Page 11 of Checking Mr. Wrong
CHAPTER 4
ASHER
I’ve arrived.Me, Asher Tremblay. I am stepping onto the ice today for the first time as a for-real, one-hundred-percent, true-and-complete NHL player. This is it. My little-kid self dreamed about this while firing pucks at the garage door until Mom threatened to make me shovel the driveway for the rest of the winter—which, knowing Mom, meant every snowstorm from now until spring thaw in May.
Around me, the usual practice chaos unfolds. There are hockey sticks clattering, chirps flying, and grown men acting like toddlers in very expensive skates who’ve somehow convinced society to pay them millions to play tag with a rubber disk. Well, until Carson Crane, Ice Breakers winger and my temporary roommate (emphasis ontemporarybecause this man leaves dirty dishes lying around like he’s marking his territory), slows to a stop in front of me and picks up something only he can see on the ice.
“Whose tooth is this?” he asks in his most sincere Southern drawl, holding up the small, off-white artifact like he’s hosting a very niche episode ofAntiques Roadshow: Dental Edition.
Cade Lennox, our right wing, and one of my all-time favoriteplayers ever, skates over, pats his mouth like he’s taking inventory, and shrugs. “Not mine. All accounted for.”
“Well, we can’t just leave it here,” Carson says as he tosses it to me. I’m so used to reacting when I’m near the ice, I catch it on reflex, then immediately hold it away from my body like it might detonate. I scan for something—anything—to put it on. A napkin. A leaf. My last shred of dignity.
So.Thisis what it’s like to be surrounded by your heroes.
“Why not?” I ask, because I’m apparently the only sane person in this conversation, albeit the one who is also holding onto said tooth now. Also noted is the fact this tooth could have come in handy about an hour earlier when I was riding back from the airport with Mabel, but never mind.
Carson looks at me like I’ve suggested we burn down a hospital. “What if it’s a bad omen?”
“The omen of what, toothless hockey players?”
I stare at them both. These are professional athletes. These are grown men who get interviewed on television and have their own Wikipedia pages. And they’re genuinely having a conversation about a random tooth that’s been discovered. I’m not sure if I’ve found the family I didn’t know I needed or if I’ve been tricked by the Universe. I guess we’ll see soon enough.
The first day of practice on a new team can be compared to the first day of school in my opinion, and for my OCD. Did I spend a half hour last night arranging and then rearranging my new room? I did. I also had an early morning check-in with my therapist to talk about the new shared space of a locker room. It’ssomething that seems so minute to the average guy, but to me it’s a place where I don’t know the things I need to know: who cleans it and how often, has my locker been cleansed, and should I wear my flip-flops when I’m taking a shower, like my mom used to make me do when I went away to camp?
“Asher,” Carson says, “you manage to get your gear from the airport this morning?”
“I did,” I say, pumping a fist in the air. “Which is goodbecause I did not want to be the guy showing up on his first day without his stuff.”
“Hey, Jamie,” Carson calls out to one of the guys on the ice. “Have you met Asher yet?”
My head would have to be in the sand to not know who Jamie Hayes is. Besides our captain, he’s had a long career and is another one of my idols. He doesn’t need to know I’m pretty much fangirling as he glides over to the side of the rink, nodding at me as he stops.
“Tremblay. Nice to meet you,” he says as he takes off his glove and thrusts his hand my way. “Glad you could join us.”
“Thanks,” I say, seeing my chance and tossing the lone tooth to the side and shaking his hand. “It’s an honor, really.”
Jamie chuckles at my eager response. I know I’m a nerd, and an excited one. He turns to the ice where a few more players have appeared and are getting warmed up. “Lucian. Weston. Get over here. I’ve got another defenseman to add to your group.”
“You say that like we’re a boy band,” Weston says, rolling his eyes. “If it’s them versus us, who would we be anyway—N’Sync or Backstreet Boys?”
“Please,” Lucian says, skating backward as he holds his stick in the air. “Like it’s a contest. Backstreet Boys. All. Day. Long!”
Beside me Carson grunts. “You guys, Coach Hauser said we need to…”
“What?” a voice calls out. I don’t have to look to know it belongs to Coach Dale Hauser. Besides meeting him when they brought me on board, he’s someone I’ve grown up listening to on various sports talk shows over the years. Talk about a career in hockey. This man was born and bred into the sport. His whole family played, and I’m pretty sure that our team captain was one of his finest players when he was coaching the New York Blades back in the day. “What did I say you need to do?”
Carson clears his throat, his eyes darting around our crew as if he was looking for backup. “You said last night for us to start our drills as soon as we hit the ice today.”
“Yes, I did.” Coach Hauser cocks his head to the side and lets his gaze land on each of us individually as he moves in a circle with us. “If it’s what I asked you to do, then why do I have all of these pairs of eyes staring at me? Get out on the ice and get started.”
Everyone scatters like a group of rats on Monday morning in New York City. I know, it’s not a nice thought, but rats are part of New York. I’m beginning to go down a rabbit hole of stats in regards to rodents in cities as I start to hit the ice and follow suit, only to have Coach hold up a hand to stop me.
“Welcome to the team, Asher.” He shakes my hand firmly and pats my shoulder. “You get settled in okay?”
“Sure did, thank you, sir,” I say, maybe a little too fast.
“You’ve been practicing, right?” he asks, his tone light but with an edge that suggests he’s already forming expectations.
