Page 43 of Pucking Around

Langley appears at my shoulder, fully dressed, and the guys all hoot and howl again. “Fuck you, Novy! You guys are all jerks!” he shouts before disappearing back inside the room.

“Please tell me he stripped totally naked,” says Novikov, tears in his eyes.

“No, he didn’t,” I reply. “And just for future reference,” I call out. “The first guy who gets naked in my exam room is gonna get benched for a week. Bad idea to piss off the person who signs your medical releases,” I add, shooting daggers at Novikov and Jake.

“What’s wrong, Doc? Can’t appreciate the male form?” jeers Novikov.

“Oh, I appreciate the hell out of a fine male form,” I reply. “I just like to have finished my damn coffee first.”

“So, youwouldwant to see us naked…just later in the day,” says Jake. “After you’ve finished your coffee.”

“Yeah, it’s all a matter of timing,” Novikov adds with a nod.

“Noted, Doc,” Jake says with a grin.

“We could try again after lunch!” someone calls. At the same time, a guy starts singing ‘Afternoon Delight’ and the guys all fall to pieces again.

“You’re all twelve,” I grumble, turning back to go inside the exam room.

“And you love our dumb asses!”

I snap the door shut, drowning out their laughter, as I face a mollified Langley.

“Let’s just get this over with, eh Doc?”

21

Ifinish my last physical of the morning with Josh O’Sullivan, the forward who was just made Captain of the Rays. He’s a sweet guy with a body that he’s keeping in fighting shape with little more than a hope and a prayer. My guess is that his knees might just be seeing their last season. Of all my guys this morning, he’ll need the most preventative care.

As soon as he’s gone, I wander over to the PT wing to compare my notes with Avery. He’s in the middle of some stretching reps with a young guy with black curly hair who has his knee artfully wrapped in athletic tape.

“You really need a babysitter to double-check your work, Price?” Avery says with a huff. “Are you that incompetent that you can’t do a few basic range of motion tests?”

The athlete he’s working on goes still, trying hard to pretend he’s not listening.

I don’t know Avery well enough yet to tell if he’s just having a bad day, or if he actually is the world’s biggest fucking asshole. “I wasn’t asking you to babysit me,” I reply, keeping my tone professional. “I was just hoping to confer with a colleague. You know the guys better at this point and—”

“Well, I have to finish up with Jonesy here first,” he says, giving the kid a pat on the shoulder. “Can’t drop everything to do my job and yours.”

“That’s fine,” I say. “I’ll just grab some lunch and come back.”

He waves me away and Jones gives me an apologetic look.

I leave the PT wing and let out a shaky breath. No way am I going to let one jerk drag me down. He’s going to have to try a lot harder than that to hurt my feelings. Pushing all thoughts of him from my mind, I let my nose follow the tantalizing smell of hot dogs, leading me down the long hallway.

This practice complex is technically for the Rays, but the rinks can be rented out for other purposes—junior hockey, figure skating lessons, even just a free skate session open to the public. When a rink is open to the public, they open a small concession stand too.

I stand in line and order a hotdog, a bag of BBQ chips, and a Diet Coke. Taking my lunch with me, I wander between the rinks until I find some of the guys doing drills. I sit on the bench, quietly eating my lunch, watching as they skate lightning fast through some cones, moving the puck down the ice towards the goal. The swish of their skates and the click of the puck against their sticks is almost hypnotic.

These men are sharks on the ice. They each take a shot on the goal boxed in with a fake goalie. It’s like one of those ski ball games with holes cut out for the five pockets. Each puck sails through a hole, hitting the back of the net flawlessly.

“Your footwork is sloppy, Walsh! And choke up on your stick, you’re not playing mini golf.”

I glance sharply to the left to see Caleb standing at the boards. He’s got his arms crossed, his full tattoo sleeve on display. I was studying it in the truck on the drive in. It’s a mess of individual tats that have been woven together with a consistent pattern of ocean waves and geometric honeycombing to make a sleeve effect.

The guy he was shouting at skates up to the boards, sliding to a stop. “What am I doin’ wrong, boss?”

I pop a chip into my mouth and crunch it, watching as Caleb tears into him about his form and puck handling. “Do another rep,” he says. “And try not to suck this time.”

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