I’m feeling gloomy again, so when Coach calls the meeting to order, I’m relieved. His speech is always short, but it signifies the start of the year, even if training won’tofficially begin for another two weeks. We’re all back in the game, and it feels good.
“Gentlemen, I’ll make this brief because we’ve got work to do, and standing around talking about it won’t win us any games. You’re all here for one reason, and it’s because you’re damn fine hockey players. Each one of you brings a certain necessary skill.”
I look around the room, taking in Coach’s words. There are a few new faces and some younger guys back for more. I’ve got faith in so many of these men, but there are a lot of unknowns. Santos’s younger brother Leo is here, but he’s a winger. He’s itching to take Booker’s spot from Jenksy, and he just might do it. I’ve seen him play and he’s damn good. There’s a freshman named Bergeron that I vaguely remember from a visit late last spring. He’s gonna give Hainesy a run for sure. But the rest of these guys? I’m really not trying to be negative, but there’s not a guy in here who’s as big as Pete Santos. And there’s no way we’ll find another Will Franconetti. I’m starting to feel like there’s no way we can recapture the magic we had, even though I know it’s a shitty mindset to have.
Coach clears his throat. “I want you to remember that each one of you was chosen for a reason and if you reach the potential we see in you, this ice is yours. We’ve built a strong roster, and it’s only going to be made stronger by two transfer students we’ve added to the team. These gentlemen know the game and they play their damn asses off. It’s one of the reasons some of you dreaded facing their former team. They made you work like hell for every point, every shot, every win. And now they’re on our side. Gentleman, please welcome your new teammates, Dutton Wagner and Blue Halliday.”
I can pretty much guarantee that even at three a.m. inthe middle of summer when the school is closed, this locker room isn’t as quiet as it is right now.
Dean’s jaw is on the floor, Jenksy looks like he’s about to throw down, and Mick is in a total state of shock. How do I know? Because he’s completely still, like a statue. For a guy who fidgets even in his sleep, that’s saying something.
Coach breaks the silence. “There’s no need for me to recite their stats or tell you all just how fucking lucky we are to have these two join us. You know. You’ve seen them play. And Dutton, Blue? I don’t have to tell you how fucking grateful you should be to share the ice with these men. You know it. You watched us walk away with a regional title last year that was everything you wanted. I’ve seen what happens when you play against each other, gentleman, so I can’t fucking wait to watch you play on the same side.”
Coach has tucked his ever-present clipboard under his arm, a sure sign his speech is over. This is the part where we clap or nod. Instead, we’re all stunned as we follow his gaze to the back of the roomto see Dutton Wagner and Blue Halliday—our arch-fucking-nemeses—leaning against the wall like they own the goddamn place.
Wagner’s face is cut from stone. The guy’s a dick, and I’m not just saying that because he’s hard as fucking hell to cover. He’s an arrogant asshole. A puck hog. An entitled prick who thinks he’s god’s gift to hockey. His teammates—well, his former teammates, I guess—can’t stand him. I bet even the family dog growls at him. The only guy I’ve ever met who actually likes him is the man standing next to him right now.
Grover “Blue” Halliday is grinning like he just won the fucking lottery. In a way, he did. The Bainbridge University Wolves won it all last year while these fuckers sat at home and watched it on TV. No fucking wonder Blue looks sodamn happy. He’s never been on a team this good. He’s a hell of a D-man, much as I hate to admit it. And Wagner skates like he was born for it. But those two carried their team. Sure, they had help, but they were the stars. There’s no question about it.
They’re not stars here. We’re a motherfucking team. No prima donnas. No hotshots. Just fucking hocking players.
I watch as JT puts his hands together. Slowly a round of applause ripples through the room. It’s not loud or boisterous, but it’s there.
Coach nods, turns to leave, and then looks back at us. “One more thing,” he begins. “As you know, this team needs a captain. We’ll take a vote at the end of training camp.”
With those parting words, Coach heads back to his office and Novotny starts his spiel. I listen half-heartedly because I’ve been here long enough to know the drill. While our assistant coach yaps about the training schedule and the meal plan, my mind is racing. Having our two biggest rivals join the team is a total mindfuck, and I’m not sure Mickey’s blinked since Coach dropped his little bomb. But my mind has veered off that course, at least for now.
Coach didn’t hand me the captaincy. There was no guarantee he would. I knew that. But somewhere in the back of my mind I must have believed that was how it was going to shake down. Because now that it hasn’t, I feel like the world’s biggest chump. No wonder I fucking doubted myself. My own coach doesn’t have enough faith in me to hand over the reins.
Thank fuck I’ve done all this before because right now, I’m on autopilot as I make my way through our agenda. I meet with the trainers, collect my gear from Liza, and sit through a presentation on nutrition. I’ve listened to it somany times now that I could probably recite it from memory, but I hold myself in check.
When the day is over and it’s time to head out, my mind is still spinning, but at least I’ve pulled myself together enough to hear Coach’s voice as he calls for me. I wave to Mickey and Dean, letting them know they can head home without me, but they’ll probably stick close by. They need to debrief as much as I do because there’s a lot that’s not adding up.
How long has Coach been sitting on this? And why the hell didn’t Van put a stop to it or at least give us a heads up? And how the hell are we supposed to play with these jackasses instead of against them?
These questions run through my mind as I head into Coach's office. I keep my mouth shut as I take a seat on the other side of his desk. I’m afraid if I so much as smile, my angry thoughts will leak out in a tirade, or at the very least, I’ll mutter,What the fuck, Coach?
“Jablonski,” he says, looking up from his tablet to see me.
“Hey, Coach,” I answer.
“I won’t take up too much of your time. You’ve got roommates moving in tomorrow, so I imagine your new place will be a hive of activity.”
I nod absently, since most of the guys are moving in tonight. It’s just Liza and the two transfers who are waiting—holy fucking shit.
I stare up at Coach and it’s like he can read my mind. Maybe he can. The man’s perceptive as hell, and besides, I’m probably doing a piss-poor job of hiding my emotions right now.
“You’ve got an opportunity here, Ollie. Don’t stand there gawking for too long, or it’ll pass you by.”
I’m still processing the news that not only are ourformer adversaries our teammates, they’re also our roommates, so I barely acknowledge Coach’s words.
“That’s all, Jablonski.”
Coach’s clipped goodbye registers enough that my ass is up and moving a few seconds later. Just like I predicted, Dean and Mickey are waiting for me right outside the locker room. We walk down the hall in silence, but I spare a glance into the weight room to see Dutton and Blue working out. For half a second I debate walking in there to join them or to see if they feel like meeting us at Wolfie’s for drinks.
But that insane thought flies out of my head almost as quickly as it flew in.
Thank fuck.
