Page 8 of Shootout
After pouring a cup of coffee, I took a sip. Damn, all those rumors about Seattle coffee were true. This stuff was fucking incredible. Score one for the home team.
I turned to survey the room. Guys clustered in small groups, laughing and catching up on what one another did over the summer. If I were still in Detroit, I’d be doing the same thing. In fact, I’d be the center of attention.
Not on this team; they held me responsible for what happened in that playoff game. That night had been a bit of a shit show. The Sockeyes had been up three games to zero. I’d put a hard, clean hit on Cedric Pedersen that sent him to the locker room in the second period. Jason Wilder went for retribution and swung at me, starting an epic fight that morphed into a bench-clearing brawl. Wilder had been suspended for three games, and I’d only been suspended for one. Stardom in the league did have its perks, but in my defense, Wild had thrown the first punch. My team took the next three games. Wilder came back the last game in the tied series, win or go home. He and I picked up where we left off, both landing in the penalty box before the first period ended. We were tied in the third, and Wilder stuck to me like glue. I prided myself on being a first-class chirper, and I was getting under his skin. When he gave me a little push during a battle for the puck, I did a theatrical flop. Wild got the penalty, and my team got the win.
We lost out in the next round, unfortunately. And here I was. Playing for the enemy. To make things worse, in one of those weird twists of fate, I’d probably be assuming Cedric’s place on the first line.
Obviously, these guys still blamed me for what happened in the playoffs last year. Poor losers. After all, hits, chirping, and flopping were all part of hockey, and they needed to get over it. I have to admit, I’d never imagined myself on this team in a million years. The Sockeyes would be my last choice, but I hadn’t been allowed a vote. If the previous GM were still in charge, I’d never have been traded. My shortsightedness in not insisting on a no-trade clause had come back to bite me in the ass.
Those were the breaks. As much as I disliked being on this particular team, I liked playing hockey more. There were perks to being here, such as Jessie, the figure skating hockey player. Just like that, my thoughts drifted back to her. She was strikingly beautiful with long, glossy dark hair and huge brown eyes. She was average height, but that was the only thing average about her. My mouth watered as I recalled what she looked like naked. Even my guilt at seeing her that way couldn’t wash away those memories. She wasn’t model thin like most of my girlfriends. She was athletic, muscled, and curvy with an attitude to match, a combination I found surprisingly irresistible.
Clutching my cup of coffee, I surveyed the room. Not a friendly face in sight.
“Excuse me.”
I moved away from the coffee and turned to see who’d spoken to me. I immediately recognized Vick Marshall, a goalie I’d played with briefly years ago. He hadn’t lasted long in Detroit before he’d been placed on waivers and picked up by another team. He was one of those unfortunate guys who bounced from team to team, never finding a home.
“Slate?” He grinned at me. Finally, a friendly face, for which I was grateful.
“Marsh, good to see you.” We shook hands before I leaned in to warn him. “Hey, I’m persona non grata on this team. You might want to stay away.”
Marsh snorted. “Because of what happened last season? Nah, it’s all part of the game.”
“That’s how I see it, but tell that to these guys,” I agreed, relieved there was one person on this team who didn’t hate me.
“They’ll get over it. We’re all professionals here, and our number one goal is to win. They won’t possibly hold a grudge for long against a guy who’s a league-leading scorer and first-line winger.”
I nodded. He was right. Every pro team wanted nothing more than to win it all. No matter how they felt about me now, that’d change in the regular season when they’d be forced to admit I was a goal-scoring machine to be reckoned with.
The first day of practice was taxing and designed to measure our fitness level and skills. There wasn’t any time for socialization, which was fine with me. I prided myself on my work ethic, but even I was dragging when Coach Gorst called it a day.
I took a long, hot shower, in no hurry to return to the company of my teammates. If I stood under the water long enough, maybe they’d all be gone.
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case. Most of them, especially the veterans, sat around shooting the shit. Vick saluted me when I approached. Through a stroke of luck, his locker was next to mine.
I sat down in front of my locker. Vick turned to me.
“Want to get a drink?”
“Yeah, why not?” I grinned at him. “Where’re we going?”
“There’s a bar just a block down the street called the Place. I guess all the guys go there.”
“I’m in,” shouted Ziggy from across the room.
“Me too,” Andy Staples agreed. Several other guys voiced their intentions to join us.
I wasn’t sure if I was ready to hang out with the team, but I also wasn’t a coward. Hiding out wouldn’t help my case any. Right now, they weren’t thrilled to have me around. I’d have to force myself on them to change their opinions.
“I heard about you and Jessie last night,” Axel, our second-line center and Geneva’s husband, said.
Shit. Fuck. Damn.
I noticed a few of the younger guys nearby were all ears. I moved in closer to Axel, lowering my voice. “It wasn’t what it looked like. We had a little disagreement about sharing the rink late last night. She challenged me to a shootout to determine who stayed and who left.”
“And afterward, in the locker room?” Axel grinned as though he was enjoying my discomfort too fucking much.
I opened my mouth, but Vick interrupted. “She challenged you to a shootout?” Vick snorted and spoke too loudly, attracting the attention of my reluctant teammates.
