Page 57 of Pucking the Grump

“Speak for yourself, man,” I say. “I’m feeling like a spring chicken tonight. I can’t wait to destroy these Midwestern mama’s boys. Look at ‘em over there, looking all corn fed and soft.”

“Speaking of corn fed, Steph wanted me to invite you and Remy over for dinner on Sunday.” Tank’s gaze moves up to the family section, where Stephanie sits, wearing a Badgers jersey with Tank’s number stretched across the front. He lifts a hand as we skate by, his face going mushy as he adds, “Her grandma’s in town. They’re planning to spend all day cooking Jamaican food, so there will be plenty to share.”

“I’d love to, but I don’t know if we’ll be back in time,” I say. “I’m not sure when Remy wants to leave Seattle. I’m flying up to meet her tomorrow morning, but we’re driving back in her car.”

“Three-hour drive, huh?” Tank arches a brow. “That’s some full-fledged couple shit.”

Taking a quick glance around to ensure no one’s listening, I remind him, “That’s because we’re a full-fledged couple now. We say the ‘L’ word and everything.”

His eyes widen. “Wow. That is full-fledged.” He glances toward the tunnel, where Coach is currently pacing the entrance, dictating notes to tonight’s assistant. “I guess that means you two are breaking the news to Lauder soon?”

I exhale. “Yep. Next week. We were just waiting until the big interview was over, so Remy could relax about it.” I nod toward the rest of the forwards, currently lining up for practice shots. “I’d better get to it. Have a good game, brother, and I’ll let you know about Sunday, okay?”

“Sounds good,” he says, bumping a glove into mine. “Let’s fuck up some Nebraska boys.”

“Going to make them wish they’d never touched down on the west coast,” I assure him, before skating off toward the shooting drills.

As I join the line, my gaze drifts to the opposite end of the ice, where the Nebraska Hucksters are running through their own warm-up routine. And there he is, the only guy in the league I genuinely can’t stand.

Adrian “Tiny” Shields. Six-foot-four, two-twenty, built like a refrigerator with legs, and possessing all the grace of a concussed penguin.

Looks like he still tapes his stick with that stupid neon green tape, too, the same way he did when we were both rookies together in the Columbus system. Some things never change, I guess, like his terrible tape job and permanently “pissed off, but too dumb to know why” facial expression.

“No way, not Shields. What the fuck?” Nowicki says, sliding in behind me in line. “I thought he got sent down to the minors after that hit on Cruise last season.”

“He spent the summer in the AHL,” I confirm. “But I guess the Hucksters were desperate enough to call him back up. Nebraska’s not exactly a destination team.”

Nowicki huffs. “No kidding. I hate that guy.”

“At least you didn’t have to come up with him,” I say, as Shields takes a slap shot that flies three feet wide, making us both cringe. “I played thirty games with that numbskull before I got called up. Shields stayed down for another year and a half.”

“And he’s hated your guts ever since,” Grammercy adds, joining our conversation. “My big brother played for the Hucksters before he transferred to Milwaukee this year,” he explains in response to my startled expression. “Said the guy talked shit about you like you stole his girlfriend and his bible.”

I laugh. “Really? Awesome. Nice to know I live rent free in that big stupid head.”

“So stupid,” Grammercy agrees in an almost pitying tone. “My brother Grant said Shields wasn’t sure what fleece was. And didn’t know what animal bacon came from. Guy’s like a different species.”

“True, but you should still watch your back around him,” I warn. “He’s not smart, but he’s massive, and he doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he makes an impact. Keep your head up around him, rookie.”

“Got it. Will do,” Grammercy says, accepting the warning with a solemn nod.

He’s such a sweet rookie. So eager to learn and listen. If they were all like that, maybe I would have mentored more of them.

Nowicki starts to add something, but Coach’s whistle pierces the air, cutting him off and signaling the end of warm-ups. We gather at the bench for final instructions and a quick wave at the fans before heading back to the locker room to engage in our various pre-game rituals.

Some guys retreat into their headphones, others swap out already sweat-soaked base layers, and still others circle the locker room three times backward, throwing salt over their shoulders, or shimmying into repulsively unwashed “lucky” underwear.

Personally, I’ve always landed somewhere in between when it comes to personal performance superstitions—not too rigid, not too loose.

First, I take off my skates, rolling my feet on two foam rollers as I retape my stick, the familiar rhythm always a balm to the soul. Left to right, overlapping precisely by half. A lifetime in hockey, and I still find Zen in this simple task. It settles any remaining pre-game nerves, connecting me to that calm, efficient place deep inside.

As I finish, Justin walks past, tapping my shin pads twice with his stick—our silent pre-game acknowledgment since I joined the Badgers. He’s a good one, our captain, and I’m going to miss him. Though it’s obviously too soon to think about that now, when we’re just getting started.

“Stone,” Coach calls from the doorway. “A word.”

I follow him into the hall, curious. Coach Lauder isn’t one for last-minute pep talks or strategy changes.

“I noticed Shields is back,” he says without preamble. “He nearly took Cruise out for the season last year. Make sure you have his back out there, okay? That big bastard plays a dirty game.”

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