Page 45 of Just Forever

In no time at all it’s time for training camp and the season to begin. Last year, I was still on the road to recovery from my broken femur, so in all honesty, the whole thing’s a bit of a blur.

This time my head’s fully in the game, and it’s a good thing because no matter how many players you ask to describe the NHL training camp, the one word that looms larger than any other in that word cloud is intense. Rigorous, fast-paced, and exhausting also apply.

But mostly, it’s intense.

And I fucking love it.

There’s pressure to succeed and show off, and under it, I thrive. Always have.

There are fifty-eight players scheduled to attend training camp, and I’m ready to show what I’ve got.

Johnny Laurent drops into the seat next to me. It’s the first team meeting of the season. All fifty-eight guys are sitting in the room on rows and rows of fold-up chairs, some of them relaxed,laughing and joking, some of them looking around nervously, quiet and contemplative.

Not everybody here is going to end up on the team. We’re all aware. It’s hockey. Very little is guaranteed.

At thirty-seven, Laurent is a sort of living legend. He’s got three Stanley Cup wins under his belt, and he wants at least one more go at it before he retires.

“Ready for another year of this, rookie?” he asks.

“More than ready,” I say, well aware I sound like an overexcited kid on a sugar rush. “Can’t wait to get started.”

Laurent stretches out his long legs and crosses one ankle over the other while he leans back in his chair, and the chair gives an ominous groan under his weight. “Speak for yourself. I had to take my daughter to figure skating before this. I already feel like I’ve done a whole workout. If I nod off, elbow me in the side.”

I grin and salute him.

Laurent is our center, but these last nine months or so he’s been dealing with a persistent fucker of a knee injury.

Laurent’s gaze moves over the floor. “Have twenty-year-olds always looked this young or is this some new trend?” he grumbles.

Kian Donovan pats his head while he sinks into a chair next to Laurent. “Are you having an elderly moment?”

“Fuck off,” Laurent grumbles.

Kian sends me a wide grin. “Wonder twins! Together again at last,” he calls out dramatically.

I bite back a smile and lift my chin in greeting. Kian is our left winger. He’s quick on his feet, loud, and sarcastic, and over the course of the past half a season we’ve developed the kind of friendship that gets dubbed a bromance by the media a lot. There’s the kind of easy chemistry between us on the ice that somehow just happened. On the ice, we click. Off the ice, too, for that matter. The team’s PR department has been happilyvolunteering the two of us for all sorts of promotional shit, and I suspect it’ll continue this year. I’ve done plenty of videos now, fromA Day in the Life of Ryker JamestoTen Things in Ryker James’s Backpackto the one where Kian and I ate Canadian snacks and American snacks and then compared them.

“Did you know cannibalism is legal every state but one?” Kian says as he kicks back in his chair. “So, like, if I died and gave you permission to eat me, you could. Unless you’re in Idaho.”

One dude in front of us turns his head and gives Kian a weird look.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say.

“Just leave the brain alone,” Kian continues.

“Don’t want us to consume your thoughts?” Laurent asks.

“Are you kidding me? It’d be fantastic as fuck if my thoughts would go inside your brain and then come out of your mouth. Seriously, no complaints.”

“That’s nightmare fuel right there,” Laurent says.

“Nah, you can get all sorts of weird as shit diseases from eating brains, so don’t.”

“Why all the cannibalism knowledge?” I ask.

“Yellowjackets, man.” Kian says. “I’ve been binging.”

“Any good?” I ask.

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