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“I’m good,” the nineteen-year-old sends up a thumbs-up from the center line. It’s hard to make out through the bulk of his black glove, but if he has a finger in the air, I doubt it’s the bird.
“Taking a quick nap?” I ask, just to see if I’m right and we need to call in the trainers.
“Nah,” Spaeglin shakes his head as he turns a little pivot on his blades. “Just running through what I did wrong to get nailed like that.”
“There’s a joke in there somewhere,” Tyler Gage shrugs, “but I can’t think of it right now.”
“You weren’t even the one who got his bell rung. Missing some brain cells Gagey?” Spaeglin’s laugh cuts across the rink, tinny and metallic in the expansive space.
I make a note to check him out when he heads my way. Or if he falls over.
“We should end the drills,” I say, and Robbie grunts again. “Before someone ends up on the injured list.”
It’s only our years of friendship that allows me to translate the sound into an agreement. The almost sixteen years we played for separate teams don’t matter. Friendships formed on the ice at the age of seven have the foundation to last through time.
I wave my glove at my teammates to grab their attention. When no one looks, not surprising, Robbie bellows out an “oy” that has four heads turning our way. This is the reason he wears the “A” as alternate captain. Despite over a decade apart, coming back to the same line was like no time had passed at all. A team. A unit.
“Let’s call it a day.”
Gage, Maroni, and Ahlstrom head to the nets to pack them away, but Spaeglin skates right for the bench. He’s fast on his blades and he kicks up a flurry of snow at the boards as he cuts sideways to stop. He’s grinning through his half shield, mossy eyes clear enough that I’m confident the hit left no lasting damage.
“I’m fine Cap. It was just a love tap.”
It was more than that. It was the kind of hit that would get replayed on the Jumbotron during a game. Maybe even make the ESPN highlights. Getting caught with your head down at center ice is a rookie mistake. The kind that can lead to injuries and time off.
A snort from Robbie and Speaglin’s grin grows wider. “It’s not my fault Gagey’s obsessed with me. My grannie hits worse.”
Off the ice, the rookie isn’t small. He clocks in at six feet tall and just under two hundred pounds. On the ice he’s just under average, but there’s a slightness to his build that leaves him open to a lot of attempted damage on the ice. He’s fast. His puck-handling is good. He worms his way in and out of opposing players like he’s made of water. Spaeglin ends up the target of a lot of hits, so yes, maybe Gage’s hit was nothing special, but usually Spaeglin stays on his feet like a damn weeble. What’s that stupid jingle again? “Weebles wobble but they don’t fall down?” Something like that.
“We’re going to get off the ice before you end up benched,” I say and the kid shrugs like it’s no hair off his chest either way.
Spaeglin has no hair on his chest, which is probably why he’s so unconcerned about brain damage or missing ice time. Either that or he still feels invincible. We’re not even halfway through his first season with the pros. I wonder if he’s graduated to chewing handfuls of ibuprofen like they’re tic tacs every morning. He’s probably still riding high on being drafted, seeing his whole career stretch out in front of him, watching his phantom future self hoist the cup over his head as he takes lazy laps on the ice beneath a screaming crowd. We’ve all had that dream, but at some point in every pro-athlete’s time on the roster, we start to see it as a race. Get to the finish line before breaking down. Push hard enough for results, but not injury.
I also need him off the ice because I have a blonde to locate. It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I left Tristan sitting in the conference room at the main office. Since I said no and watched the delicate features of her face wipe clean until not a single ounce of emotion could slip through. There had been a flicker right before that moment. A moment when she seemed to know what was coming and her eyes flashed, but it was gone before I could spend too long examining it. My gut instinct says it was disappointment. The kind that is expected but doesn’t change the split-second nausea when the floor drops and the fall begins.
