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A group of men in wrinkled shirts make their way down the sidewalk, a couple of them staggering. The one in front points to my black Range Rover, his mouth dropping open in appreciation. I nod and raise my hand in a quick wave just as one of the guys in the group bends over and pukes right before making it to a trash can.
Hell, I haven’t had a night of partying like that in a long time. Not since I was in Nashville, I think. I was at the top of my game when I played there, winning back-to-back championships before a leg injury fucked me and I had to quit hockey and spend nine grueling months rehabbing in LA.
Sometimes I feel a lot older than twenty-nine.
I shift in my seat as I hold my wallet open for the guard at the security gate to the $90 million arena recently built for the Las Vegas Saints, my new team. He peers at my identification and grins at me.
“Thanks, Mr. Hagen. I know your face, but I have to check ID this first time. Rules and all. I’ll wave you in from now on.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.” I reach my hand out the window and he shakes it, his smile widening. “What’s your name?”
“Russ. I’m a big fan. Can’t wait to see you on the ice here. You’re gonna prove ‘em all wrong, Mr. Hagen. I know you are.”
“It’s Maverick.” A familiar punch of worry jabs at my gut. “And I hope you’re right, Russ. We’ll know soon, won’t we?”
“Yes, sir, we will.”
I exhale my nervous energy and ask, “Does it matter where I park inside?”
His expression turns serious as he points to a tunnel entrance ahead. “You’re gonna park in the VIP deck, Mr. Hagen. Any of the spots in there are good, but I think you should take the best one, ‘cuz you’re the star of the show. Double park and show ‘em all who’s boss.” He gives me a quick grin and then continues. “Then you’ll take the elevator up one level and follow the signs.”
“Thanks, Russ. Have a good one.” I wave at him and make my way into the tunnel, the darkened one-way entrance swallowing up my vehicle.
No turning back now. I’ve worked my ass off for this moment. I pushed through pain, fatigue and a hell of a lot of frustration to get here.
But now that I’m parking my Range Rover in a spot with sharp, newly painted yellow lines, about to walk into the arena for my first practice, I wonder if I’m being too ambitious.
I have plenty of money from the six seasons I played in Nashville. Should I have just built myself a lodge in Colorado and spent my days hunting, fishing and hiking? I could’ve done hockey analysis anywhere—the offers were coming in before I woke up from the initial surgery on my leg.
But no. I’m a stubborn bastard, and I never considered quitting. And while many teams wouldn’t take a chance on paying my top-tier salary after such a bad injury, the league’s newest expansion team jumped at the chance to sign me.
Slinging my equipment bag over my shoulder, I take the elevator up a floor and follow the signs to the locker room. As I step inside, my nervous energy intensifies.
The room is massive, smelling like fresh cedar from the wood lockers lining the walls. Light shines down from the top of each one onto the sweaters hanging inside.
Hagen. 19.
Damn, it feels good to see my name and number on a sweater again. I thought I’d spend my entire career in Nashville, but instead I’m in a posh new locker room, my sweater white with black and gold accents.
Our team mascot is a smiling cartoon puck named Lucky. I feel sorry for the poor chump who has to walk around the arena in a puck suit, bumping into people right and left. An image of the winking mascot covers the center of the carpet in the locker room, and I make sure to step around it as I walk over to my locker.
I’m probably not the only one arriving early for our first practice. I drop my equipment bag and open it, quickly pulling out my skates and changing into my practice uniform. When I venture out onto the ice again for the first time outside of rehab in almost a year, I want to be alone.
The smell of my skates makes me cringe. Even with all the odor-eliminating gadgets out there, it’s just not possible for hockey gear to smell anything but bad—really bad, like sweaty, unwashed ass. But I’ll wear these until they fall apart. A good, broken-in pair of skates is key to positive hockey mojo.
“Maverick Hagen.”
I turn toward the sound of a man bitterly saying my name as he walks into the locker room. Dane Taylor is a first line forward like me. The Saints also signed him to a two-year contract, but I’m making more money. We never liked each other when we played for opposing teams, but from his expression, I’m guessing Dane dislikes me even more now.
