Page 56 of In Too Deep

Dallas has had to take him aside once or twice to talk to him about his behavior making people uncomfortable. There haven’t been any incidents when we’re on the ice, but in the locker room between periods, it gets weird. Coach isn’t the type to give overly dramatic or impassioned speeches. His insights are concise, actionable instructions for what he needs us to do once we’re back out there. But Kieran tries to add unhelpful hype and criticism, that one, is uncalled for, and two, is often wrong. I think the only reason Logan tolerates it is because he knows Oli will be back soon and then he can send Leroy back to Shreveport.

Spencer turns and gives Kieran a tight-lipped smile, which is more diplomatic than I’m currently feeling. Leroy’s beta scent of butter and toasted bread drifts down, making my nose twitch. His perfume probably appeals to someone, but to me, he just smells bland.

“Hey. What’s up?” Spencer asks, not showing any discomfort in his voice.

“Did you see that video I sent you? Wasn’t that cool?” he asks.

Spencer and I share a glance, not answering right away. Kieran has been sending us social media videos of random guys doing insane stick handling tricks and nonsensical puck juggling moves since he was called up. It only took a few games to realize that he keeps trying to pull off those same moves in a game, not realizing that the only reason those maneuvers work is because there aren’t two to six guys actively trying to stop you from putting that puck in the back of the net. He’s had his stick bashed, or the puck picked out from between his legs more than once, and it’s cost us.

“Yeah. It was cool. But—”

“I know, right?” Kieran interjects, cutting off Spencer’s attempt to make him see reason. “The way he dekes and wraps around is so slick.”

“Those moves are cool, but we’re not playing pond hockey,” I say, maybe a little harsher than I would have liked, but it gets his attention.

Kieran blinks, genuinely confused. “They’re not out on a lake doing them.” He misses the point entirely.

I swallow a frustrated growl. Is this what Coach has to put up with when Spencer, Oli, and I pull off some sort of unpracticed move? Surely, it can’t be, because our tricks actually work and usually result in a goal.

“Try it at practice, then. You want to work out the kinks before the game,” Spencer says.

I stare at the side of his head, not sure what’s come over him. But it makes Kieran happy enough to punch his fist in the air and sit back down. When Spencer finally looks back at me, he gives me a wink, and my frown turns into a wicked grin.

I settle back into my seat, suddenly very excited about our practice today.

The Oilers’ practice facility has seen better days, to put it mildly. The carpet lining the hallway from the locker room to the ice is threadbare, hardly able to serve its purpose to protect our skates. Their showers don’t get hotter than room temperature, and a persistent stench of sweat lingers throughout the building. I hope the rumor of a new facility being built is true, because Jesus Christ on a motorbike, do they need one.

The only quality thing here is the ice. It’s level, even, and smooth, with game-quality markings and nets for visiting teams to use. It’s one of the few comforts we have on the road: the militant adherence to the rules about ice maintenance, so there’sno unfair advantages come game time. Routine is good for us, especially at the start of this week-and-a-half road trip. By the end of it, I imagine most guys are going to be crawling the walls and ornery as hell, but long periods away are the sacrifice we have to make if we want to spend two and a half weeks at home during Mardi Gras, a privilege no other team in the league gets.

Stretches and warmups go smoothly, but I keep glancing at Spencer as we move into our drills. When our eyes connect, there’s a flash of something mischievous in his returning smile. We both know what’s coming, even if Kieran doesn’t. Coach is tense, has been since we arrived. He’d smelled of scent-blocking soaps when he passed us in the hallway earlier, which fooled everyone else. But Spencer and I know better. He spent the night with Tori, and his sour demeanor today is probably because he hardly got any sleep. Which I totally understand, having been in that position before.

But unlike me, Logan doesn’t appear to be able to compensate for lack of sleep with caffeine and willpower, and he’s making it everyone’s problem. I’m tempted to tease him about needing “old man” sleep time, but I think Tori would like my cock and balls still attached to my body. And while we’ve seen him grouchy before, Logan is on a special level today; his corrections are short and oozing with irritation, and he’s growling and using his alpha bark more than I think I’ve ever witnessed. Everyone with basic situational awareness can sense that today is not a day to test him.

