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“Well, that’s a relief to hear! Drew...” She pauses, like she’s trying to place me, and then her face lights up. “Oh! You’re Drew Jenkins.” She slaps her forehead with her palm. “Of course. I work in marketing for the Rebels. Welcome to the team.”
“Thanks.” I didn’t realize she worked for the team, but I don’t mention that in case Jameson told me and I forgot. “I’m really excited to be back in Boston.”
“Yeah, Jameson mentioned you have family here?”
“I grew up in West Roxbury,” I tell her. “My whole family’s still there. My sisters live on the same street as my mom.”
“They must be very excited to have you back here. Where are you living?”
“My family has a cabin up on Lake Winnipesaukee, so I was up in New Hampshire for most of the summer, but I just bought a place in the Back Bay. Moved in earlier today.”
“You’ll be right in the thick of things, then,” she says with a smile.
I start to tell her that I picked it because it’s easy to get to the arena and the practice facility. But then I hear “Jenkins!” from across the yard, and when I glance over, Colt is motioning for me to join him and Jameson.
I glance back at Lauren, who says, “I think you’re being summoned by your team elder.”
“Oh my God,” I laugh, “do people really call him that?”
Colt has been in the league for like fifteen years. He’s an amazing goalie, and one of the most notorious playboys to ever walk this planet.
“Only if they want to piss him off. I wouldn’t recommend starting off that way… In fact,” she says, grabbing my forearm, “definitely don’t do that.”
And suddenly, Iknowmy reputation has preceded me. Either that, or Jameson’s told her what I told him about getting off on the wrong foot with my former team. But more than likely, everyone knows. “I won’t. It was nice to meet you, Lauren.”
As I walk across the yard toward Jameson and Colt, I feel like I’m being watched. But when I glance over my shoulder, I don’t notice anyone overly focused on me.
“Alright, Jenkins,” Colt says when I approach. “We’ve got a problem.”
Fuck, no.I haven’t even been in town for twenty-four hours. I can’t possibly have mis-stepped already. I hold in the groan, because I’m a grown-ass man working on self-control both on and off the ice, and instead say, “What’s that?”
“Renaud broke two fingers in some sort of a bar fight last night.”
David Renaud is a Boston winger who plays the unofficial role of an enforcer. He’s a very physical player who some games spends as much time in the penalty box as he does on the ice. Boston fans love him, and he’s one of those players other team’s fans love to hate.
Colt looks at me expectantly, but I’m not sure what he wants me to say. “That sucks. How long is he out?”
“He’s not out,” Colt says, like I’m a moron. “They’re fingers. Fucking tape them together and you’re good. But he’s sure as shit not going to be able to punch someone in the face.”
I don’t know how Colt thinks Renaud is getting his fingers in his glove when they’re broken and taped together, much less how he’ll grip his stick and control it with the finesse necessary to play at this level. Training camp starts this week, and pre-season games follow, but at least the season opener is still weeks away. Maybe he means Renaud will be healed enough by then?
“It means you’re going to need to step it up out there, rookie,” Colt says.
“He’s not a fucking rookie,” Jameson says as he elbows Colt.
“On this team he is,” Colt says.
I’m so tempted to ask him if he’s still pissed about the hat trick I scored on him last season, but we’re not friendly enough for that yet. I know better than to piss off the most senior member of my new team.
“Literally one of the things Boston said when they signed me was that I needed to tone down the fighting,” I tell Colt, then glance to Jameson for confirmation.
After a year in the AHL, and then playing for Vancouver for my first three years in the NHL, Colorado offered me a great contract. But then I got off to a bad start with the team and it affected my play. I found myself in too many fights with other teams on the ice, and even more with my teammates off the ice.
I never lived up to what Colorado was paying me, and when they traded me to Boston, I took it for what it was: a chance to start fresh. I have one year to prove to Boston that they should keep me after my contract ends.
This is my year to buckle down. Nothing can mess this up.
“That’s right,” Jameson says. “A well-timed fight is always going to pump up the fans, but AJ didn’t take over his contract to have him spend all his time in the penalty box.”
