Without thinking, I backhand the puck between my legs. It flips off the ice, perfect in its skittering imperfection.
Logan snipes it top shelf.
The biscuit hits the basket.
The horn blares like thunder, and the arena erupts to celebrate the goal. We mob Logan against the boards, gloves slapping helmets, stick blades stomping the boards.
I get swarmed. Someone shouts, “Hell of a pass, newbie!”
Coach is yelling encouragement, but it’s too loud in the arena to hear clearly.
And yet, even when I should be high off adrenaline, my mind flickers back to her. I wipe sweat from my brow and swallow hard.I might be establishing my role in this team, yet I have no idea where the hell I stand with Ligaya.
Our night was the most erotic experience I’ve ever had, while also being the most natural. Who else can fuck me that hard, tease me that relentlessly, and also feel so weirdly and intimately familiar? Our bodies moved like our minds were connected.
But now, our lame text thread is running out of steam. No way I’m sending another text before I hear back. I have too much dignity. Although, it’s been said that dignity is overrated.
After the game-ending buzzer, everyone is in a great mood to celebrate a tight win. The locker room stinks and music blasts from someone’s phone. The guys are half dressed, towel-whipping and shit-talking.
“Tristan,” Logan hollers from across the room. “Nice pass, man. That assist was filthy.”
“Appreciate it,” I say, unwrapping my tape from the stick blade and flicking it toward the trash. My knee is still buzzing from that whack.
“Did you see LaFernier’s face?” Gordon Lanski says. “He looked like someone stole his car.”
“Or like he’d seen your Tinder profile,” Connor adds.
“Stop stalking my Tinder profile, Connor,” Gordon whips back and throws a towel in his face.
The Mavericks are a tight-knit team. They’ve got inside jokes, game night rituals, poker groups, and funny texts going off before I’ve even unlaced my skates. It’s not that anyone’s unfriendly to me, they’re just established. Bonded in that unshakable way that only happens over years of locker room wins and losses.
I don’t fully belong the same way. I show up, clock in, try to be fast enough to justify my ice time. The outsider with a temporary badge. I’m offered a halfhearted invitation that I politely turn down. Since I’m only here for the season, I don’t see myself settling in like I did in Denver.
The Denver Huskies drafted me out of college. As luck would have it, we won the Stanley Cup championship during my rookie season. After two years with an amazing team, I got injured. My surgery was successful, but a knee reconstruction takes time. The Huskies weren’t the most supportive dream team during my injury, but this is professional hockey. Tough love and all that. I spent the last three seasons in and out of their minor league farm team. I thought rehabbing and working my ass off would earn me a permanent spot.
Instead, they traded me this summer.
I can still remember the call. Not the words, because that shit blurred after Chris, my agent, said “I’ve got great news” in the bullshit way he does. What I recall is the visceral sting of rejection.
Chris framed it as a fresh start. An opportunity. But it sounds more like another obstacle framed as a favor.
I’m on a one-year contract here in Columbus. It’s a rent-a-player scenario, since the Mavericks need more speed to make a serious push through the playoff rounds. I’ll be a free agent at the end of the season and, according to my agent, teams are watching me closely.
Especially Denver.
Now that I’m on the big stage, I’ll show them. They’ll be begging to get me back. Even if returning comes with caveats and conditions, at least there I can finish what I started.
Besides, I don’t see myself fitting in with the Mavericks. When Ligaya casually asked about my living situation since moving back, I admitted that I still consider Denver home. My apartment lease in Columbus ends in July.
“Why do you want to go back to Denver if they didn’t fully support you throughout your injury?” she had asked. No holding back on the punches, this woman.
I gave her the standard “my agent is working on it” answer. There’s no point delving into the complicated dynamics of professional sports. Players have very limited control of their future.
“The Mavericks proposed a trade that was too good to pass up. But they only gave me one year, whereas Denver would re-sign me to a multi-year deal.”
We had been drinking coffee that was more burnt charcoal than beverage, although that only partially accounted for my bitterness.
I’m happy to be in Columbus with an opportunity to prove myself in the big leagues. But Ligaya is glaringly insightful, as always. Beyond my ability to recover from my injury and determination to keep improving, I have zero control of my hockey future. What I don’t share are the glaringmaybes.
