Page 13 of Rookie Season
“Hey! Ally!”
My head swivels to where he’s looking, and the puck misses the net by about a foot.
I scowl as I spot Ally beyond the plexiglass, grinning and waving at Penn and Fisher. Her blonde hair is down today,falling over her shoulders, and she’s wearing a pink hoodie and light blue jeans.
“Puck,” I mutter to myself, careful with my language so I don’t add any more stickers to my chart. I glance at the biscuit that missed the net. This is exactly why I didn’t want any distractions. And Ally isdefinitelya distraction. I close my eyes and remind myself she’s just another pretty girl. There’s never been a girl who could distract me from my goals, and new roommate or not, this one’s no different.
I can live across the hallway from her and her damn cat and play my ass off and have a killer year. It’s not that big of a deal.It’s the same inner speech I gave myself this morning when I walked into my previously pristine bathroom and saw her makeup products strewn all over the countertop.
Penn nudges me in the side. “Dude, say hi to Ally.”
Swallowing, I look over at the glass and give her a curt nod. Her smile falters, and she mimics my movement, giving me a nod back. Yeah, she’s not any happier about me than I am about her.
“She’s a nice girl, Downsby,” Fisher says. “What’s your problem?”
I grind my teeth in annoyance. “Well, for starters, you never mentioned that some random girl you went to college with and her furry friend were moving in. And secondly, I didn’t want any distractions this year, and now?—”
Penn cuts me off with a low whistle. “Ahhh, now it makes sense. She’s under your skin.”
Fisher waggles his eyebrows. “Dude. Why didn’t you just say so?”
I tut. “She’s not under my skin; I?—”
“Protesting just makes you sound more guilty,” Penn crows, and I expect Fisher to take another jab at me, too, but instead, his expression grows uncharacteristically serious.
“Listen, just be careful with her. She’s been through a lot.”
His comment ignites my curiosity, and I want to know more about Fisher and Ally’s connection. He’s a total ladies’ man, but he doesn’t flirt with Ally at all…he treats her more like he’s her protective big brother.
I bury my curiosity and sigh heavily. “She’s not under my skin, and I don’t need to be careful with her, because I won’t be pursuing her in any way.”
Penn huffs a laugh. “I’ve never seen you flustered over a girl like this.”
“I didn’t know you were even capable of looking at girls in the same affectionate way you look at your hockey stick,” Fisher adds, his previous glimmer of seriousness replaced by his usual smirking assholery.
“Can it, both of you,” I order.
In response, Penn and Fisher both grin at me dumbly.
I roll my eyes, deciding this conversation is useless, and skate off to finish warming up.
Once warmies are over, we head back to the locker room where I’m looking forward to hearing my notoriously grumpy brother-in-law deliver a motivational speech. This should be interesting.
Coach Anderson follows us into the dressing room, and we all sit down and await his words. He’s wearing a black suit that can barely contain his big shoulders and a purple tie that’s probably killing him. Mitch Anderson recently retired from a long career as a defenseman for the D.C. Eagles, whose colors are navy and red, and he’s mentioned it still feels traitorous to don the Lions’ purple and turquoise.
Mitch unbuttons his suit jacket and shoves his hands into the pockets of his black pants. “Well, it’s our first game, boys.” He arches one eyebrow. “Not just for the season, andnot just for the rookies.” His eyes dart to me. “But for me and Slater as your coaches.” He nods to his assistant coach, Sebastian Slater, who’s standing beside him.
Coach Slater is the polar opposite of Mitch, with dark blond hair and a permanent smile on his face. Like Mitch, Slater is also a recently retired NHL player who’s just getting into coaching. He spent most of his career playing as a forward for the Atlanta Cyclones, and he’s another player I grew up watching and admiring. I’m looking forward to learning from these men, and though they’re both rookies at their jobs, I think they’ll make a good coaching team.
“We all have something to prove, but let’s work together.” Mitch pauses, his eyebrows set in a straight, no nonsense line. “Now get back out there and kick ass.”
I laugh as my teammates stand and cheer for Mitch’s speech. Mitch ignores them, turning and making his way to our bench. Coach Slater follows with an iPad in hand, a smile playing on his lips, like he’s holding back a laugh.
Oil and water, those two.
Once the game starts and I’m back on the ice, I’m no longer nervous about being on the first line, or focusing on the massive crowd surrounding us…I’m zoned in on the puck.
I’m moving on the ice, snagging the puck from a player on the opposing team, and my instincts take over. Suddenly, this isn’t my first NHL game, I don’t have anything to prove, and I'm just playing hockey and doing my best the way I always have. I pass the puck to our forward as we skate toward the offensive zone and get into a position close to the net. He hits the puck back to me, and I tap it into the corner, the black cylinder barely sliding past the goalie’s skate.
