Page 4 of Rookie Moves

It’s not the first time I’ve heard this, but truth be told, hockey has never been my endgame. Unlike the majority of my teammates, I’m not heading to the pros after I graduate, in any capacity. Instead, I’ll be heading back home to Arizona, where I’ll be wearing a suit more often than I do now. Except I’ll be sitting in an office cubicle instead of some multimillion-dollar hockey complex, dealing with someone else’s multimillion-dollar finances.

Am I sad about it? Surprisingly, no. I guess I’ve always known this was going to be my path, so I’ve never allowed myself to give the thought an opportunity to grow legs.

Since I was a kid, there has been this unspoken rule that I would work for my father after graduation. Same went for my older brother, Joey. Only Joey has always wanted to follow in our dad’s footsteps and take over the family business. Me, on the other hand? I don’t care for the fancy titles or the chance to have my own four walls with my name on the door.

All I want is enough money to enjoy life, work between the hours of 9 to 5, and not get involved in any of the stuffy corporate bullshit.

And maybe not lose my abs. That’s an important point.

“Maybe I’ll join a beer league or something,” I suggest, hefting my gear bag onto my shoulder. “Now, shut up and get dressed already.” I give his ass a slap. “I’ll catch you on the bus.”

We exchange fist bumps, and I slip out of the locker room. There’s still a flurry of activity going on as I head down the hallway toward the exit. I make sure to speak to every member of staff, whether they’re with the arena or the team, thanking them for their help and wishing them a good night.

When I reach the exit, a shiver rattles through me the second I open the door.

“Holy shiiiit.” I grimace, tugging my beanie further over my ears. I’ve been living in Massachusetts for four years; you would think I’d be used to the cold by now.

With an urgency to make it to the bus before my nipples fall off and my balls join my belly button, I pick up speed. Only, when I round the corner, I nearly slam into the back of Colby. There’s a well-dressed man holding a phone in his face and a woman with one of those tiny-ass microphones, blocking his path. Neither of them seems to have grasped the concept of personal space, and Colby’s rigid posture is a giant tell of how uncomfortable he is.

“You are outperforming every one of your teammates out on the ice, and those who are also projected to be top ten picks in the draft. Do you think you made a mistake skipping the draft last year?” the woman fires at him.

“How does it feel to know you’re a franchise-altering talent?” the man asks, causing Colby to pale.

“Uhhh…” he stammers.

Oh, hell no.

Anger bubbles in the pit of my stomach. Why don’t these people give him a break, for fuck’s sake? I get it, he’s going to be selected first overall without a shadow of a doubt, but this is getting ridiculous. Everyone wants a piece of him, and this isn’t the first time I’ve come out to reporters lurking after a game or practice, ready to pounce the second Colby appears like a pack of hungry hyenas. I’ve interrupted other students too, who think they can sell a story to whatever media channel will listen.

It’s harassment, or certainly feels like it is.

Having had enough of their sense of entitlement, I step up beside him and sling my free arm over his shoulders. He flinches slightly, clearly not expecting me.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, McKay. You ready to get some chow? I’m starved.” I pat my stomach for emphasis.

The woman narrows her eyes, glaring in a way that probably makes a lot of people cry, but I don’t give a fuck. I’ll interrupt them every damn time if they don’t give Colby a break.

Without giving them a second glance, I steer Colby toward the waiting bus. When we’re a safe distance away, he lets out a heavy sigh.

“You didn’t need to do that,” he says quietly.

“Uh, yeah, I did,” I tell him. “Did they ambush you as soon as you stepped outside?”

He nods.

“Damn, that fucking sucks. I’m sorry.”

I reluctantly drop my arm so we can shove our gear bags into the baggage compartment, then climb onto the bus. I follow him down the narrow aisle to an empty row and take the seat next to him.

Defeat washes over his face as he slumps in his seat, and it’s like all the joy of winning tonight has been drained out of him. I get that the guy is something else, but can’t people give him one night to enjoy himself? To let him celebrate without the need to gain something from him?

He lets out another sigh and stares down at his lap.

“I know I don’t have to speak with them. Coach has tried to put a stop to it, but I feel like if I don’t speak with them, I’ll get a bad rep. Like I’m problematic or some shit.”

I open my mouth to argue that he doesn’t owe them anything, but I know he already knows that. He doesn’t need a cliché reminder from me.

So, I snap my jaw shut and stay quiet, and he tips his head back against the seat and gazes out the window, remaining silent for the forty-minute drive back to campus while the rest of the team is boisterous and loud.