“What does being Canadian have to do with it?”
He paused, saying nothing. Of course not. He had no point. He’d taken a dig at my being Canadian because he was an idiot. Period.
“If anything, being Canadian should give me a natural advantage.”“What are you talking about?”
“We did invent the sport, you know.”
“Oh, oh, ohhhhh, you’re one of those guys, huh? You’re gonna give me this whole spiel about how the sport was invented in Canada by a bunch of guys in an igloo, which means Canadians are automatically the better players?”
“I wasn’t, but we can go with that if you want. Especially the igloo part.”
“Pal, that’s total bullshit.”
I shrugged. That was all you could do with neanderthals like Kayden Preston.
“Think about it,” I said. “All the best players in NHL history came from Canada. Wayne Gretzky. Gordie Howe. Bobby Orr.”
He rolled his eyes at me like he knew I could go on about this all day. No need to tempt me.
“And Sydney Crosby too,” I said.
“Oh God, not Sydney Crosby. I think I’m gonna throw up.”
“Yes, Sydney Crosby. Now, have I proven my point?”
“No way, dude. You guys might’ve invented hockey, but Americans perfected it.”
“Okay, name some American players that perfected hockey.”
I leaned onto my stick, waiting for him to fire off names as readily as I did. He said nothing. I honestly thought steam would shoot out of his ears.
“Can’t think of any, can you?” I said.
“I can so. Just shut up for a second.”
“Did I mention Mario Lemieux is Canadian too?”
He threw his hands up and grunted. Any more of this, and I bet he would scream. Sure, he could argue with me until the cows came home—a farm expression I would never use in front of him—but I had Kayden on the ropes.
“Yeah, that stuff doesn’t mean anything here,” he said. “This is college, not the NHL. Here, you’re at the bottom of the ladder, and you’ve got to work your way up.”
“Ah, the first smart thing you’ve said since I met you.”
He knitted his eyebrows like he would’ve slugged anyone else for that comment. He was one of those hot-headed types with no self-control, remember. But he wouldn’t go off on me. I’d already exercised all the control over him that I needed to.
I realized just then that I’d approached him to address a misunderstanding and that we’d cleared up exactly nothing. If anything, our talk had worsened the problem, and that was on him.
“You’re just trying to distract me,” he said. “I know what’s important. To start with, get the hell out of my locker.”
“That’s ‘get the hell out of my lockerplease.’”
I grinned, even sticking my chin out a little, in case he wanted to slug me.
“I think we’re past worrying about manners here, dude. I’ll give you until tomorrow. After that, you’d better have all your stuff out or else.”
“Or else what?”
When he fixed his eyes on me, I understood that I was just supposed to know what else, as if he was the most intimidating person I’d ever met. He didn’t flash me the intense look that you might’ve expected, though. It wasn’t this ugly look meant to bully me into submission. That look boasted a cool confidence all its own, like he’d buried a thousand guys like me before. That look said I would remove my stuff from his locker because he’d commanded me to.
