1
Spencer
“Fuck a duck,” I curse out loud as I park my ancient Subaru in the back of my house. My shared house—the famous, or infamous, hockey house. I totally forgot about tonight’s party. And what the fuck? It’s a damn Wednesday. Who parties on Wednesdays? That’s right, my team does. At least, in the off-season. And last year, I was right there in the thick of it. And that didn’t end well at all.
It’s been a long-ass week and I’m bone tired after the extra practice I just had with Coach Garfunkle. We ran drills until my legs felt like jello. I’ve been exclusively in net since I was seven, so I can do butterfly pushes in my sleep, but we ran them for hours today.
You don’t get to the NHL without working your ass off.
Or, as my dad says, you need to eat, sleep, and breathe hockey. It’s the Dan Briggs way, and he won’t settle for less. My dad never made it to the NHL because of a college injury, so he’s pressing extra hard for me to move up to the pros as fast as possible.
Speaking of my dad, I palm my buzzing phone and sure enough, he’s calling.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?” I go for casual as I exit my car and grab my hockey bag from the back.
“Just checking in to see how practice went. Did you get that extra session in?”
“Yep. Just finished up with Coach Gar,” I confirm.
“Garfunkle? Why not Keller? Or Gaulthier? You need to get face time with your head coach, and your goalie coach, Spencer. Spending an evening with a hippie does what for your game?”
I ignore the jab, but he persists.
“I asked you a question, Spencer. Three hours of new-age shit is helpful to your game in what way exactly?”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell him that Coach Gar’s a good guy and we had a really good practice. Do I believe all his new-age shit? Nah. It’s not my thing. But I’m not gonna trash it, either. If carrying around crystals and talking about chakras makes the guy’s day, then who the hell am I to judge?
But, I don’t want to spend the next hour getting a lecture from my dad, so I respond accordingly. “Understood, sir. I’ll work with Coach Keller and Coach Gaulthier from here on out.”
“Jesus Christmas. A program like that, a goalie like you? They should be bringing in somebody to work with you full-time. You were signed by the goddamn NHL,” he grouses, but I tune him out. It’s nothing I haven’t heard before. Will Gaulthier is a great goalie coach, but he’s part-time. They can’t dedicate a whole coaching position to two or three guys, no matter what my dad thinks.
“Look, I should go. Gotta eat.”
“Yeah, all right. You’re sticking with the meal plan?”
“Yes, sir,” I answer, shaking my head. It’s the same damn meal plan I’ve been on since grade school, only the portion sizes have increased.
“Have a good night then. Try and relax a little. I sent you some tape on that forward from Michigan, so go ahead and watch that.”
“Sounds good, Dad.” Only my dad would want me to spend my downtime watching tape. Like I haven’t already scheduled time for that. Jesus. I’d love nothing more than a Marvel marathon right now, but based on the sounds coming from my house, that's not gonna happen. Nope. It looks like I have a party to attend.
Fake it till you make it, right? Except that’s never been my speed. I’m more the work-your-tail-off till you make it sort. And when I was the life of the party for a brief stint last year? Let’s just say, again, it didn’t end well. Would I much rather hole up in my room and watch every Avengers movie in order than go to this party? Hell yes, I would. But team bonding is important and I need to quit my bitchin’ and get down there and be Mr. Social.
Or, in my case, Mr. Socially Awkward.
I approach the back door, which leads into the kitchen, and the noise is already deafening. For a split second I think I can escape the party and duck up to my room, but my damn stomach growls.
And that’s when I make the first mistake of the night. I turn toward the cupboards to grab a bag of nuts, and Coop spots me.
“Briggsy! Where the hell you been? Get your ass back here. We’ve got kegs to unload.”
“No problem, Coop,” I say, turning toward the front of the house. But the thing is, it’s a huge problem. Parties are not my thing anymore. I learned my lesson the hard way; I can’t have a social life and a hockey career. It’s one or the other, and since I’ve been working toward the NHL since I could walk, being in a crowd of college students is a giant pain in my ass and it’s not something I have the energy for right now. But the fall semester starts next week, so my housemates think it’s a perfect time to let loose.
But, like always, I follow orders. I do the same with my dad, so why should my team be different? And the fact is, every time I haven’t followed orders, I’ve fucked up. So yeah, I’ve learned my lesson. I give JD a hand with the kegs, which takes all of five minutes.
“Thanks man. You’re sticking around for the party?” he asks, but it’s not really a question. JD knows I try to distance myself from the social scene these days, but it’s clear that won’t be an option tonight.
“Yeah, just gonna grab a quick shower.” I say, turning toward the stairs.
