Page 50 of Skating and Fake Dating
“Hayes,” Cade says, nodding at Jamie before turning to me. “And the former Gentleman Wingman himself. How’s the attitude adjustment going, Bama? Are you learning to play well with others?”
My jaw tightens. “Working on it.”
Someone nearby chuckles and I spot the smiling face of Asher Tremblay, a defenseman from Canada. He’s practically bouncing with energy—dangerous in hockey skates. “Morning, boys! Beautiful day for hockey, eh?”
“It’s gloomy and will probably rain later.” Cade seems better suited for somewhere sunny.
“Rain means maple sap will flow back home.” Asher waggles his eyebrows.
His comment brings Bailey’s face to mind—not that it’s gone very far—along with our breakfast together and her contraband “liquid gold” as she called it. Like the aforementioned syrup, she sticks there with no intention of leaving until more players filter in.
Weston Smith, a defenseman pulled from the Tennessee Wolves, greets everyone like old friends. Lucian Lowe, who transferred from the Carolina Crushers, quietly arranges hisgear. The only one I don’t see is our goalie Clément Rivière. He must still be on European time.
The space where we’ll be calling home away from home for the next months fills with laughter and banter—the natural rhythm of a hockey locker room taking shape as we get to know each other. Coach Hauser enters just as we’re suiting up, his presence immediately commanding our attention.
“Gentlemen,” he says, scanning the room. “Welcome. Nearly the whole team is finally here. Some of you I’ve coached before,” he nods at Jamie, “some I’ve coached against, and I’m new to some of you, but you’re not new to me. I’ve been watching you all carefully.”
Cade puffs up a little—the obvious showman of our crew. Though I think he’ll have competition when Clément arrives, if his reputation is accurate. I shrink, not wanting my recent reputation to precede me. Why’d I let my temper get the best of me in the one place where my life hadn’t been shredded to pieces?
Hauser continues, pacing slowly, eyes sharp. “Forget your previous teams. As of today, you’re Ice Breakers. We’re building something from scratch here. That means no baggage,” his gaze flickers briefly to me, “no prima donnas,” a glance toward Cade, “and no room for anything less than full commitment.”
It’s like we collectively feel the weight of his words. As for me, a clean slate is exactly what I need.
“Hayes is your captain. We’ve got vets and rookies, skill and grit. We could be a surprise for the league. Let’s see what we’ve got on the ice. Be out there in ten.” Coach claps his hands together and stalks out of the room.
Minutes later, I take a few warm-up laps, feeling out the surface. Coach Hauser has us start with basic drills—nothing fancy, just getting a feel for each other’s styles.
Just then, the Frenchman enters with dramatic flair. “Bonjour, mes amis! The goalie has arrived!”
Hauser gives him a look that could melt ice.
Cheeks flushed with embarrassment at being tardy—I get thesense he wasn’t intentionally late—I expect him to set up in front of the net and we’ll get back to it. But that’s not what happens.
After a very uncomfortable moment of silence from the coach, the guy gets tasked with cleaning the ice bath, which is gruesome even on the best of days. I’m thankful that one of my occupational hazards is timeliness.
It quickly becomes apparent that while we’re all pros, we’re speaking slightly different hockey dialects. Jamie’s passes are precision instruments, arriving exactly where you’ll be, not where you are. Cade dangles and dekes, showing off. Asher plays defense with surprising aggression for such a cheerful guy and Weston, his counterpart, is brutal on the ice, a contrast for someone who seems generally easygoing. Clément, in front of the box, makes me wonder if he was born for the stage but somehow landed on the rink as he makes routine saves look like epic performances.
Coach barks, “Crane, Hayes, Lennox! Front line drill!”
The three of us skate to center ice. Our first line rep together.
“Simple weave, finish with a shot. Go!” Hauser hollers.
We push off, and what amounts to years of muscle memory takes over. When I’m in possession of the puck, I pass it to Jamie, who sends it across to Cade. I accelerate through the neutral zone, catching Cade’s no-look pass right on the tape. Jamie has already positioned himself near the crease. I feint a shot, drawing Lucian toward me, before sliding the puck to Jamie, who one-times it past Clément’s outstretched glove.
“Again!” Coach calls, but there’s a hint of approval in his voice.
Four more reps, each smoother than the last. On the fifth, Cade tries to get fancy, holding the puck too long. Weston poke-checks it away, disrupting the drill.
Practice intensifies with small-area games and situational maneuvers. By the end, we’re all panting, sweat freezing at our hairlines. Coach gathers us by the boards.
“Not bad, boys. Chemistry doesn’t happen overnight. I sawsome good instincts out there. Hayes, Crane—that’s a connection we can build on. Tremblay, Lowe—solid blue line presence. Rivière—dare I say go a bit grander.” He grimaces as if instantly regretting the word choice because Clément grins broadly as if to say,Challenge accepted.
“Tomorrow, we work on power plays. Hit the showers.”
As we file out, Jamie skates alongside me. “Smooth hands out there, Crane. The reports of your demise were greatly exaggerated.”
I laugh despite myself. “One practice doesn’t make a season.”
