Page 30 of On the Power Play

Something had definitely shifted since the night before, and he was working to grasp the scope of it. Would it all blow over in a day or two? A week? It would have to die down at some point since he had no intention of stoking the fire with more photo ops. His time with Delia Melise was a one and done.

Jack walked down the hall, then pushed through the doors into the dressing room. Instead of being met with André powdering his balls on the bench, there was low chatter humming beneath pump-up music. The dressing room itself was pristine. Better than the facility in Springbank, which was saying something.

There were spacious, personalized lockers for each player, constructed from polished wood instead of cheap metal. His name plate wasn't up yet, but their manager had assured him multiple times it was coming. The floors were covered with durable, non-slip rubber matting instead of bare concrete, and to one side, there was a large, logo-emblazoned carpet with the Blizzard's emblem. Besides the state-of-the-art speakers, there was a high-tech video system set up for game analysis and strategy sessions, a medical and training room with the latest in rehabilitation equipment, and a nutrition center. Since he worked a full-time job, he had yet to take advantage of any of it.

Jack wound his way through the equipment and half-dressed players to his spot.

"Hey, Jack. Good to see you." Nathan Pelletier put out a fist, and Jack bumped it before setting his gear down on the bench.

"Good weekend?"

Nathan nodded. "Chill. Spent it with the wife and kids." At twenty-seven, he was two years younger than Jack and already had a three-year-old and a six-month-old baby. "You?" Before Jack could answer, he snorted. "I'm sorry, I can't do it, bud. I was going to try and play it cool, but you have to tell me how you met Delia."

The second the word "Delia" left his lips, hoots and hollers sounded out through the room along with "Robbing the cradle, eh, bud?" and "Did you smash?"

Jack's ribs ratcheted around his lungs. "My sister's a huge fan. She was nice enough to say hi to us after her show."

"I didn't see your sister in the picture," Monahan, the Blizzard’s center noted, and Jack wanted to pinch himself to make sure this was real. His NHL heroes were standing there in the dressing room digging for information on his night?

"Was she the Karen chewing you out, bud?" Lindholm asked.

Tkachuk grunted as he pulled on his pads. "Are you a fan of her music?"

"No, that was Delia’s friend, and yes, I think her music’s great." Jack turned to unzip his bag, ignoring the groans of his teammates. He knew what he'd have to do to keep their attention, but the idea of saying anything else about Delia when he'd talked with her for a total of forty minutes seemed asinine. Maybe they had the luxury of getting distracted by a pretty face, but Jack didn't. Coaches and management were watching him like a hawk at practices and games, and he had to look his best out there.

He dressed on autopilot as banter swirled around him, catching bits and pieces about the threesome Nils Johanssen had on Saturday with best friends he met at the Stampede last summer. They were either from Amsterdam or loved to visit Amsterdam. Or wanted to pretend Calgary was Amsterdam for the night. Either way, Nils was a big fan.

"How did you meet up with her, though?" Monahan’s voice cut through the machismo as Jack pulled on his jersey.

He grunted. "Happened to stand next to her publicist. Someone asked for my autograph, and he recognized me." Even without signing the contract, he was lying for that girl.

“And you went out for dinner?”

Jack replayed Delia laughing as he made a mess of his taco. “Yeah, everyone was starving after the show.”

Nathan chuckled. “Keeping it low-key. I get it.”

“There’s nothing to?—”

“I get it, bud.” He patted Jack’s shoulder, then sat to lace his skates.

There was no good explanation for why he wouldn’t be trying to pursue a famous singer, so he didn’t bother pushing it. Instead, he finished getting dressed while trying to keep his mind from launching into comparisons between him and the other wingers on the team.

Lindholm, with his electrifying pace, had been a first-round pick, twelfth overall, in the 2021 draft. Last season, he boasted an impressive tally of twenty-four goals and thirty assists, but his defensive game still needed work

Then there was Owen Monahan, drafted in the second round, thirty-fifth overall in 2019. He’d become known for his physicality, amassing two hundred hits in the last season alone. His offensive numbers were modest with fifteen goals and twenty assists, but his plus-minus stood at +12.

Liam MacDonald, the latest addition, was chosen eighteenth overall in the most recent draft. His rookie year had been a roller coaster, but he managed to notch ten goals and fifteen assists, a respectable start with a plus-minus of -2. If the last six weeks were any sign, though, Liam’s career was on the backslide. He’d been showing up late to practice. Getting less ice time. Jack had never shirked his responsibilities, but he couldn’t help but see something of himself in the kid.

After a brief team meeting with Coach Novak and Assistant Coach Kreviasuk, the Blizzard charged down the tunnel to the ice. Practice kicked off with speed drills, then endurance conditioning. Jack leaned into the burn, glad to have a reason not to be in his head.

They moved into passing drills, and Jack dug in to keep up. Lindholm and MacDonald were fast. Strong. He was used to playing with the Snowballs, and while Tyler, Sean, and Country had intensity, they were ten years older than the guys here. Jack had to push, and it felt good.

It also scared the hell out of him. One dream game wasn’t enough to clinch his spot on the team, especially since the player he was replacing wasn’t out permanently. He had to start putting up stats. ASAP.

The whistle sliced across the arena as they circled up for a scrimmage.

“Harrison!” Coach Kreviasuk called from the boards. "Management needs a minute.”

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