Page 13 of Offside

Roland scoffs loudly, giving me a nudge of my hip. “Come on, bro. You want me to start calling you old man?”

I give him a sneering glare and flip him off around the iron bar bell that’s still in my grip.

“Not one more fucking word,” I rasp, using the most intimidating voice I can. He only laughs.

Roland Terry has been the team’s strength and conditioning coach since before I joined the team. He’s a great guy who has seen me through many of my minor injuries, including the hit I sustained last season and the resulting concussion.

Ro cocks a brow and then mimes zipping his mouth shut with a quirk of his lips.

We finish out the reps and I take a break, grabbing my water bottle and the towel hanging on the bar next to me and swiping at the sweat pouring down my neck. I bend at the waist, throwing the towel over my head, and prop my elbows on my thighs, panting loudly with exhaustion.

“When did your workouts get so hard?” I grumble, taking another swig of my water and giving Ro a sideways glance. “Fucking hell. Maybe I didn’t keep up on my conditioning this summer the way I thought I did.”

“You’re only as old as you feel.” Ro pats me on the back and chuckles kindly. “We’ll get you back to The Beast in no time.”

Thank God I still have time. I took it upon myself to get back into the weight room early, even though the official preseason training isn’t scheduled to begin until next week.

Even though I still did some training for the last two months, I took a much-needed break from my usual routines to allow my body to rest. It had taken a beating when I dove back into playing hockey after Christmas.

With my head a mess over what had happened between Karis and me, I returned to the ice and gave more than a hundred and ten percent in every game for the remainder of the season. I took out all my frustration and confusion against our opponents, especially when we were up against the team of my longtime adversary, Sergei Russo.

I’d spent my summer being active, but relaxing, out on the open water and on the links. The distance and time helped me forget about the strange, unwanted feelings I had for Karis.

I was a fucking idiot for getting carried away and kissing her.

Never in all my history of hookups and one-nighters have I gone back for seconds or pursued anything more meaningful with a woman. So why did I kiss her again?

I decided to chalk it up to getting older and more sentimental as I inch toward my hockey retirement. With my career nearing its end, the fear of the unknown continues to mount with uncertainty for what my future holds. I guess you could say I’m burying my head in the sand trying to avoid making plans. My sole focus is on this coming season.

If this is going to be my final season, I want to go out with a bang. So I decided to come back from my vacation early and check in on how the rookie training camp is going. I plan to swing by tomorrow to see all the new recruits in action, especially the young kid, Shaw Benning.

Speaking of young kid, a voice from the doorway has me glancing over my shoulder to see my teammate, Cale Costa, strutting in with that cocky swagger of his.

“I heard a lot of whining and bitching coming from in here. Thought I’d check things out in case Old Man Keeners fell down and couldn’t get back up. Where is your walker, by the way?”

Cale throws his bag on a bench with an uproariously loud laugh and stops in front of me. He knocks his knuckles against my shoulder and then throws a hand out for a one-handed fist bump. I glare up at last year’s team captain and frown.

“Fuck you, Costa.” I shove him good-naturedly in his ribs and he sidesteps with a laugh. “Maybe you should put your money where your mouth is. Let’s see if you still got it, eh, Costa?”

He sits on the workout bench across from us and gives a “Hey, Ro,” before turning back to me.

“Jesus, Keeners. You must be really worried about that old body of yours if you’re here this early,” he teases, shaking his head in displeasure. “That might not bode well for us winning the Cup this season.”

I snort. “Dude, you’re in pretty early yourself. What’s up with that? You still working on that knee?”

Cale is one of the best two-way wingers in the league. He’s proven his worth during his first three years with the Vikings, only to get in a nasty collision on the ice last season. He absorbed a low hit along the boards, which resulted in a season-ending injury to his knee.

I called to check in on him a few times throughout the summer. He was disappointed, as any one of us would be, to spend his summer rehabbing. But when we talked after my contract renewal, he promised he was back in business and was committed to getting back so he could play all 82 games this coming year.

Cale smacks his leg with his hand and cups a palm around his left knee to lift it up.

“Nah, brah. It’s all good. Spent the last few months getting healthy and ready to go with the help of some great professionals back in Ontario.”

I raise my brow. “And maybe some help of the female persuasion, too?”

He snickers and shrugs it off. “That’s a given. Puck bunnies are always in season. How about you, Keeners? Is your grumpy ass still chasing ‘em?”

“As long as I can, bro. Not looking to settle down anytime soon,” I quip back. “Staying single sure makes life a hell of a lot easier when it’s just your own bag to pack if you’re traded.”

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