Range, Laflore, and the rest of the coaching staff go ballistic if we’re even a minute late.”

“Sounds familiar,” I chuckle. “Good thing Banning prepared me to work for a hard-ass coach.”

“Damien Banning?” Druin asks. “He’s coaching college hockey, right?”

“Yep.”

“I knew he was friends with Kirkland, but I didn’t realize you played for him.”

“Yeah, and with his husband, Silas.”

“Cool. Tell him I said hi.”

“I’ll do that.”

The goalies make their way back to their respective stalls to finish getting ready, and I tour the room to find mine. It turns out that my spot is right beside Sel’s, the last two at the end of the row. The brand-new blue, silver, and white jersey with my name and number—Baran, seventy-six—has me hyped again, and I pull out my phone to take a pic so I can post about it later. Like an overeager teenager at their first concert, I barely hold back a squeal of excitement. I’m trying desperately to hold on to whatever cool factor I have, if I had any to begin with.

I look over and spot Sel’s jersey, number seventy. Whoa, he not only switched teams, but he also picked a new number? That’s major. Clearly he needs a fresh start, and more questions whirl around in my head.

Later. Maybe.

I drop my duffle bag and get busy getting my stall organized. My Sutton teammates used to tease me because I decorated mine with a shitload of stickers and pictures, until every surface was covered with something colorful or funny. A minimalist, I’m not. And of course, I always displayed my stuffed cougar, our mascot, Biscuit. It was—sorry, is—my lucky charm, and I take him to every rink. Displaying a stuffed animal probably seems juvenile to the pros around me, but I don’t give a shit. Pulling Biscuit out of my bag, I place him on the shelf at the top of my new stall and feel myself settle. Will I get razzed? Of course. But hockey players are weird, so I doubt anyone will question it. And if they do, I’ll tell them the truth. Biscuit’s my lucky charm.

“Still in shock?” Sel comments.

“Fucking right,” I admit.

“It’ll wear off.”