Page 26 of Puck Happens

Or guys with bad attitudes.

“Listen, if Novek gets sixty goals this season, he can be late all he likes,” said Derek Smith, our gigantic, red-headed, Canadian goalie. He sat with our other new rookie. Some corn fed kid out of the prairies who’d won the NCAA Championship with the University of Michigan. He had come with a laptop like he was going to take notes. The rookie seemed nice enough, but it was doubtful he was going to be sticking around. Collegiate champs got chewed up by the NHL all the time.

No point in even learning the kid’s name.

“This is bullshit,” Skalsberg muttered. Skalsberg was our big Swedish defenseman, a man of extremely few words and the best blocked shot average in the league. “It’s disrespectful.”

There was a murmur of agreement in the room.

“Calm down,” I said. “Coach isn’t here, yet.”

You weren’t officially late until coach showed up. But as the captain and a guy who liked to be the first one in every room, I would be having a little talk with Novek about time management and team dynamics.

Novek was a big part of our plan to get our hands back on the cup this year.

This was what I lived for. Had lived for, for the past ten years.

I was amped up, the whole room was. But it wasn’t just hockey that had made me restless and on edge. For the last few weeks I’d felt like a tiger pacing in its cage. I couldn’t train or run or skate this feeling away.

I checked my phone again.

Nothing from my sister. Before leaving, I’d asked her to keep an eye out for Liv, but Miss Toe Pick hadn’t been back at the bar and Wendy said she hadn’t seen her around town either.

She’d packed up and left Calico Cove all together.

Which seemed a little extreme to me.

Okay, I lied about who I was, but it wasn’t like I was a serial killer. I was just a pro hockey player for Pete’s sake.

The door to the conference room opened and Novek strolled in with his mullet, wearing some Balenciaga bullshit like he didn’t have a care in the world.

“Wait.” The rookie asked. “Aren’t we supposed to be in team workout gear?”

“Yes,” I muttered. Everyone in the room was wearing team kit. Except superstar over there with the fanny pack.

“Hello,” Novek said with his thick eastern European accent. He smiled, revealing his extremely white teeth. That he had all of them was a miracle. “I am here.”

“You’re late,” I said.

“I am never late,” Novek said, slipping into a seat at the front of the room. “Nothing starts without me.” Beside him, Beroski reached forward to shake his hand. Novek ignored him.

“Fucking phenoms,” Ron muttered again. “You going to do something about that, Captain?”

Before I could, Coach opened the door and walked in exactly at the top of the hour. He wore the same warm-up gear he always wore, circa 1990. The guys joked that he wore that warm-up gear under his game day suit. That he went to bed with that whistle in his mouth.

He was trailed by our offensive and defensive assistant coaches and our conditioning coach.

“Men,” he said and we immediately quieted down.

Coach Lawrence McKay had been with the team for four seasons. There were rumors this might be his last year and he wanted to go out with one more championship attached to his name. The coaching staff and team had built up trust over the last several seasons, which is why I felt like we were all primed for a deep run into the playoffs. There would be no real surprises going into this year, other than Novek and the rookie. But new players, and incorporating them into the team, was expected.

No team stayed exactly the same year to year.

Father Time and Mother Injury always saw to that.

“Welcome to preseason. I’ve called you all here for this meeting to talk about one topic,” Coach said. He picked up a magic marker from the tray of the white board and wrote a single word:

SPEED.

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