Page 7 of Crossing the Top Line

Isinkintoanice bath after the fifth day of training camp, the last for this week, hissing and wincing at the sudden frigid shock to my system. I thought I remembered what kind of coach Logan McQueen was, but it turns out my brain blocked out most of it as a defense mechanism. The part of my mind that retained enough of my mother’s psychobabble from my childhood might call it a trauma response if I didn’t consider those my best years of hockey.

The last few days have been brutal, worse than anything I’d gone through with the Wardens. Skating drills, stickhandling, scrimmages, shot blocking, more skating drills, over and over again leaving the team drenched in sweat and covered in bruises every night.

“Dude, you told us McQueen was chill,” Owen Leblanc, a fellow forward, groans from the tub next to me.

Several grunts of agreement echo around the room, with guys in various positions of misery. Some are on the floor rolling out sore muscles, others are sitting with ice packs pressed against joints, and a few others are sprawled out on the floor, towels over their faces.

“He must have done a summer course with the CIA’s interrogation team,” Wyatt Hughes, one of the defensemen with an ice pack, complains.

“No. KGB,” Evgeny Petrov grunts, his words thickly accented. He doesn’t even bother to remove the towel from his eyes when he speaks.

All of us let out grumbles of agreement with varying degrees of enthusiasm. I focus on my breathing, letting the cold ease my sore muscles for the few minutes I have in here. I can admit that this week has been rough, but the reward is worth it. Being back out on the ice, playing hockey, is worth whatever torture Logan McQueen could put me through. And even better, we’d received the list of guys who are getting sent down to Shreveport just a few minutes ago. Neither my name, nor the names of my roommates were on it.

I’m surprised I’m as relieved over their continued presence, especially with the less-than-stellar welcome I’d received when I’d first arrived. But whatever had crawled up Oli’s ass must have finally vacated, because he’s been a different person these last couple of days. And the change in attitude has migrated onto the ice, which is a new experience for me. It’s not that my previous linemates were terrible or anything, but whenever I’m put on a line with Oli, Eli, or both of them, it’s like something clicks into place. I can anticipate their movements easier, and we rarely need more than a few words to communicate across the ice.Chemistryis what the talking heads behind their desks would call it, but I’d call it a match made in hockey heaven.

“Y’all, listen up,” a deep voice calls from the doorway, jerking me out of my thoughts.

We all look up to see Dallas leaning through the frame. His medium brown hair is still damp from his shower, a towel wrapped around his narrow waist. I know better than to judge someone’s skill based on appearances, but it’s hard to remember that when looking at this string bean. I don’t know how he takes hits when I’m not entirely convinced a strong breeze wouldn’t knock him on his ass.

“I’m having a gathering at my place tomorrow afternoon. We’re grilling and there’s gonna be a boil. Consider yourselves officially invited, but it’s BYOB,” Dallas says, his words clipped and efficient despite his friendly smile.

“Aw, come on, Tex,” Owen groans before climbing out of his ice bath.

“Hey, last time I supplied the booze, I had to get a new fence put in. If you want to argue about it, you can talk to Ashley yourself,” Dallas fires back.

Owen swallows, but doesn’t reply. I’d only heard about Ashley in passing when Dallas talked about her, but the lack of objections speaks volumes.

My timer goes off, and I pull myself out of the water with stiff arms. I shake off the few cubes that stick to my skin before stalking off toward the showers.

I’m in the backseat of Oliver’s truck and about halfway home when our phones ping in unison again. Thankfully, it’s not anything from Coach, but Dallas sending out his address for tomorrow.

“We’ve never been invited to team-building stuff before,” Elijah says into the silence of the cab.

I hum a curious noise, though I’m realizing even that courtesy isn’t always necessary with Eli. He’ll talk anyone’s ear off with no provocation. And, as I’ve realized this week, he’s the same chatterbox on the ice as he is off. I pride myself on my poker face when I’m in the faceoff circle, but any time I’m up against him, he tests the limits of my control. More than once, he’s said something so out of pocket that I’ve missed the puck drop entirely, and then I have to scramble to get my head back in the game.

“Yeah, we’re usually on our way back to the Krewe before anything like this happens. But this is good news, right? We made it through the first round of cuts, and we’re going to the captain’s house for a cookout?” he goes on.

“I suppose, but there’re still a few too many guys in the locker room. Now if we get invited to something next weekend, I’ll be more optimistic,” Oliver replies coolly.

I tune them out as a new notification comes through, this time from one of the team’s social media accounts. I’ve followed the team on this particular app since before I was ever drafted, and I love the direction it’s taken in the last few years. Whoever is running it is hilarious, always sassy and snarky when replying to trolls, but genuinely enthusiastic about the team when it matters. It seems like today they’re in an especially punchy mood.

@NOLAhockey: Caption this. We’ll go first: “His WHAT was HOW BIG?!”

The photo is a candid shot of Oliver from practice, eyes wide and mouth slightly agape as he looks at Dallas, who’s partially cropped out of the frame, but one hand is up like he’s showing the size of the last fish he caught. I didn’t catch this moment in person, but the out of context photo is amazing and the fans are eating it up. It’s only been a few minutes, but there’s already a couple dozen likes and replies. And the team account is interacting with them, too, acting more like a friend than a professional sports account.

I pause for a moment, fingers hovering above the keys, before inspiration strikes.

@spence_black_27: “Wait, Coach’s shit list is THAT long?”

I laugh to myself as I post the reply, rather pleased with myself. If I’d done something like that with the Wardens, I would be doing burpees from now until opening day. Insubordination was only tolerated from the marquee players, and I certainly was never on that list. But Logan and I go way back, and I know he can take a joke.

My phone pings again as replies come in on my post, mostly from fans gassing me up and telling me that I’m the funniest man to walk the earth. I like a few just to keep up the illusion, but I know better than to let them go to my ego. Fans will say anything to get your attention, but it’s especially dangerous to let a certain type get too close. I’ve known too many players who’ve been trapped into sham bonds and marriages by bunnies who want their fifteen minutes of fame.

But a new reply comes in, this time from the team account.

@NOLAhockey: and where do you rank on the list, BlackJack?

I furrow my brow. No one’s called me that nickname since college. I’d gained the moniker in the school paper after a series of lucky goals and Hail Mary breakaways. I don’t remember all the coverage, but I’d only been able to shake the nickname after a few less-than-stellar years in San Franscico. No one wanted to cover the kid on the fourth line who couldn’t score more than twenty points, and only threw the occasional punch.

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