Page 53 of Branded
For now, I was fist-bumping my teammates, accepting the pat on the back from my coaches, the light shove and grin from Raph when I was announced as the first star of the game—which basically meant that I had to take a skate around center ice and got to give a kid a signed puck then had to speak with the media on the way back to the showers.
I’d gotten the first star a couple of times.
It was no big deal, and I really liked making a kid smile—and really liked making the little boy with a big, toothy grin, a neon pink Breakers jersey paired with a bright blue beanie jump in joy when the adult near him caught the puck I had tossed over the glass and handed it over.
What could I say? Kid had style.
Also, I was glad the adult followed hockey etiquette and didn’t try to pocket the puck.
Occasionally, there was an asshole who’d try to take the shit from the kids.
But this guy was cool, so I nodded at one of the ushers who’d been with the organization for years and who I had prepped for this scenario (they had agreed to carry a few items I paid for to give away at their discretion). The guy, Tom, nodded back and quietly handed the guy a hat.
Because the adults—the cool ones anyway—deserved something nice, too.
I didn’t stay to see the guy’s reaction.
I had a soundbite to give in the hall and then a longer interview for the post-game media circuit. There was more interest than normal since it was the first match-up of the season, so it took a while for me to get to the locker room, divest myself of my gear. Padding and protective equipment hung up or on the shelf of my cubby. Jersey and socks into the bins in the center of the room. Walking through to the shower area and heading for the training suite. I had a quick post-game I always did when I had time, a short bike ride, some time on my favorite foam roller.
I’d named her Ursula.
And she made me hurt in the best possible way.
Thighs and hips. The sides of my ribs. My back.
Twenty minutes later, the majority of the game’s strain was gone, and Samantha, our head trainer, who’d come through the training suite, had given me an approving nod which I’d interpreted as appreciating my stretching and lack of injuries.
I’d see what happened as the season went by. Most of the time, injuries were inevitable. The wear-and-tear on the body during the season meant that there was always a risk, especially in the lead-up to the playoffs and the post-season.
Because we’d be in the post-season.
We’d be going for another Cup.
I wanted to heft it again, wanted to ensure that the Breakers became a fucking legacy.
So, I’d take the bumps and bruises and sore muscles and injuries.
Hockey was my life, what I’d lived and breathed for, what I’d dreamed of…what I was good at, and some might say, the only thing I was good at.
So, I stretched and rolled and when I was done, I went back through the shower area and into the private changing area, stripped down (the dirties going in another rolling bin) and headed for the showers.
Naked.
As was my way.
But the room had emptied out, only a few of the guys remaining.
Theo was pulling on his suit, Marcel and Raph had already hit the door. Cas was tying his shoes. Flynn and Walker and Jackson would all be dressed and out of there before I got done soaping up.
Fine with me.
Meant I’d get less shit about my post-game shower routine.
Which was…air drying.
My mouth quirked. That was better for the skin.
Shower on hot, bordering on scalding, just like I preferred. Steam filling the space, licking up at my calves and torso, condensation clinging to my beard. The stream was strong, and I dunked my head in, letting the water sluice over my body, sink into my tight muscles before I was remotely ready to get out.
