Page 2 of Crossing the Top Line

As we head down the highway and through Metairie and into the historic districts, I take in the sights of the skyscrapers against the bright blue cloudless horizon in the distance. I'd grown up here, but things are always changing in this city and it's nice to see how many new buildings have appeared in the time I've been gone.

We skirt around the French Quarter, driving through the residential streets, the corners of my mouth lifting at the sight of the brightly colored shotgun houses. People sit out on their porches, drinking lemonade and iced tea as they socialize with their neighbors after Sunday service. Yeah, it’s good to be home.

As we get closer to our destination, my excitement and anticipation grow like weeds in my gut. I’d only gotten the address to this place a few days ago so I could send my boxes here before I got on the plane. But I knew next to nothing about who I was going to be staying with for at least the next ten months. Would they be veterans, or would they be cocky young players hoping to edge me out of a spot on the main roster and force me down to the farm team?

We pull up to the front of a white house with black hurricane shutters open at every window. Like most houses built after Katrina came through, the main living floor is built up on pylons, with the enclosed ground floor functioning mostly as a garage. There's a massive staircase leading up to the front porch, a covered space with a balcony above it. Sheer curtains hang in the windows, so there’s no good view of the inside from the sidewalk as the valet and I unload the bags. It's situated on a corner lot, a tall fence surrounding the backyard preventing me from seeing anything behind it. There's nothing extraordinary about it in this neighborhood. Most of the houses look the same, though every color of the rainbow is represented up and down the road.

I haul my gear bag up over my shoulder as I mount the stairs, taking them two at a time with another duffel bag in my hand. The valet follows behind with my other bags, huffing and puffing a little at the weight of them. I only brought the essentials, but I know how to pack for travel. Setting my duffel bag down, I open the screen door to knock on the wooden door. But before I can even make contact with my knuckles, it swings wide, and I'm hit with a blast of scent and sound.

Pop music with a strong beat echoes from within the house, loud enough for me to understand every word. But what really catches my attention is the man standing in front of me.

He’s short, maybe five-foot-ten at best, though his broad shoulders and bulging arms give him a brick shithouse quality that demands respect. He’s shirtless, and good God, he’s ripped. His pale skin glistens with sweat, and he’s panting slightly, like he’s trying to catch his breath. But his scent is intense, cool and crisp despite the heat of the day, pine and some sort of berry. An alpha scent, for sure, but mouthwatering even to me.

“Hey! You must be Spencer. Glad you made it. I’m Elijah, but you can call me Eli. Sorry about this. Oli and I were just finishing up our morning workout. Oliver! Our new roomie’s here!” Eli says, speaking first to me before shouting toward the back of the house.

I’m a little stunned at how fast he talks, and the sudden overload of stimulation, but something about this alpha sets me at ease. Maybe it’s his smile, wide enough to show his missing incisor, or the way he’s already talking to me like we’ve been friends for years. Whatever it is, I feel more relaxed in this house after thirty seconds than I did in my old team’s locker room.

“Y’all can work out here?” I ask, spitting out the first coherent sentence that comes to mind. I’d been a little concerned about keeping up my conditioning in the off-season, but if they’ve got a home gym I can use, I wouldn’t have to hunt down a local gym or figure out how to get access to the team facilities.

“Yeah, the team installs gyms in all the houses if you request it,” Eli says offhandedly, still looking toward the kitchen and dining room.

I nod, looking around the house for the first time. There’s a staircase along the right wall, the front door directly at the foot of the landing. The massive living room spans the width of the house, opening into a dining room with an attached kitchen I can see to the right through the open entrance. There’s another hallway behind the kitchen and dining room, which now I can tell is the source of the music. The valet drops the rest of my bags and leaves with a mumbled farewell, but I’m still so absorbed in looking at this house that I barely notice.

Eli scoffs and I catch him rolling his eyes as I turn back to look at him. “His bell got rung one time too many. He’s developed a bad case of selective hearing,” he jokes.

With a chuckle, I shift my gear bag again. Eli notices and jolts forward toward me. His movements are so smooth, and I’m instantly curious about how he skates and plays. I’ve known a handful of short players, mostly when I played at U of Michigan. They were either awkward and clumsy, needing to take two strides to match an average-sized player, or they were faster and slicker than a greased pig escaping a slaughterhouse. He takes a few steps to the kitchen, motioning for me to follow.

“Sorry, here I am chattering away, and you’ve got stuff to put down. Come on. I’ll show you where we store ours,” he says, cheeks flushing.

Before I can forgive him, he’s off, striding toward the back of the house, leaving me with no choice but to follow. The kitchen is clean and modern, with a big fridge and an open pantry to one side. The sink is set into the island with the massive stove behind it. If I cooked anything other than chicken and rice, this would be an amazing setup. I follow Eli down the hall, passing a few closed doors on the way. The music gets louder and louder, but we take a sudden right turn into a closet before the closed door at the very end of the hall.

“When the season starts, we’ll bring our stuff with us when we head out, so don’t worry about taking up too much space,” Eli says, motioning for me to enter.

My brow drops at the comment, but I don’t ask. There’ll be plenty of time to get to know him when I’m not jetlagged. I throw my gear bag onto a shelf adjacent to two other nearly identical bags. But instead of a simple solid black, these are branded with bright teal and purple, a cartoon alligator with a gold crown and Mardi Gras beads around his neck under the logo for the familiar team name.

“Oh shit, y’all play for the Shreveport Krewe?” I ask eagerly, turning back to Eli.

The Krewe is the minor league affiliate to the New Orleans Mystic, playing in the American Hockey League, or AHL. Growing up, I’d follow some of my favorite players as they worked their way through the “system,” getting drafted, playing for the Krewe for a season or two for development before finally landing on the main roster. My mother and I made a handful of trips upstate to watch them play, maybe once a season if her client schedule allowed it. Their games weren’t televised, but I loved listening to the calls on my portable radio.

Elijah nods. “Hoping to get a spot on the Mystic this year. Hence the training,” he replies, jerking his chin toward the closed door at the end of the hall.

I bite back my reply, nodding awkwardly. I turn away, taking my time to get my bag onto a shelf to avoid eye contact. Naturally, there are only so many roster slots on a team: twelve forwards, six defensemen, two goalies, and a few extra skaters in case of injuries. A maximum of twenty-three opportunities to play with and against the best of the best hockey players in the world. I may have been traded here, but my spot isn’t a guarantee. I would never actively root against a teammate, but I know how it feels to be sent down to the minor leagues after trying everything in your power to do what the coaches ask. And I’m not eager to go through that again anytime soon.

“Let me show you your room. I’m sure you’re tired after that flight. What time did they make you get up?” Eli says, covering the awkward silence with that gap-toothed smile of his.

“Too fucking early, man. It’s still, like, four in the morning there,” I reply, following behind as he turns and heads back down the hallway, away from the gear closet.

“Time zones are a bitch, aren’t they,” Eli laughs. “I’m always fucked up for days after I get back from visiting my family.”

“Where are you from?”

“Sweden. I played in the Liiga for a few years before making the switch to the US,” Eli replies over his shoulder as we jog up the stairs.

“No shit,” I say, a chuckle under my words. “Your English is amazing.”

Eli smiles at me as we hit the second story landing. “Thanks. This one’s yours. Mine’s over here, and Oli’s is at the end there. If you want to crash for a few hours before dinner…”

He trails off, and even though I told myself I wouldn’t, a yawn hits me out of nowhere. I’ve been running on adrenaline for almost twenty-four straight hours, and I’m really feeling it now.

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