Page 94 of On the Line
Having done this once before, the whole getting used to a new team and city thing, Mitch knew it wasn’t always an easy transition. He’d lost so much in this trade, but these players, his new teammates, had lost something, too. They had lost a teammate, a brother, and surely felt exactly how his former Warriors teammates felt.
But, fitting in when he arrived in Detroit had been easy, the guys welcoming him with open arms. He could only hope the same would be said for the Knights.
“Everyone, this is your new teammate, Mitch Frambough,” Coach said when he led Mitch into the locker room. “I’m going to pair him up with Huntley today, and we’ll see how that goes. I might end up doing some shifting later on, but right now, based on style of play, that seems the best fit.” Coach turned to Mitch. “Your stall is that empty one over there. All of your gear should be exactly what you asked for.”
Mitch nodded to Coach and started across the room. Gabe Huntley clomped over to him on his skates. The Knights’ captain was several inches shorter than Mitch, probably only six-foot-one, but barrel-chested and ridiculously fast. He was one of the top defensemen in the league.
Next to Mitch, of course.
“Gabe Huntley,” he said, sticking his hand out, which Mitch grasped and shook. “Nice to have you here, bro.”
Mitch gave him a small smile. “Thanks, man. Appreciate that.”
“I know being traded isn’t ideal. You were in Detroit for, what, four seasons?”
“Five,” Mitch corrected him.
“I’m sorry, truly. I can’t imagine how hard this all must be. But all I ask of you is that you do everything you can to help us win.”
“Trust me, I plan on it.”
“Good. Then we’ll get along just fine.”
Mitch snorted. “You’re kinda stuck with me, anyway.”
“That may be true,” Gabe said. “But I could easily make your life hell. And the last thing we need is animosity among teammates, especially when it looks like we’ll be partners.”
“I get it, man. I can assure you I will do my job to the best of my abilities.”
“Perfect.” He spun, stalking across the room and through the door that led to the ice.
Mitch appreciated Gabe’s no-nonsense attitude. Having been on the delivering end of such a conversation a few times before, he could understand the sentiment Gabe was trying to impart.
Mitch shook his head and turned to his locker, quickly scanning all of the gear to make sure he’d have everything he needed. Each piece of his equipment was new and shiny, with the exception of his skates. Those he had brought with him from Detroit, because any self-respecting hockey player knew that breaking in a new pair of skates was a bitch, and he didn’t have time to go through that whole ordeal right now.
He stripped out of his street clothes and donned his new practice gear: black pants, white socks, and a silver jersey with his name and new number—91–on the back. In Detroit, he had been 87.
Next, he dropped onto his stool to lace up his skates, shaking off the memory of Detroit. LA was his team now. There was no changing that or going back. He had decided to forget about Detroit, forget his teammates and his friends. Forget Lexie. It wouldn’t do him any good to drag all of that into a new locker room. Not when he had to go out onto the ice in a few minutes and show off his skills to a new group of guys.
Rising to his feet, he made his way across the room and stepped out into the hallway, moving down the tunnel until the arena opened up around him.
It was no Detroit, but he had to admit the Knights had spared no expense in the construction of their arena. Only five years old, it was filled to the rafters, which were lined with an impressive number of banners, with cushy faux-leather seats for fans to enjoy the game in comfort. The Jumbotron was the size of a house, an impressive sight to behold even now when it was dark.
The ice called his name, and he answered, placing one skate down and pushing off, gliding to the far boards, then picking up his pace as he turned to take a lap around. Several of his new teammates stopped to watch him skate. He had played against them just a few weeks ago, so his speed shouldn’t come as a surprise.
He took a few loops around, warming up, before heading down to where Gabe was participating in a passing drill with a few other guys.
“Everyone knows Mitch, right?” Gabe asked.
The three others nodded or mumbled their affirmation, and Mitch struggled not to roll his eyes.
Here goes nothing,he thought.
Practice went surprisingly well; the guys were welcoming and helpful. As a veteran player, Mitch didn’t have to get used to the pace of an NHL game, or learn any of the minutiae of the game that changes from college to the pros, but he did have the unenviable job of getting used to a new offensive system.
His team in Detroit was full of scorers; any one of the four lines was capable of producing a goal at any given moment.
The same could not be said for the Knights. They were a defensive-heavy team, relying on their blue line to keep them in games.