Kieran, however, appears to have the emotional intelligence of a kumquat and the observational powers of the three blind mice in a sensory deprivation tank.

“I’m gonna do it. Watch,” Kieran mutters as we line up for zone entry and scoring drills.

“Are you sure?” I ask, hoping against hope that maybe he’ll wise up and not push Coach when he’s already on the edge.

Kieran doesn’t listen, taking off with Nathan Tremblay and Riku Janecyk once the whistle sounds. I grit my teeth and brace for the inevitable crash and burn.

Nate and Riku pass back and forth as they exit the defensive zone, everything going smoothly. Max Petterson and Caleb Parker skate backward, practicing a three-on-two defense. Once play shifts through the neutral zone and into the offensive zone, that’s when things fall apart. Riku passes cross ice behind Nate, the puck perfectly placed to land on Kieran’s stick. But then, in what I can only describe as a flailing of limbs, Kieran lifts the puck off the ice on the blade of his stick, spinning it vertically to keep it balanced as he moves it around his back before he spins. It’s like watching a car wreck in slow motion as Kieran focuses entirely in pulling off his “move,” forgetting about the opposing defensemen between him and the goal. Caleb’s eye roll is obvious even from forty feet away, and in one smooth flick of the wrist, he knocks Kieran’s stick out of his hands and takes the puck back up the ice.

Coach blows his whistle, and everyone freezes instantly. The clatter of Kieran’s stick on the ice is the only sound in the building, but once it comes to a stop, I swear no one is even daring to breathe. Some of us are staring at Kieran, a quick glance around revealing matchingwhat the fuck were you thinking?expressions, while the majority of my teammates are looking at Logan, waiting. At first, Logan’s shoulders are all that moves, rising and falling as he attempts to take deep breaths. But with each cycle, his deep, unsettling growl gets louder. Sounding closer to an alligator’s bellow, it’s unlike any noise I’ve ever heard coming out of a human being.

When Logan finally looks up, he snaps forward, a stark reminder that, not long ago, he was a star hockey player in his prime. His gloves fly off in opposite directions as he takes smooth, powerful strides, my jaw dropping slightly at the sightof his perfect form. He’s across the ice with his fist in Leroy’s practice jersey before any of us can react, and has Kieran pressed against the glass before we can take two strides. I didn’t think Kieran was particularly short, but compared to Logan’s massive frame, the rookie looks exactly like the teenager he is.

“What the fuck was going through your goddamn head, trying shit like that on my ice?” Logan shouts, shaking Kieran slightly.

Coach doesn’t shout at his players, or shout much at all. Maybe if he’s arguing with an official and needs to be heard over the noise of the arena, but never in true anger. So to see how red his face is getting, and how loud he’s being, makes my heart thump harder. I glance at Spencer, my brow pulling down at the expression of glee pulling at his cheeks. Another glance around, and I find he’s not the only one. Tex looks rather smug, and so does Paul Francisco, and the Pair of Ovs. It’s hard to tell what Kala is feeling with his goalie mask pulled down, but his relaxed posture speaks for itself.

“I was just trying—”

Kieran’s objection dies on a cough as Logan pulls him away from the boards before pushing him back with enough force to knock the wind out of his chest.

“I don’t give a jolly well fuck what you were ‘just trying,’ Leroy. You aren’t in Minnesota anymore, and you sure as shit aren’t in Shreveport. That sort of showboating has cost your team multiple games,” Logan counters, his growl ramping up and making his words shake.

Kieran, with all the self-preservation instincts of a lemming, rolls his eyes. I don’t have to look around to know most of my teammates flinch and take a half-step backward. Even the coaching staff does nothing to intervene, most of them even looking away in a weak attempt to have plausible deniability if the NHL Players Association ever asks about this. Which is honestly the best thing they could have done, so they don’t seewhen Logan slams his fist into the plexiglass next to Kieran’s face.

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