Page 4 of Crossing the Top Line

I come to a stop just outside of arm’s reach of him, but even then, I still get a lungful of his scent. Black pepper, cherry wood, and a hint of metallic blood. Some might call that a barbecue, but the two-packs-a-day cigarette stench that covers it ruins whatever charm the alpha might have. It doesn’t help that he always tries to stretch his spine as tall as it will go, probably as a reminder of how beneath him he thinks I am. Which is a weird flex. I’m five-foot-six; I’m used to being the shortest person in the room, especially if that room is full of hockey players.

“You excited to see the Mystic back out on the ice?” I ask, hoping my smile reads as genuine rather than a cry for help.

Mark grunts. “If they’re anything like they were last year, no.”

I stop myself from rolling my eyes, which I think should qualify me for the Nobel Peace Prize. “We’ve made some big moves over the summer. And most of our prospects are looking like they might be ready—”

“One trade, an unproven college coach, and a few over-hyped minor leaguers aren’t anything to write home about, sweetheart,” Mark cuts in, laughing at his own joke.

I swallow my urge to remind him that I’m not his “sweetheart” and where he could shove that patronizing tone. Instead, I manage a skeptical hum before making a hasty exit. I could argue stats all day, telling him about how well our prospects did last season and McQueen’s insane record for churning out first-round draft picks, but I know better than to waste my breath. Henderson is still mad that the league made boarding a penalty, and calls games with over eight goals scored “boring” because no one dropped the gloves.

As I make my way to the executive box, I scan my badge again and settle into my seat in the front row. I’m the only one from our team in here today, everyone else scattered around the arena with cameras and other recording equipment. Pulling out my laptop, I set it on the small table I’d requested for this exact purpose. With a click on the group chat I’d formed for my little team, it’s time to check in with Rachel and Monroe.

Me: In position. How’s it going out there?

Rachel: Coach vetoed the mic today, but we’ll get it later this week.

I frown. Putting a mic onto players during practices is one of the fans’ favorite pieces of content. I understand McQueen wanting to keep his team focused, but he has to work with us. I make a note for myself to find him after practice today and see if I can talk him into it.

Monroe: Players are coming out. Got some good shots from the tunnel.

I check my watch and grin despite myself. A tad early, but I can’t blame them. Ducks belong in a pond, and hockey players belong on ice. There’s a small but significant cheer as players spill out from the locker room tunnel and onto the ice, taking off immediately to start their warmup. I take a quick picture of the ice before pulling up my cross-posting app.

@NOLAhockey: We’re back, baby! First day of training camp and we’re off to the races!

I attach the photo and hit publish, taking care to mute my notifications. I’ll reply to messages and posts later, but I don’t want to be distracted right now.

There’s always something beautiful about watching experts performing their craft, and hockey players are no exception. These men have spent years honing their bodies into machines with the sole purpose of competing at the highest level of their chosen sport. It’s like watching ballerinas spin and leap effortlessly, but in this case, it’s peak physical specimens in pads and knives on their feet maneuvering around a block of frozen water.

I recognize a few guys right away, but there are over forty players out there right now, so I don’t bother trying to catalogue them all. Dallas Young sticks out like a beanstalk, still the tallest guy on the team. But there’s a new contender for the shortest player, competing with the previous record holder Owen Leblanc. I know Spencer Black is out there, but it’s easy to shift my focus away from trying to find him for the moment.

I check my inbox and answer messages from local and national journalists, doing my best to be optimistic and vague simultaneously. It’s hard to make any predictions at this stage because the team isn’t set in stone. Sure, there’s going to be a certain group of veteran players that are all but guaranteed to make the team, but there are still a few spots up for grabs. And no one knows what Logan McQueen will bring to the table and which guys he’s going to keep around or waive.

But my Spencer-free streak ends abruptly as Monroe sends me the photos he took from the tunnel. It’s more than two dozen, all perfectly framed and cinematic as hell. Monroe might be the best photographer we have on staff, which feels like a blessing and a curse right now.

The fourth picture in the slideshow smacks me like a brick to the face. My memories of Spencer Black are hazy and coated with pheromones, and I’d talked myself into believing there was no way that he could be as beautiful as I remember him. But with clear-headed photographic evidence in front of me, I have to admit I was wrong. Jet-black hair slicked back from his face and curling slightly at the ends that my fingers remember feeling like silk. Eyes like sapphires, deep blue and glittering with hidden danger and excitement. His cheekbones and jaw are sharp enough to cut glass, and his lips... God, I thought I’d imagined how kissable his mouth was.

He's aged like fine wine. And I fucking hate him for it.

As I look up from my laptop, it takes me no time to find him on the ice. The team is stretching in rings around center ice, listening as McQueen talks from the center. I don’t recognize the players on either side of Spencer, except the shorter man I’d taken notice of earlier but still can’t name. It’s impossible to see his face at this distance, but I can almost picture the stern set of concentration and focus.

I shake myself from his spell, turning back to Monroe’s message. I reluctantly save Spencer’s picture, as well as shots of Jari Hakala and Dallas Young, two of the more popular players from last season. Dallas, especially, has been the subject of a lot of speculation since the Tristan King trade. King was the team captain last year, but the spot is wide open now that he’s gone. A lot of people think Dallas is next in line, and I’m inclined to agree with them, though never from the official team accounts. Jari was the primary goalie last season, and a few clutch saves late in the season to spoil other teams’ chances at the playoffs turned him into the next coming of Jesus Christ with the fans.

A sizable portion of my job as the social media manager is pandering to the masses, which I’m glad to do if it keeps people engaged. But the other half is convincing them not to sell their tickets for pennies on the dollar on the secondary market. And I’ll be damned if my own personal problems keep me from doing my job. So, despite how much it pains me to stare at Spencer’s stupidly beautiful face, I polish up the picture and post it along with the others I’d selected. And the response is almost immediate.

People haven’t been this excited about a player acquisition since we drafted Tristan King four years ago. But this narrative is twice as enticing as that one. Tristan King might have been billed as the next Wayne Gretzky, but Spencer Black grew up going to Mystic games. We’d even found old photos of him as a chubby-cheeked kid sitting in the front row at games, ocean eyes wide and full of dreams. And with us bringing in Logan McQueen, Spencer’s college coach and former Mystic player himself, the hype train has left the station.

So, after I post that shot of Spencer, the replies and likes come flooding in. Fans welcoming him home. Childhood friends jumping out of the woodwork to sing his praises. And best of all, people saying they’re actually excited for hockey season for the first time in a long time.

And it’s those responses that settle my anxious stomach. I’ve put so much blood, sweat, and tears into getting people excited enough about hockey in New Orleans over the last six years. And if Spencer Black being here is what will bring people back to fill the seats on game night, then so be it.

Iwakeuptothe sound of a fist pounding on my door, pulling me out of a rather pleasant dream, if I do say so myself. I can’t remember the details, especially over the sound of the door rattling on its hinges, but I know there was chocolate syrup and multiple tongues involved.

“Wakey, wakey, eggs and bac-ey,” a sing-song voice calls through the wood slab, and it takes me a moment to place it as belonging to Spencer.

I roll over with a groan, checking the time on my phone before flopping back against the pillows. Great. My new roommate is a morning person.

“I’m up. Jesus, you’re going to break it down if you keep that up,” I shout, which thankfully stops the incessant hammering.

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