Page 33 of Man Advantage

CHAPTER 10

CAM

When Trev toldme that training camp would be held at the team’s practice facility, I’d envisioned something like where he’d played and practiced with his youth teams. A bleak, dark, concrete building with ancient vending machines and a sketchy concessions stand. A crooked bulletin board covered in flyers for skating and hockey classes, people looking for babysitters, and someone selling a lawnmower. Glass so marred by pucks that it was almost impossible to see through. The combined smells of overcooked hot dogs, aged mildew, and piles of hockey gear marinating in adolescent sweat.

It had an ambiance that was somewhere between a crumbling bowling alley and a parking garage. Our friends had even had a betting pool to predict if and when there would come a day when all the overhead mercury vapor lights were working (no one had ever collected).

On some level, I knew professional players wouldn’t have to make do with a shithole like that. An organization paying people that much money to play hockey could afford to give them a nice facility.

But I hadn’t anticipated it beingthisnice.

For one thing, the place washuge.

Like, there were two whole rinks inside, plus a store selling team merch, a place to get sticks cut and skates sharpened, and—according to some signs—two workout facilities. There were three giant trophy cases out front, jammed full of enormous cups and plaques, plus the case that held the team’s three Cups.

Everything was clean and new, the scents of coffee and rubber hanging in the air but not the stench of sweat or mildew.

I whistled. Wow. Swanky.

There was a concessions place that appeared to sell sandwiches, pizza, salads, and myriad other things.

The facility also had a coffee shop.

A coffee shop. At a hockey rink. Seriously. My Seattle heart was in heaven. They had the usual array of pastries and other snacks, plus machines to make every imaginable variety of coffee. And it smelled a lot more pleasant than the other place had. Definitely a plus.

Off to the side, tall windows overlooked a gleaming rink beneath bright LED lights. There were banners from the Rebels’ past Cup victories, as well as a couple of retired jerseys and a scoreboard that probably didn’t have a single burned-out lightbulb.

Rumbling across the ice was a Zamboni that looked like it had just been delivered fresh from the factory—pristine ads on the outside and machinery that seemed to be working, rather than just sputtering along while alarming tendrils of smoke curled up from the undercarriage.

Beneath the windows was a long counter on which people were setting up laptops. Reporters, probably; some had jackets with logos from what I assumed were local sports networks, and at least two were wrangling large cameras onto their shoulders.

This was definitely a different world from all those practices and games I’d gone to when we were younger.

Zach snapped me out of my thoughts. “We have to get one of the papers before we go in.” He pointed sharply at the front desk. “So we know where Dad’s playing.”

“So we know—wait, what?”

Zach sighed in that exasperated“how can adults be so stupid?”way that kids were so good at. “There’stworinks. We need to know which one he’s on.”

“Oh. Okay. Right.” I continued up to the front desk. It was too high for the boys to see over, but I quickly zeroed in on what Zach had been talking about—a printout of everyone who’d be participating in training camp, split into three teams and listed in numerical order. I skimmed over it. “Okay, so it looks like your dad is on the gold team, which will be in Rink A.” I looked around. “How do we get to Rink A?”

“We have to go up the stairs.” Zane gestured at a staircase beside the front desk. Beside it was a sign:To Rinks.

Well, all right, then.

I glanced at the concessions counter. “Do you guys want any snacks or drinks before we go in?”

Their eyes lit up, and I had to wonder if I’d just inadvertently given in to something their dads didn’t allow. Trev hadn’t said anything about it, though, so we trooped over to the counter.

I ordered a gigantic bougie coffee that Trev’s ancient practice facilityneverwould’ve served. The boys each got a hot chocolate and a bag of fruit snacks. I also bought a couple of bottles of water; we were going to be here a while, so it couldn’t hurt.

Snacks and drinks in hand, we headed for the stairs.

“You guys should see what your dad had to practice in when he was younger,” I said as we started up.

“Was it small?” Zane asked.

I almost laughed at the innocent question. Small? Compared to this place? God yes. “It was tiny. But it was also really darkand run down.” I paused. “Like if someone turned this place into a big haunted house.”

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