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As much as Mason was used to playing with me, women were still new to the NHL. Rachel McCarthy, Vancouver’s backup goalie, had only joined the league four years ago, breaking the glass ceiling on her way and opening the doors for the rest of us. I was drafted to Seattle’s farm team a year after her and called up the next season, but no other women had been selected the past couple years. And as I hadn’t been on the ice for more than fifteen minutes since I was drafted, progress was slow-going.
So, as acclimated to famous hockey players as the stadium workers were, I was still a rarity. I could feel their eyes tracking me from the moment I walked into the building. But I was used to it, and shaking off the discomfort, I swiped my newly acquired ID.
I smiled politely at the staff as we made our way through the large space, past the lounge and food areas, and into the main locker room. The room was circular, with several dozen wooden cubbies around the perimeter. It was pristine and blissfully empty. And thenI saw it.
I couldn’t hold in my squeak this time as I ran, avoiding stepping on the team logo in the middle of the floor, to the cubby that had a freshly pressed sweater hanging in it. “Warren” stretched across the shoulders in black, my lucky number 88 sitting dead center. They hadn’t had it ready this morning, so it was the first time I was seeing my new uniform. It was like I was a rookie all over again. It was the same name and number from Seattle, but they looked infinitely better affixed to this new blue-and-white sweater instead of my old green one from the Blades.
I dropped my small duffle bag on the seat and touched the sweater in reverence, and Mason laughedbehind me.
“Really, Riles?”he asked.
“Yeah. Here. Make yourself useful.” I tossed him my phone and posed beside the sweater, a smile tugging at my face and a peace signthrown up.
Mason shook his head and took the picture. “Damn, I missed you, girl.”
“I missed you too. FaceTime is just notthe same.”
Mason returned my phone and watched over my shoulder as I sent the photo to my brother for when he had service again. “Is Drew here yet?”he asked.
“He should be landing soon. He said he didn’t want to get here too early and distract me before the game. As if he could. You coming home with us tonight?” I tossed the phone into my cubby and kicked off my heels. They followed my phone, and I silently bemoaned their loss. I loved dressing up on game days, and those heels were fierce.
“Is Drew cooking?” Mason asked as he wandered over to his cubby a few slots away, already drawing his jacket off. I turned my back to the room and copied him, taking off my slate grey pantsuit in a few seconds, leaving me in only my bra and panties.
“Yep, makingkashaand cabbage rolls.”
“Then I’m there.”
“We’re going to the store after the game to get ingredients. And some vodka to celebrate if we win or cry into if we lose.” I called over my shoulder and undid my bra.
Mason gagged audibly. “If you make me drink that gasoline, I’ll cry no matter what.”
I laughed. The first time he tried the vodka from my mom’s stash, he spit it out immediately. When she found out, my mom was so mad that we wasted her good Russian vodka that she didn’t even care about the underage drinking. “It might be good. Everyone needs a good cry now and then.”
“True. Shit is cathartic, man.”
The new voice came from Ethan “Tank” Jones as he came through one of the side entrances into the locker room. Even hunched over his phone, he certainly was a tank, with shoulders just as broad as he was tall and able to plow through a horde of forwards with little to no effort. I hadn’t met him this morning, but he had been Mason’s mentor when he was first drafted, and Mason talked about him often. Apparently, he was an extremely hard worker. He would have to be—it was hard to be a minority in the NHL. Ethan Jones was the first black team captain of the Blizzards. He was also the nicest man on the ice.
He wasn’t the one that grabbed my attention though. Sebastian Kingston followed a step behind Jones. While he was slightly smaller than Jones, he filled the room with his very presence. Sebastian “The King” Kingston was the team’s star forward and was one of the best scorers in the league. He could shoot from almost anywhere on the ice and was a force to be reckoned with in the speed department. After he was drafted to Dallas in the first round at age eighteen, he busted a ton of rookie records and was crowned “The King.” The first season after he was traded to the Blizzards, seven years ago, he won the team the cup. He wasa legend.
I had seen him in person several times and on hundreds of hours of game tape. Just like on the ice, he stood rod-straight, head angled up like he was perpetually looking down his slightly crooked nose at his subjects. The nickname fit him. All that was missing was a crown atop his wavy black hair as he met my stare, his grey eyes hard. Then those eyes dropped to my chest and almost popped out of his head. His pale face turned ashen. “Uhm.”
I looked down. I was mostly naked. Whoops.
“Holy shit,” Jones’ exclamation brought my head up, but I kept my face completely blank.
With deliberate nonchalance, I stepped backward into my cubby area and tugged the curtain that ran on a curved rod around only my locker closed. Silence reigned as I pulled on a sports bra and a pair of leggings. You would think the guys had never seen a pair of tits before. But they had better get used to it. As much as the curtain concealed, there were going to be some nip-slips; it was inevitable.
While I was offered a private room to dress in this morning, I turned it down like I had when Seattle offered the same. Nudity didn’t bother me much, and the cons of having a separate room weren’t worth any discomfort I might feel. In high school, I had to have a separate dressing room as it was a liability issue for the school. Vancouver was the first to put in the curtains when they drafted Rachel McCarthy. The NHL offered separate dressing rooms to McCarthy, of course, but being close to your teammates to bond was essential when your gender already divided you. A curtain in the dressing room and separate shower areas were the best solutions for concealment while still being as close to the rest of the team as possible. Seattle and New York followed Vancouver’s lead when I joined their teams and added curtains. Although they had a couple flaws, like me not remembering to close them. Especially when it was just Mason and me; I’d been naked in front of him so many times, I barely even registered him in the room when I was undressing.
And now I had just met my captain and assistant captain tits first. Great. If they had been at the optional practice this morning, this wouldn’t have happened. I zipped up my new team hoodie with a huff.
“Oh, Captain, my captain,” Mason crooned at Jones. “Finally managed to get to the rink? You weren’t here earlier for morning practice, so I figured an old man like you was spending the day in bed.”
Sufficiently dressed, I opened the curtain, grabbed my shoes, and sat down. Thankfully, Jones was leaning against his cubby, taking Mason’s cue to act like nothing had happened. Kingston, on the other hand, had tensed at the sound of the curtain tracks and had yet to relax, his traps stiff by his ears as he stared into his locker, his back tothe room.
“Me and Kingston had a media thing to do. And of course, I’m here. Couldn’t miss seeing Warren out there tonight.” Jones turned to me. “I hope you don’t choke your first time starting, Warren. Frey here, has hyped you up a lot. Although, from what I’ve seen of you, I’m not sure if it’s warranted.”
Jones’ bright smile softened his harsh words. Instead of being offended, I smirked and chirped back. “I don’t choke. Ever. But Iama little worried about everyone else. Are you sure the pressure won’t get to you? You haven’t had this many eyes on you in a while. Canyouhandle it?”
