Page 2 of Rookie Season
“You two can’t be serious,” Penn says. “Noah was captain of our D1 college team and won two Frozen Fours in a row; don’t act like he doesn’t deserve a spot on the first line.”
Sandine rolls his eyes. “This ain’t D1 anymore, kids.”
“Welcome to the big leagues, boys,” Carver guffaws, throwing his head back as he laughs. “You three are in for a rude awakening.”
“How many years did you spend in the minors again, Carver? I can’t quite remember?” Fisher muses, rubbing his chin like he’s deep in thought.
The comment instantly has Carver’s laughter coming to a halt. He spent the first half of his career in the AHL before getting a chance in the NHL.
Carver steps forward, grabbing Fisher’s jersey. Fisher remains cool and unruffled, simply lifting one eyebrow in challenge. Carver grits his teeth. “You better watch yourself, pup.”
A throat clears loudly, and our heads snap toward the sound.
Mitch—er, Coach Anderson—is standing in the doorway,a foreboding figure with his broad shoulders and tree trunk arms. “Do we have a problem here?”
Carver lets go of Fisher's jersey, and Fisher takes a step back.
Coach Anderson scans the room, making sure everyone’s in line before turning and striding back out of the dressing room.
Sandine sneers at me. “Good thing your uncle is here to save you, Nepo Baby.”
Carver sighs heavily. “Coach Anderson is his brother-in-law, for the last time.”
“Whatever.” Sandine turns and walks back to his cubby, Carver trailing behind him.
I can feel every eye on me as I quickly remove my gear. I’m careful to keep an even expression on my face, but it’s difficult. I’ve played hockey since I was five years old. Begged my parents, when they were still here, to sign me up for every training camp I heard about. My hard work led to a full ride D1 hockey scholarship, where I continued showing up every time the damn rink was open. I was there at the crack of dawn, before anyone else was even awake, and often stayed hours after practice was over. Hockey was, is, and always will be my life. My only dedication.
And now all my hard work is being ignored because the coach is my sister’s husband. This is such bullshit. Mitch Anderson has little to do with my success—as much as I love the guy—aside from a short stint as my youth hockey coach when I was twelve.
I slip on my shower shoes and rush toward the showers, ignoring the stares from my new teammates. After taking the fastest shower of my life, I change and head out to the player lot in search of Fisher’s vehicle since I carpooled today withhim and Penn. When I spot the sparkling new, dark indigo G-Wagon, I test the door handle and find it locked. I’m desperate to crawl inside and have a moment of peace to sort out the dumpster fire that just took place in the dressing room.
Two days before our first game and my new teammates apparently hate me. I lean my forehead against the cool glass of the back passenger window and take a deep breath, remembering how my childhood therapist used to walk me through guided breathing exercises I could use when overwhelmed. I haven’t needed them in a long time, probably years. But it seems to calm my anxiety the same way it did long ago.
“Get your greasy face off my baby,” Fisher yells from what sounds like several yards away.
I turn and glare at him. “I just showered, dumbass. Now unlock the door.”
A fancybleep-bloopsounds, and the door opens when I test the handle again. I have about five seconds of solace inside the camel-leather interior before Penn slides into the front passenger seat, followed by Fisher in the driver’s seat.
They both turn and look at me.
“You know everything those idiots said back there was complete bullshit, right?” Penn asks, resting a tattooed arm on the center console.
Fisher shoves his arm off. “I might not have played with y’all in college, but all the guys in my program at South Georgia knew who you were.”
With a groan, I allow my head to fall back against the cool leather. “It doesn’t matter. That’s all in the past.” Dragging my head off the headrest, I look at Penn and Fisher. “It’s only right now that matters. And my teammates don’t respect me or even take me seriously.”
Fisher smirks, glancing at Penn then back at me. “You know what you need, Downsby?”
Penn smirks too, clearly knowing what Fisher is about to recommend.
“Some drinks and beautiful women.”
Penn nods in approval, a smile growing on his face. “Puck, yeah.”
Fisher shoots Penn a look. “Are we really doing that?”
“Absolutely, we are.” Penn nods solemnly. “It’s never failed us.”
