Page 37 of Speed

Trick was first line because, of course he was. I was third. We’d probably wouldn’t meet up too often on the ice tonight, but if we did, I’d be nice. Pops and Dad were watching back in Harrisburg, my sisters on streaming services, and Babushka up in Heaven.

The game sputtered on, as most first preseason games do. The lines didn’t know each other well, the goalies were rusty, and the coaches were still trying to finalize things as we fumbled around. The defense was sloppy on both sides. Offensively, I felt we had the edge, as I won all but one of fourteen faceoffs. Yeah, the stoppage was stupid high, but such was preseason.

I did get a solid shot attempt near the end of the first, but the Atlanta goalie was too fast and caught it like a line drive in his catching mitt. With five or so minutes left in the first, we took a TV time out. We all headed to the bench to rehydrate. I glanced up at the scoreboard to clock the time—as I had to piss—to find the Kiss-Kam was scanning the crowds. It moved to an old couple who waved, then smooched each other. I smiled as I rubbed at my soaking wet hair with a towel. Then, the music changed to the latest Jemima Wren song, and the camera moved, not to a couple, but to a lone figure in a Railers cap reading the program. He looked up, and I stared into Brody’s eyes. The camera announced who he was even as he fumbled to find his sunglasses inside his coat pocket. The fans in his section went berserk. They flooded down to where he was seated. I watched in mild horror as he waved sheepishly at the camera, then pushed through the crowd to allow security to escort him out of his section.

“Oh man, that sucks,” Blake said as the Kiss Kam swept away from Brody’s back to a young couple wearing matching jerseys. “Poor guy can’t even go to a hockey game in peace.”

“Yeah,” I said sadly.

I yanked my vision from the screen, shoved my helmet back on, and buckled my chin strap. It was the fucking pits that Brody felt he had to leave my debut game. I’d catch up with him later. We could talk. He’d be in the pits for sure. Damn man. I had always known fame came with a price, I’d grown up with famous hockey players, but this kind of madness was over the top. Why were people so fixated on a retired racer? Especially here in the States, where F1 didn’t hold a candle to NASCAR's popularity, but then, hehaddated Jemima Wren, and everyone was always up in her news.

We managed to squeak out a win against the Phantoms. The after-game interviews were done on ice, and someone who didn’t know him, thought it would be fun to have Trick and me talking to the lovely Gloria Seeks, former Olympic women’s hockey player, who now worked for Atlanta.

Gloria asked Trick the big question, while sweat ran into my left eye. “So, what did you think about playing against someone who was in your draft class?”

Trick sneered. “I’ve been in the big show four years. He’s still figuring out which way to lace his skates. Third-round pick, too—hardly worth a comparison, don’t you think?”

Gloria and I gaped at Trick as he removed the headphones and skated off.

“Oh, okay, well, uhm… Noah, what did you think about your first pro game?” Gloria recovered.

“It was great. Getting the win was a nice cherry on top of a memorable night,” I answered as kindly as possible, my gaze on the numbers on Trick’s back. Man, what a dickhead. She asked a few more questions. I replied politely. Then, I was free to face more press in the dressing room. Once that was over, I rushed to shower, dress, and find a place to text Brody.

I had to slip into a stall in the men’s room beside the skate room.

Noah: Hi. Sorry about the crowd rush. You in your room?

Ten long minutes passed. No reply, no three bouncing dots. Nothing. I was about to head out when I got my reply.

Brody: I’m heading back to Washington. Sorry, but I can’t chance someone seeing me sneaking into your room. I hate this for myself and you.

“Dude,seriously?” I huffed to the empty bathroom. I was tempted to throw my phone against the tiled wall, but I shoved it into my back pocket, stalked out of the bathroom, and blew into the charter bus waiting for us like a nasty thunderstorm.

The guys didn’t say much as I sat in the last seat in the rear, pulled a hat on, and sulked all the way back to the hotel. Everyone could read my mood. I’d never been good at hiding my emotions, so they all mumbled goodnights as we parted in the lobby.

My room was dark when I entered it. The lights came on after I slapped the switch so hard it hurt my hand. I was pissed, hurt, and wondering what the shit I was doing right now.

I should be celebrating my first professional game tonight. I should be in the hotel bar, talking hockey, wheeling chicks, and enjoying a rare beer.

But no, I was in my room, mad as fuck.

I toed off my sneakers, peeled off my suit jacket and tie, and landed face down on the bed to scream into the void. My phone vibrated. Thinking it might be Brody calling to say his last message was a joke and he was outside my door now, I jerked it out of my back pocket, rolled to my back, and frowned at the incoming call from my fathers. Not that I didn’t love talking to them but…

“Hello,” I said in Swedish, then Russian, when their pale faces appeared in the box in the corner of my filthy screen. “Did you see the game?”

“Da, yes, of course. We watch with our eyes tight to the screen,” Pops said, his gray eyes red and watery. “You are making good faceoff numbers. So fast! And two shots on goal. That man for Atlanta in net is drifting too far. Needs to stay in paint like tree. Plant roots.”

“Stan, that’s goalie talk,” Dad slipped in, his blond curls coming to rest on Pops’ dark head. They were such a cute couple. “You handled the puck really well. Coach Morin must be very happy with your performance. You had a plus-one tonight.”

“Yeah, it was a good night.” I’d not gotten an assist on our lone goal, but I’d been on the ice for it. I felt confident that Coach was pleased with my performance. “How are you two feeling? You look pale.”

“Ack yes, we are palest of people. My sneezes are light now, but my nose runs like Jesse Pinkman.”

I gazed at Pops in confusion.

“Stan, honey, no, not Jesse Pinkman. I think you mean Jesse Owens,” Dad corrected gently before sneezing a dozen times into a wad of tissues.

“Oh yes, Jesse Pinkman is cooking drugs in motorhome with Walter White and is not running so fast unless Tuco is after him,” Pops said with a nod. “You go sleep now, sweetness. I will come soon after I talk more with Noah.”

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