“You must know your reputation. I was expecting to have a broody, bruiser type of player here today,” he explains nervously. “But you’ve been pretty lowkey all afternoon with the media stuff.”
“My reputation precedes me, it seems.”
He looks uncomfortable, avoiding my eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No worries.” I wave my hand in dismissal. “I’m trying to be more authentic and less what was expected from me by my old team management. So, let’s chill and finish taking these headshots. I’ve got a meeting starting in thirty.”
“Got it, no problem. Let’s get a few more shots in your purple home jersey. Then we’ll switch to the white away one.”
It doesn’t take long until I’m on my way to the media room for the meeting. As much as I’m not worried about Åkerman in the same team, it’s still something that needs to be addressed. It’s a massive elephant in the room that no one wants to talk about.
I plan to do something about it in the next week or so. But not today. Hockey has always been my sanctuary that welcomes me to its arms after a grueling day. That’s why my goal is to keep everything chill during my first meeting with the new team. I don’t want to fuck this up from the beginning.
The room is buzzing with conversation when I enter, but they notice me at the same time, quieting down.
“Hey, look who’s here!” Felix’s cheery voice calls from across the room. “It’s the one and only Rasmus Westerholm.”
A few guys laugh at his comment, including Shane “Papa Shane” Donahue, the team captain and a damn good D-man. He’s the first one to offer his hand.
“Donahue,” I nod in acknowledgment. “Looking forward to being your teammate and not your enemy.”
“You too,” he says, clapping me on the back a little too hard. “We’re gonna have a good time playing together, I can tell.”
Everyone seems to be looking at me with curiosity. Well, everyone but Åkerman. He’s sitting in the corner, assessing me while talking with Silas Howard, the second line center.
Ignoring him, I notice how the energy is different here than what I’m used to in Minneapolis. Players seem more friendly, even if the stereotype is that Midwesterners are warmer than New Yorkers. Maybe that doesn’t fit when everyone’s originally from outside the City.
“Alright, settle down,” a sharp, commanding voice calls from the doorway. Coach Presley walks in with Assistant Coach MacBride right behind him. Presley is tall and lean, with a stern expression that makes it clear he doesn’t tolerate bullshit. He has a shiny bald head, and I can only imagine the jokes guys make about him. MacBride, on the other hand, has a more relaxed vibe, his easy grin contrasting Presley’s seriousness and grouchiness.
“Let’s make this quick.” Coach Presley clasps his hand behind his back as he surveys the room. His eyes land on me briefly. “Westerholm, welcome to the Peacocks. We’ve been looking forward to having your talent on the roster.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I reply.
“I expect the rest of you to show Westerholm what being a Peacock is all about,” Coach urges. “That means putting old crap aside and focusing on the game.”
My eyes flick to Åkerman, whose expression is unreadable as he leans back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.
“Åkerman, Anderson, Donahue, Orsak—you’re his new line. I expect you to help him get up to speed with our system starting today,” He says next.
“Got it, Coach,” Papa Shane responds, his deep voice cutting through the silence.
Hell yes, I get to stay on the first line! I wasn’t sure I’d make it after the trade, but it seems the coaching staff wants to see how I perform with their other star players.
“Coach MacBride has some housekeeping stuff next,” Coach Presley steps back, letting the assistant coach take over.
He flashes a quick grin as he steps forward. “Our first practice with Westerholm is tomorrow morning at ten. We’ll go over our main plays and run drills to work on chemistry. For today, we’re keeping it casual, watching game tape. We’ll leave you to show Westerholm the facilities and around Brooklyn. You too, Åkerman.”
That gets a few laughs out of the guys, breaking some of the tension. I glance at Åkerman again. He’s flashing that million-dollar smile of his, acting relaxed.Fucking golden boy who always gets everything so easily.
The next hour passes quickly as we analyze our next opponent, Dallas Revolt, trying to find their weaknesses.
As the meeting wraps up, the players start filling out in small groups. Papa Shane lingers, waiting for me.
“Come on, Ras,” he says, using my nickname. “Let’s get you introduced to everyone properly. Might as well start with your line.”
We walk over to where Åkerman and Lee Anderson are standing. Lee, an extrovert based on what I’ve heard about the guy, greets me immediately with a fist bump.
“Westerholm, it’s good to have you here,” he says, his smile wide and genuine. “I’ve seen what you can do on the ice. We’re gonna tear it up this spring.”
