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Tuck hops down from standing on the bench, landing next to me. “Keep it up and this team is getting its first Frozen Four championship in over a decade.” He gives my butt a firm pat as he walks away to resume his towel fight.
My nose twitches. I know a lot of athletes are into the whole butt patting thing.
Few would be surprised to find out I’m not one of them.
“Seriously, Hudson,” Lane says, leaning against the row of lockers. “That was a hell of a performance. It’s no secret that we’ve been weak at the goalie position for the last couple years. Obviously, you coming here changes that in a big way. Everyone thinks we can go all the way this year.”
I nod. “We should be able to.”
That’s why I’m here, after all. After two years in Boston, my dad was convinced that the coach of my old team was never going to take us all the way to the Frozen Four championships.
Instead of getting drafted early and working my way up from a farm team, my dad decided that it would be better for me to showcase myself as the best goalie in college hockey and try to springboard directly to a main roster position after graduating.
As an NHL legend himself and my future agent, he’s confident he can pull off his side of the deal when it comes to getting me a contract, as long as I pull off my side and show that I deserve it in the college league.
The rest of the guys are still chatting and joking around, their spirits high, as they head to the showers.
Hearing and seeing how happy a good practice session can make some people … it gives me a sort of bitter, pinching feeling in my chest.
Hockey’s never really made me happy like that. It’s never made my spirits soar. It’s never made me feel elated, never made me want to jump around and shout in jubilation, giving my teammates high-fives and shit like it makes so many other players do.
Don’t get me wrong. I love hockey. I wouldn’t want to be doing anything else. I couldn’t imagine doing anything else—it’s been a foregone conclusion that hockey would be my future for as long as I can remember.
Playing hockey to me feels right. When I’m in the crease in the middle of a tense game, all my attention concentrated on the tiny black puck, I feel like I’m where I’m supposed to be, where I belong. Everything about the world makes sense.
But it never makes me feel happy. Never makes me feel joy.
Then again, I don’t know if anything does. I know things used to make me feel that way. Back when my mom was around. In my memories she was always happy, and I was always happy when I was with her, no matter what we were doing.
But since she passed when I was a kid, I can’t remember feeling anything like that again.
The kind of belonging, the kind of rightness I feel when I block a shot on goal is the best I can hope for, I guess.
Well, that’s fine with me.
I strip off the rest of my pads and head to the shower. The streams of hot water work out the tension in my muscles. Standing under the spray of the showerhead, I dip my head down and let the hot water soak my hair. With my eyes closed, my mind starts to wander—back to English class yesterday.
After class, I watched a video of Summer performing a Beethoven violin sonata that the music department uploaded last year. Fuck, she made that piece come alive. It seems like I can actually hear the gorgeous notes she wrung from her instrument in my ear right now.
With my eyes closed under the stream of water, I can’t keep myself from thinking about how she looked in class.
Her sleek blonde hair, her emerald eyes, her long, tanned legs, her plush lips, her heart-shaped ass …
I open my eyes to find myself looking straight down at a raging hard-on. Good thing the Brumehill facilities have individual shower stalls.
I push thoughts of Summer from my mind and finish my shower. When I walk back into the changing area with a towel around my waist, most of the other guys are already dressed and ready to leave.
“You hang back to jack off or something?” Tuck jokes.
I roll my eyes and think better of dignifying him with a response.
“We’re all gonna head to Loser’s for a drink,” Lane says to me as he and the guys walk towards the exit. “You in?”
I shrug. “Maybe.”
Loser’s Luck Tavern is a local bar that the guys go to often to hang out. I haven’t been yet, but I’ve heard them talking about it plenty.
I really should go. I’ve never been big into hanging out with my teammates outside of games and practices, but maybe I should change that. Maybe I should put in more of an effort into get to know the guys I’m going to be sharing the ice with, especially since I’ll also be sharing a house with many of them for the next two years.
