Page 1 of Fresh Ice
CHAPTER ONE
“Nice shot, rookie.”
Alonso slid to a stop as he finished the drill, looking up at Eskil Lindberg—or ‘Killer’, as his teammates called him. Hockey nicknames were obligatory, but…some were better than others.
“Thanks,” Alonso said, trying to sound genuine instead of awkward.
Killer snorted, giving Alonso a wide grin, his top two front teeth comically missing—another common price to pay for playing professional hockey.
Alonso smiled back, or tried to, anyway. It felt as if his heart hadn’t stopped pounding since he’d gotten on the ice.
He had to make the team this year. Hehadto.
Alonso had been drafted fourth place overall by the Gotham Hounds—set in Queens, New York—a year ago. He’d been ecstatic at being chosen by one of the New York teams, though he hadn’t let it show at the time, knowing his dad would admonish him for being happy for such a superficial reason. Especially, he would say, since the Hounds had been in ‘rebuild mode’ for years, trailing at the bottom of the rankings season after season.
Still, being Canadian, Alonso couldn’t help but feel accomplished that his hard, obsessive work in Juniors had paid off. His dad had told him to keep his head on straight, that he hadn’t proved anything yet. His mom, being Bolivian and therefore not having been indoctrinated into the sport, had just kissed him once on the cheek and told him not to work out too much.
Alonso’s parents had always been at the opposite ends of the spectrum in just about everything. His mom had tried to make her voice heard in the beginning, but his dad’s voice had always been louder. More forceful. Slowly, she’d distanced herself from hockey and, by extension, Alonso.
He didn’t blame her for it. It was difficult to say something when you thought nobody was listening.
Alonso hadn’t made it to the team the first year after his draft, sent away to the Ontario Hockey League, as was obligatory for Canadian players until they were twenty if they didn’t crack the NHL.
Alonso would have preferred to go to the Hounds’ American Hockey League team, get a sense of their system, and play alongside people that might join him in the Gotham Hounds in the future, but he hadn’t had a choice in the matter.
So there Alonso was again, staying in a hotel in Queens during training camp, trying to prove to the coaches that he was ready for the big leagues.
Which would be a hell of a lot easier if he didn’t have such tough competition.
“Yo, Olive! Good practice, babe.” Emmett ‘Levy’ Levine skidded to a stop, showering Alonso’s legs with ice. He slung an arm around Alonso’s shoulders familiarly, Alpha scent coming off him in a wave, and it took every ounce of Alonso’s being not to shy away.
Alonso had become used to the touchy-feely ways of fellow teammates, but that usually took place during a game or right after. His old teammates had learnt not to grab at Alonso so freely—not because he didn’t like it. It was just…Alonso shouldn’t need to be cuddled. His dad displayed the stoicism Alonso should aspire to, a self-sufficient island.
“Thanks,” Alonso mumbled.
Levy was a year older than Alonso and, therefore, his direct competition to make the team. He’d been in the AHL for two years, and had obviously made friends with some of the prospects trying to make it to the big leagues too.
Alonso wasn’t sure if he’d be able to make friends with anybody, even given two years on a team. His quiet demeanour didn’t exactly fit in a rowdy locker room.
“That was a sick fucking wrister on that last drill. You gotta teach me that, mine are fucking awful. Love a good one-timer too much,” Levy babbled.
Alonso had no idea why Levy was being so friendly, but he was saved from responding by one of their second-line wingers, his bulky body wrestling Levy to the side and putting him in a headlock.
Levy laughed and shouted, “Slim, get the fuck off me, you fat cow.”
“Fat cow? I’m gonna—”
Alonso skated out of the way as they began to wrestle, their teammates whooping and catcalling as they made their way off the ice.
“Come on, Levy, punch him where it hurts,” Gabby said even though, as the captain, maybe he should be putting a stop to it.
Levy managed to escape the hold, hiding behind Gabby. “Protect me, Captain,” he simpered jokingly.
Gabby pushed him away with a snort.
Levy shrugged, sticking his tongue out, and Alonso couldn’t help but be amazed at Levy’s gumption to act like that with the veterans.
It was the same in the locker room, Levy joking around with the two first-line defencemen, Killer and Nicky, making them laugh at his antics. Alonso tried not to be obvious as he watched them, envy bubbling up his throat.
