Page 19 of Ice, Ice… Maybe?

“Will do.”

Hours later,Travis was shoveling in another carb-laden meal, downing more water, and watching the screen blankly, visualizing the plays that the coach wanted them to use and taping his stick. He wasn’t alone. Theo was beside him, taping his stick and muttering under his breath in French. Gerry was on the opposite bench, humming pop music before giving a little dance while seated and going back to taping. One of the guys was reading a passage in the Bible while Dustin had his eyes shut, leaning against the lockers, almost trance-like, and trying to get that last bit of rest before they started warming up.

They all had their routines, praying for luck, knowing it was skill that would get them to victory.It never hurt to pad their chances,he thought, snapping the tape to change color. His stick was taped white to keep it from being seen easily against the ice, but he was putting one red line on it, hoping to make it distinguishable so he could point out a play to Becca later if he made it on a sports recap.

“Let’s go!” the coach yelled out, yelling all sorts of things at them and slapping them on the shoulders as they passed him at the doorway. Just making his way forward gave Travis a rush. Each player erupted onto the ice as the crowd went wild.

He loved playing a home game because the adoration pouring out of the stands was incredible. He skated around the rink easily, starting to warm up his legs and working the crowd. Gerry was standing there, raising his hands up, encouraging them to yell as an intimidation factor for the other team. They all knew they were listening because it was exactly what he would be doing if it was an away game.

Their names were called out, and each man worked the audience – including Travis. He pretended it was the last game, that Becca was in the stands watching him, and yanked off his helmet, waved at the camera, smiling, and winked for the ladies. His agent loved that move because the fans did – and what the fans wanted, they got.

Every. Single. Time.

“Tete du cochon, leave some for de’rest of us – eh?” Theo laughed, moving to his side and curling a bulky arm around his neck playfully – also working the camera and blowing kisses. Yeah, they all knew that their pocketbooks were controlled by the fickle fans who loved you one game and hated you the next.

Miss a shot? You were dog meat.

Score a goal, the fans loved you once again.

Travis waved an arm, smiled, and then pointed as Gerry moved to join them. The man’s shaggy blond hair was nearly as long as his and reminded him of Thor, whereas Theo had closely cropped black hair. The trio were nearly inseparable and covered each other on the ice.

“Arrêt don…”Theo growled, and Gerry laughed, reaching past Travis to rub the other man’s shorn head.

“Let the lettuce grow, bro. Ladies love the hair…”

Theo slung several phrases at him, laughing, and pushed Gerry’s arm away. The crowd was eating it up, hollering wildly, and the cameras were swinging in their direction. Oh yes, they loved the camaraderie between them for now.

It was always ‘for now.’

Nothing was permanent. Someone could get traded, benched, or make a bad play, and it could happen anytime. That’s why they took care of each other, relied on each other, riding this wave as long as they could. They didn’t cuss, not like the other players did; they’d stopped sleeping around and getting trashed at the bars – all of it. It had been Gerry’s idea after Travis’s car wreck.

“I wanna be an inspiration to some kid – not a warning.”

Those words struck home in so many ways. Theo was going through a nasty divorce at the time and now had custody of his son. Gerry had an ex-girlfriend turn down his engagement ring because she was embarrassed to take him home to her mother. They each had their reasons, and it was rubbing off on the rest of the team, making them the sweethearts of the NHL. Everyone enjoyed a bad boy image, but the crowd really adored the ‘golden boy’ image more.

And his team had several of them now – except Dustin. He heard the crowd roar, and sure enough, the goalie was hitting the ice and stretching. It was nearly obscene as he was sliding his knees up, warming up the ligaments and joints for the abuse that was about to occur. He never understood how that man could slam to his knees, splayed sideways, repeatedly – and still walk at the end of the season.

Travis heard laughter behind him as several of the other players rushed them, hopping into the limelight and working the camera. Everyone was there, posing, waving, blowing kisses. Oh yes, Coyotes were the media’s sweethearts in one way or another - and it was wonderful.

The horn sounded, and Theo yelled out beside him, shaking his stick in the air.

“Let’s gooooo!”

An hour later,Travis was covered in sweat and breathing hard. He was slapping his stick on the ice in a threatening manner, waiting for the signal to go for the puck – and heard Theo mouthing beside him, as usual.

“Eh, Thibodeaux?” Theo began and Travis winced, chancing a glance at Gerry on the other side of the man with the mouth. Gerry rolled his eyes in silent understanding. Why on earth did Theo have to pick the biggest player to harass every single time?“Dis à ta mère that she was wrong – the rashiscontagious- tres malade! Espèce de garçon stupide…”

”Whoa, boy, look at this burlesque beast. We’ve got ourselves a Buffet Bandit o’er here. Ain’t no Shrinky-Dink, unless we are talking about… ” Gerry held up his pinky finger and wagged it, causing several of the men to laugh around them.

Travis froze as the player from the other team straightened up, nearly six inches taller than any of them – and a good eighty pounds heavier.

“I’m not dumb – and I speak French. So, who’s the dumb one now, Batiste,” the man smarted back – and Travis immediately elbowed Theo, silently telling him to let it go.

No such luck.

“Tu me l'as sûrement montré, crétin…”Theo laughed boldly, bucking up to the bigger man like it was nothing. The dude was almost a foot taller than Theo, but his temper made up for that.

“Craaaap, Theo,” Travis hissed under his breath as the man’s face grew dark, and he flung off his gloves onto the ice. He knew ‘crétin’ meant ‘moron’ – and obviously so did Thibodeaux.

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