Page 66 of Trade Deadline

There’s always a lot of penalty minutes accumulated whenever we play against them. I don’t know whether it’s because Zach’s older brother, Brody, plays for them, and they purposely try to get under our skin, but whatever it is, it works. But it also means Coach is putting us through our paces to ensure that they don't get an advantage by sending our asses to the box and that we monopolize every power play opportunity we get.

“That’s it! Great job!” Coach blows his whistle again.

We skate over to him and take a knee, forming a semicircle around him. He gets out his whiteboard and pen, explaining what was good and what needs improving and drawing different plays on the board.

“We need to be more available here.” He circles an area on the whiteboard by the blue line. “And let's work on our speed back to the defensive zone. We’re leaving it way too open.”

Everyone nods in understanding.

We all stand and run through it again and again until our bodies begin to ache. I let out a groan of relief when Coach blows his whistle, “Good job, boys. Hit the showers; we’ve got tape in fifteen.”

We make our way down the tunnel, handing our sticks over to Jordan, our equipment manager, on the way back to the locker room.

“Anyone wanna hit up Gino’s for some wings after tape?” Zach asks.

A murmur of yeses echoes through the locker room as we begin to undress. I can’t wait to hit the showers and stand under the warm spray. My thighs throb under my pads, twinging from the strenuous workout.

“Nah, I gotta go shopping for Katy's birthday present,” Jonathan Peyton sighs, running a hand through his shaggy hair. “She told me that if I don’t spend at least five thousand dollars on her, it means I don’t love her.”

I lift my head. “What the fuck, man?”

“I know.” He sounds defeated.

I’ve only met Katy a few times. She’s often given the impression she’s only with Peyton for his paycheck, but I haven’t had the heart to tell him that. Plus, we’re not as close as some of the other guys on the team.

Since there are at least twenty of us, it’s hard for us all to get along off the ice. With so many different personalities in the locker room, you’re not going to be best buds with everyone, so more often than not, we run in different circles when we’re out of skates.

But the most important thing is that we gel on the ice.

And luckily, we do.

“I never knew having a wife would be so fucking expensive. Every month, she maxes out a minimum of two credit cards, and I have no fucking idea what she spends it on.” He throws his jersey into the laundry basket a little harder than necessary. “Like last night, she yelled at me because I didn’t notice this new vase on the coffee table in the lounge. Like, it’s a fuckingvase? I don’t give a shit.”

Kendrick chuckles from his cubby. “I’m so glad Maria isn’t like that. The most money she spends on is food, and that’s only because I fuckin’ eat all the time!”

The locker room fills with raucous laughter.

Kendrick and Zach are the biggest guys on the team, which means they have the appetite of a pack of rabid wolves. I feel for Maria; it must cost a fortune to feed him. Good thing he earns a lot.

I hook my skates in my cubby and glance over my shoulder, catching Brian Petford glaring at Peyton. He’s grinding his teeth so hard I’m surprised his molars haven’t turned to dust, and he's giving him some serious stink eye, like he wants to Superman-laser beam Peyton into tiny atoms.

What the heck is that all about?

The guy was traded here last season and has failed to make an effort with any of us. We invite him for food, he declines. We suggest drinks after a game, he always passes. Kendrick’s his linemate, and says Petford never engages in conversation; he simply grunts.

I tilt my head to the side like a curious owl, and when he catches me watching him, his upper lip curls in disgust. He throws his pads into his cubby before stomping into the shower.

“So, wings, you say?” I pipe up, wondering if anybody else saw Petford’s childish tantrum parade.

“Yeah, you in? Or you gotta go run to see lover boy?”

A few of them start making smoochy kiss noises, and then Mitch starts to moan. “Ooohhh, Alex! I love you, Alex!”

I fling my sweaty sock at Mitch, hitting him in the side of the face, and he gags before flipping me off.

I snicker. “Yeah, count me in. Alex is working ’til later, so I’m cool to hang out for a few hours.”

After reviewing some tape,we’re chowing down on the best bourbon wings and fries while recapping last night's Minnesota and St. Louis game.

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