It’s not that I wanted to say no—I don’t like to say no when I know I can fix something--but I didn’t want to say yes either. I’m a hockey player. Social media, marketing, PR, are all the extra bits that I wish didn’t come with the territory. Unfortunately, they do. I know the team enjoys using my face and my body for their campaigns. We’re professional athletes. Our bodies are honed to perfection or we aren’t doing our job, but I know my face is attractive, too. There’s a reason I was dubbed the NHL’s “pretty boy” for a few seasons. I’m not trying to brag, but I know how many women I’ve been able to tumble into my bed with the right smile. Although I’m sure the money and the fact that I have all my teeth don’t hurt those prospects.
I also know the real reason the Arctic uses me for most of their marketing, the reason Chicago did the same, and Minnesota before them. I don’t say no.
Do I want to give up my off days or free time to go flirt with the local news anchor? Not really, although I make sure not to show it. Do I want to strip down to my jock and oil myself up for photos? Not even a little, but someone on the team has to. And that’s just it. No one on the team enjoys these extras. Maybe in the juniors there were guys along for the ride, more interested in the fame, the money, and the glory than in the game; but by the time we enter the draft, that’s not possible anymore. If it follows some guys into their first seasons, well, there isn’t time to focus only on notoriety and hero worship. Those are the guys who get traded away and end up circling the drain on minor league teams.
And since none of my boys wants to do these events and interviews and photo shoots either, then it’s my job as captain to step up. It’s the fastest, easiest way to keep the bigwigs happy while letting my teammates focus on the puck and the ice and the endless drills. If it helps connect us to the community? If whatever I do or say brings more people to this sport that beats in my veins like a drum? Well, I’m not sorry about that one bit. That’s my job. Victor Aaron Varg. Right wing for the Quarry Creek Arctic, a top ten goal scorer for the league, loving brother and son, and keeper—and creator—of the peace.
But now it’s been a whole day, and I know Tristan Grant is twitching with not knowing if I’m in or out of her campaign.
“Or he could keep his head up and not get flattened because he’ll see his opponents coming. That sounds easier.” Robbie says, but he’s already removing his gloves and gathering his water bottle from the inside of the boards. That’s good. It’ll look a lot less suspicious if we all leave together than if I leave while the guys are still working. I’m never the first one out. It would raise eyebrows, and for reasons I can’t even begin to unravel, I don’t want the guys to know about my meeting with the pretty little blonde.
“Varg.” My name cuts through the arena, echoing in the space as her voice clambers off the boards and all the eyes in the vicinity swing to me. “We need to talk!”
I watch every bonus point I might have received for seeking her out on my own vanish as Tristan Grant stomps her way down the tunnel. Despite the rubber flooring for our skates, her shiny black shoes still make noise, announcing her entrance. She’s not dressed for the rink, not at all. I don’t expect her in a down parka, but I expected pants at least. My brother’s fiancée piles on the layers whenever she comes to watch games, but the rink isn’t exactly cold. And I don’t just mean because I sweat buckets on the ice.
Aside from the spiked heels, and the snug-fitting black skirt, and the half see-through sky blue shirt, her silky hair twists back into some intricate knot at the base of her neck. Under the rink’s bright lights, it gleams almost white. She’s only about twelve feet from me, but I can see the flash in her ice eyes, the red slash of her mouth pressed into a thin line.
Spaeglin laughs. “Someone’s in trouble.”
The sing-song words are reminiscent of elementary school playgrounds, but he’s not wrong. There is a little frisson of caught-by-teacher and it’s inappropriate to go there with Tristan Grant, so I squash the thoughts. I do not need to picture her slapping a ruler against one palm, ankles crossed as she leans her slender hip on the corner of a big wooden desk and tells me I’ve been a bad boy. We work together. I’m fairly certain she hates my guts, although that doesn’t hurt the fantasy one bit. It’s hurt none of the fantasies I pretend not to have about this woman. I shake my head to clear the images as she grips the edge of the boards and steps up to the bench.
“Jack,” Tristan says, and the kid honks out a sound like he just choked on his own spit.
