Page 1 of What Are The Odds?
1. Just getting started
Levi.
I manoeuvred through the crowd, shouldering my way through bodies until I was back at my table. It was easy for me. I was taller than most people here. And the ones that were bigger were others from my team. Lastlings, the sports bar closest to campus, was packed. It was usually busy, but tonight every table was full and the line at the bar was longer than normal. The guys had chosen a table which was partway between the countless mounted televisions and dance floor. Will wanted to watch the game. Ryan and Tripp wanted to pick up. I hadn’t decided what I wanted yet. I’d start with a few drinks and let alcohol decide. The whole team were here, taking up two tables on either side of us. Most of the screens were broadcasting football. The national hockey season wasn’t due to start for another few weeks. Our college season had started tonight. We’d sealed the first win of the season. I was eager to keep the momentum going and make my mark. This was my final college season. My last chance to hone my skills and gain confidence before joining the NHL next year. In my freshman year of college, I’d been drafted to the Colorado Eagles. Close to home, but far enough away from my family to carve out my own life. It was a strange feeling, being so close to kickstarting the dream I’d imagined since I was a kid. Though I was eager to get there, I wasn’t writing off this year. Usually the Lastlings crowd thinned as the night got late. Not tonight. It was nearing two-am, yet the walk-ins were making it seem as though the night had just begun. Most were clearly here to watch some type of sport. Half of them were dressed in blue and white paraphernalia, while the other half were sporting white and red. The main screen cut to a new sport. One I didn’t recognise. Two teams were lined up on either side of a microphone, dressed in the same colours as the rowdy Lastlings’ crowd. Over half the bar began to sing intime with the anthem playing on the screen. They were loud as hell.
“What’s going on?” Tripp, my right wing and roommate, asked.
The blonde he’d picked up was twirling her hair around her finger as she stared at him like he was heaven on earth. He’d netted tonight’s overtime winner. So I guess he kind of was right now.
“AFL grand final,” Morrison said, clearing the glasses from our table.
Morrison was one of our defencemen. He bartended at Lastlings whenever he could around our hockey schedule. He was the reason our team always had a table, and the football guys were currently crammed around two bar barrels. He wasn’t working tonight, but I guess he couldn’t help it.
Tripp’s eyebrows furrowed. “Huh?”
“It’s like the Australian Superbowl.”
Australians. Now the anthem made sense. When it concluded, a guy dressed in a red and white jersey moved to the front of their table.
“Here are the drinking rules,” he drawled in a thick accent.
He gestured to a messily scrawled list. One drink if your team gets caught holding the ball. Two drinks if Buddy gets a goal. Three drinks if Dangerfield kicks a behind. Four drinks if Selwood ducks into a tackle. Finish your drink if your team kicks it out on the full. Scull a whole drink if anyone takes a Specky. None of it made sense to me. Not one thing.
“Time for Rage Cage buy in,” he said. “Are you all ready?”
“Wait,” a girl shouted in a matching accent. “I can’t find Grace.”
“Here. I’m here.”
A girl with long blonde hair hanging beneath a blue and white beanie pushed her way through the crowd. Despite the bar being hot, she was dressed as though it was about to snow inside. Her friends parted, making space for her at the table.
“Another beer?” Morrison checked, gesturing to my empty glass.
I thought about it. It was getting late, though I still hadn’t decided whether I’d be going home alone or not.
“Sure. Last one.”
We were celebrating a win after all. It almost hadn’t been one. We were down all game. We’d nabbed a quick shot early in the third period, I’d evened the score with another in a Phil-U power play, and Tripp had landed the last with fourteen seconds left of overtime. It was a sloppy win, but a win, nonetheless. The guys were sure as hell reaping the rewards. Most of them had picked up an eager fan to help them celebrate, and those that hadn’t were too drunk to notice they were going home alone. As last year’s National Champions, there was a lot of pressure on the team this season. And as the team captain, even more pressure on me. I wasn’t worried. I was ready for it. Half the bar cheered when a siren rang. I guess the Australian Superbowl had begun.
“Hey Captain.”
Veronica slid into the seat Morrison had just vacated. She was wearing a Phil-U hockey jersey, which was tucked into a black leather skirt, and her dark hair was secured in a high ponytail. On most girls it was innocent, but on Veronica it was like an invitation. It was a perfect thing to wrap your hand around, to guide her head where you wanted it. I knew how she operated because I’d ended up in Veronica’s sheets before, and she’d ended up in mine. With her it was easy. She knew what it was, and she never asked for anything more.
“Want to get out of here?” she suggested.
Case in point. She didn’t bother with small talk.
“Um. Alright.”
I looked over my shoulder when someone called out my name.
“Hold on.”
Will was waving me over. He was on the wrong side of the bar. The football side. I’d known Will as long as I’d known I wanted to play hockey professionally. He was my best mate, teammate and roommate all rolled into one. We’d played juniors together, graduated from the same high school, been scouted by Phil-U, then made the 27-hour drive from Colorado to Philadelphia. He’d been drafted as well, but to Texas. It would be weird not having him close by next year. Our lives had centralised around each other for as long as I could remember. We were closer than a lot of guys were to their real brothers. I bypassed the table engrossed in their Australian Superbowl and shouldered my way to the front of the group that had formed. Ryan, my third roommate and teammate, was face-to-face with Ryker Richardson, the quarterback and captain of Phil-U's idolised football team. Something was definitely wrong. Nothing good came from Ryker getting into our business. The rivalry between the hockey and football teams was ingrained in Phil-U history. I’m sure it wasn’t founded on anything worthwhile, but our team had spitefully kept it going. It was always a competition. Which team could have a better season. Which could bring in the biggest crowds. Which could throw the best parties. Which could be the top dog. I often got stuck doing Phil-U marketing with Ryker. When we agreed to captainship, we inadvertently also signed up to media interviews and cringeworthy videos Phil-U used in their recruitment programs. There were other sports and athletic programs at Phil-U, but as far as we were each concerned, only one mattered. To me, it was hockey. To Ryker, it was football.
“What’s going on?” I asked, stopping at Ryan’s side.
Ryker crossed his arms over his chest. “Your boy just got caught in the bathroom with my running back’s girlfriend.”
