Page 35 of Finders Keepers
Nate clomped into the dressing room, breathing hard, and collapsed into his stall. He hadn’t skated in a few too many weeks and pushing his muscles hard felt good. The stretch and pull of his tendons, the pumping of his blood, a hard-earned sweat. He swiped an arm across his forehead.
A pickup game was a nice way to dip a toe in, get a sneak peek at the way his new teammates thought the game, the way they moved, how they skated. Training and targeted workouts were just around the corner. He pulled an orange-flavored sports drink from the back corner of his stall and took a swig as he glanced around the Locomotives dressing room.
The oval-shaped room had doors at either end and in the center of each curved side. The goalie stalls were located on either side of the door leading to the tunnel and the ice beyond. The door opposite led into the changing room. Along the left curve, a doorway opened into a warren of rooms for trainers and medical staff. On the right, a matching door led to the showers and the workout rooms.
Light blue lines ran diagonally through the royal blue paint. The team logo, a locomotive engine, hung back lit in the center of the ceiling. The stalls were made of bleached wood with dark blue metal framing. A narrow column of shelving sat between each stall to hold a player’s pads. Skates could be shoved below the bench seat and helmets could be tossed on the shelf above their head. The goalies were assigned two stalls since goalie gear was so large compared to everyone else’s. PawPaw had the first two stalls to the right of the door; Nate had the two to the left.
The Locomotives dressing room was one of the nicer dressing rooms he’d been in. Nebraska was all about Cornhusker football and Locomotives hockey and the organization had spentlavishly. They’d brought him here for a reason, right? A flicker of optimism sprang into being. Maybe, just maybe, things would turn out all right.
The rest of the guys straggled in, razzing each other about slick passes or missed shots. Nate sat with his eyes closed, listening to the rise and fall of voices as everyone reached their designated spaces. Pads clunked into cubbies; helmets thudded onto shelves.
“I’m going to Runza, if anyone’s interested,” said one of the bottom six forwards. Nate couldn’t remember his name. Checking line. Bald. Huge grin. Older player.
“Fuckin’ Hooters, man,” said one of the younger guys.Of course.Shoulder-length blond hair, bright blue eyes, patchy beard. Also a bottom six forward; maybe his second or third year in the league.
“Oh, hell, yeah,” replied Tommy, voice grating on Nate’s nerves like a bow screeching along a discordant violin string.
He was a shit-hot D-man, Nate would give him that, serving on the team’s top four. He’d managed to score on Nate during the pick-up game. He hadn’t made a big deal about it, and neither would Nate. He supposed they’d come to a polite détente after Nate’s promise, threat, whatever. Of course, they hadn’t crossed paths since that day at his condo.
“Wonder if that red-headed girl will be working,” Tommy remarked. “She’s smokin’. Maybe she’ll give me her number today.”
Nate wanted to go to Hooters just to warn said red head against giving Tommy any kind of time.
“I need pizza,” called Nader above the din. “That place on Leavenworth is calling my name.”
Hoots of agreement followed.
“What about you, Nate?”
He cracked an eye open and looked over at Nader, who stripped off his red practice jersey, before bending to untie his skates.
Nate thought of Wesley back at the condo. Much as he wanted to include him, this wasn’t a family event and Nate needed to bond with his teammates. “Yeah. Sure. Pizza sounds good.” He nudged his skates below his seat with his heels and stripped off his socks, tossing them toward the large canvas laundry cart in the middle of the room. “Text me the address and I’ll meet you there.” He’d text Wesley to let him know he’d be out a while longer.
Nate tugged at the back of his practice sweater and pulled it over his head.
“Oh, God, I forgot,” Tommy said on a groan, “there’s that dude that also works there. Gotta be gay. Last time I was...”
Nate’s neck hairs rose, his shoulders tensed. Staying cocooned in his jersey a moment longer, he took a breath. Whatever Tommy was about to say wasn’t worth getting in trouble for. He couldn’t afford to be branded a cancer in the room before the season even started. The flicker of optimism guttered.
“...gay ass mother fucker tried to grab my ass so I told that fa—”
Heat exploded inside Nate. He yanked off his jersey and was across the room in two steps with Tommy jacked up against the shelves of his stall. He fisted a hand in the shoulder of Tommy’s Under Armour and pressed a forearm against Tommy’s throat.
“Shut your god-damned mouth, you fucking cock-stain.”
The silence was deafening. Tommy’s eyes bulged and his mouth fell open.
“I fucking warned you the last time you mouthed off.”
Nate increased the pressure.
Tommy gasped for breath. “Get off me, asshole,” he choked out.
“Fuck you. Itoldyou to keep your trap shut.”
“Nessy, man, come on. You made your point,” someone said. Nate had no idea who. The blood pounded in his ears too loudly to associate a voice with a face.
Nate pressed a little harder. Tommy’s face went red.
