Page 26 of Body Check

When Josh Kammer moves past me, I call him out. “Sit with me, rookie.”

His eyes shoot to the back of the bus and then down at the aisle seat next to mine. “Yeah?” He sounds hesitant, uncertain. Fingers dive into his shorn hair, scratching behind his ear. “That cool?”

“It’s cool if I say it is.”

“Right.” His ass collides with the seat, knees pinned together like he’s scared shitless and trying to make himself disappear into thin air. Doesn’t make his case any stronger when he wrings his hands and picks at his nails, head down like he’s fascinated with the skin flaking off.

With my gaze on the seat in front of me, I give him a second to get a grip. Kammer was a first-round draft pick out of Rhode Island—a rookie that Coach, our GM, and I envisioned completing a power forward that could do real damage on the ice, alongside myself and Hunt, should something happen to Henri Bordeaux.

At URI, Kammer was quick on his feet, a player with little fear and a knack for making filthy moves that made the crowd roar with approval. Tonight, I didn’t see any of that potential the team doled out so much money for. It’s a problem. Kammer’s contract is worth more than many veterans’ and all eyes are on him to make that same magic happen for the Blades as he did for his alma mater.

“You played sloppy tonight,” I finally murmur, not wanting to level him down to the quick by being brutally honest. Being brutally honest? Kammer was a damn pigeon out on the ice, always waiting to be fed the puck instead of making those same moves that earned him a spot on the team in the first place.

He’s quiet for a moment, still fidgeting in his seat. “We won, Cap.”

At his defensive tone, I set my ankle on my opposite knee, then lace my fingers over my shin. Casual to the very end. I learned long ago that yelling got me nowhere. What’s that saying? Patience is a virtue? I’m an impulsive man in every aspect of life but with my team.

I tap my fingers on my leg. “Wrong answer, kid.” His head jerks in my direction, and I lift a brow, daring him to challenge me. “Want to try again without the pissy attitude?”

“I’m just saying,” he mutters, “wewonand it’s preseason. I’ll do better next time.”

“There won’t be a next time if you show up like you did tonight.” When he opens his mouth to argue, I stampede right over him: “Part of being a team is transparency. If you’re nervous, say so. If your ankle feels like Satan just took a piss on it, mention it to John over in therapy. What you did tonight was stand there and skate like you’ve never played hockey before. The team won, but you didn’t touch the puck once.”

“Sometimes players don’t get the biscuit. It happens—”

“Russell needed you to make an assist and you watched the puck fly past you.”

His shoulders crumple at my mention of the second-line right-winger, my backup. “Fuck, Cap, I just—”

I don’t pat his arm or hug him like I’m some mother hen tending to her chicks, but I do him one better. Shifting my hands from my shin to my knee, I say, “My first game with the NHL, I threw up in the locker room during our pep talk. I was so fuckin’ nervous. I envisioned everything going wrong that could go wrong—me slipping when climbing over the boards, the Jumbotron catching me eating the bench when I wiped out. Anything and everything went through my head and I let that shit get to me.”

“Youpuked?”

He sounds absolutely horrified, and I chuckle. “Right on the floor. Didn’t even make it to the garbage can. You can ask my wi”—I clear my throat—“ex-wife when you see her. I’m sure she’d be all too happy to relay how I made a fool of myself.”

Kammer’s hands loosen and land on his thighs. “What’d your coach say?”

“Told me to clean the shit up while the rest of my team went out for the National Anthem. I was on my knees, trying not to hurl some more, while they were all out there, hands over their hearts and ready to play a killer game.”

He whistles sharply. “Damn, that blows.”

It’d been even worse when I finally got my ass to my team. I felt queasy, looked like shit, and proceeded to play the worst hockey of my career. “My coach benched me for the first three games of the season.”

This time, Kammer says nothing and I can almost hear the wheels spinning in his head, no doubt worrying thatI’mabout to bench him right now. End of the day, Coach Hall makes the final decision on who plays or doesn’t play, but I’ve got input and I’ve always had more control with the playbook than I’ve seen of other captains and their coaches.

The bus’s engine hums to life, then rolls forward without further delay. The guys fuck around behind us, talking about darts and puck bunnies and the seven-motherfucking-goals they scored tonight.

I tip my head back. “I’m not gonna tell Coach to bench you, kid. You’d only be more nervous when you came back.” It’d been that way for me. My first season with the Bruins had been an up-and-down relationship that could have been a showcase for a new TV show, When Jackson Carter Loses Everything. It’d resulted in me being traded to the Dallas Stars before, miracle of all miracles, the Bruins signed me back on after I got my ass in line. “You need to get the nerves out of your system while it’s preseason because if you pull this shit during an actual game, you’ll find yourself on the farm team so fast you won’t even know what happened. This is our year to win the Cup, and you’re either leading the pack with your line or you’re the anchor around our neck that we need to cut loose. Which one is it going to be?”

“I want to be a part of the pack, Cap.”

“Then go back to the hotel and find tonight’s game online. Analyze every time you screwed up and be prepared to tell me everythin’ you did wrong when we’re back at practice in two days.”

“But the guys are going out—”

“Not the rookies.” I gesture for him to vacate the seat. “Y’all don’t have the luxury of wings and beer and pussy until you’re not slowing us down on the ice and letting two shots on the net go unchecked.” I leave out mention of Harrison’s pity goal; the Mountain has been in the NHL longer than I have and I’m not about to call him to task. “Send me Kase.”

Grumbling, Kammer clambers to his feet. Throws me a glance as he turns for the back of the bus. “The guys are right,” he grunts, “you’re a fucking hard-ass.”

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