And drive safe, okay? We’ll wait.
I take another deep breath and try to visualize the next couple of hours, but it only makes me more nervous. So I ask my phone to text Forest with a couple of thoughts.
Beck
Question for you. Would it be bad karma to steal the Cougars jersey after this practice?
Related: is it bad luck if I throw up beforehand?
Forest
You’re not going to throw up. And don’t steal the jersey, because only a guy who doesn’t think he’s ever going to be invited back would need to take it.
That’s not you, Beck. This is just Thursday for a professional athlete who’s on his way to the top.
That seems like a generous interpretation. Still, it calms me down.
It’s only a scrimmage, I remind myself. Besides—the Boulder rink has good juju. It’s where I skated with Forest for the first time when I practiced with the Stickhandlers.
By the time I pull into the lot—parking in the farthest row so my hunk of metal doesn’t stand out beside all their luxury cars—I’m calm enough. Sort of.
The lobby is empty when I walk in, except for a young woman in a sharp suit who’s perched on a bench, typing furiously on her laptop. She looks up at me with a serious frown. “Becker James?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I’m Liana, Coach’s assistant. Thank you for coming in on short notice.”
“Happy to help,” I say, as more nerves swirl through my bloodstream.
She rises from her seat, closes the laptop, and grabs a file folder out of her briefcase. My name is on the label. “Has any of your personal contact information changed since development camp this past summer?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Same address. Haven’t even repainted the mailbox. It’s still puke green.”
She gives me a strange look, but let’s face it—we’re both lucky I didn’t say something even weirder. “Okay, then you’ll receive a check in the mail for today. Now, off you go.”
She leads me to a door that says PLAYERS ONLY and pushes it open. “Banks?” she calls. “He’s here.”
The young equipment manager appears a moment later. “Oh hey, Mr. James. I put you over here.” He waves me toward a stall near the door. There’s a grey practice jersey hanging there with the Cougars logo right on the chest.
Luckily, practice jerseys don’t have names on them, because if I saw JAMES on that thing, I’d probably stroke out.
I drop my bag and start pulling out my base layers.
“Just let me know if you need anything at all,” Banks says. “And go see the trainer when you’re ready.”
“Thanks.” I hang up my jacket and start the long process of gearing up. This part is the same no matter who you’re playing for, and the familiar procedure calms me down.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve warmed up my body on an exercise bike, I’ve stretched, and I’ve had my ankles taped up by a nice trainer named Kevin. He didn’t even blink when I started babbling about the luckiest colors of tape.
At long last, an assistant coach sticks his head into the room. “Scrimmage in ten.”
Gulp. Then I’m strapping on pads and tying my laces and internally saying a prayer that contains only four words: don’t fuck this up.
The equipment guy hands me my stick and a water bottle, and I trundle out the door and down the black rubber path toward the ice. Coach Powers waves me toward the bench. “Hey, Beck! Thanks for your hustle. You’re doing us a favor. We just needed to rest one guy for the weekend. That’s in the vault, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree. They don’t want me yapping that something is wrong with Volkov.
“Thanks, man. Strap in. Take the far end, okay?” He waves me toward one of the nets.
