Matt Tierney
Defense
JR
Tim Coffey
Defense
SR
Nick Lattimore
Forward
JR
Nazem Talis
Forward
SOPH
Todd Nelson
Goalie
SOPH
Micah Kucher
Forward
SR
Jim Woodrow
Defense
SOPH
Jordan Trager
Forward
JR
Rand Hawley
Defense
SR
Hugo Karlsson
Defense
SR
Patrick Armstrong
Forward
SOPH
Mason Hawley
Forward
SOPH
CHAPTER ELEVEN
RYDER
Chad Jensen, drama queen
GIGI TEXTS LATER THAT NIGHT ASKING IF TOMORROW WORKS FOR our first private session. It’s weird seeing her name on my phone. Or maybe it’s weird seeing it as “Gigi.” She’s been Gisele in my head for years now. I feel like my phone should probably reflect that, so I pull up her contact info and change the name, chuckling to myself because I know how much this would annoy her if she knew.
ME:
Tomorrow works for me. But we have to clear the ice time with Jensen or Adley to see when we can use the rink.
GISELE:
Actually, I have a more private place for us to practice. You cool going somewhere else? Has to be at night, though. After 8.
ME:
Got it. You need me to be your dirty little secret.
GISELE:
It sounds so shady when you say it like that.
ME:
Doesn’t make it any less true.
She’s typing again. I’m sure some explanation for why she can’t be seen fraternizing with the enemy. I send a follow-up before she can respond.
ME:
Is it cool if Beckett tags along? Have some drills in mind but we need a third, preferably a d-man.
The dots disappear, then return.
GISELE:
Fine. If you think it’ll help.
ME:
Don’t worry, I’ll make sure he keeps our dirty secret to himself. Won’t tarnish your good girl reputation.
GISELE:
I’ll message you tomorrow to confirm the details.
GISELE:
Delightful chatting with you as always!
I grin, grabbing a beer from the fridge. I twist the cap off and join my friends in the living room. It’s Friday night, but nobody made any plans to go out. Shane’s on the couch with a dark-haired cheerleader in his lap. He met her on the quad earlier while she and some friends were suntanning topless on the grass. Now her tongue is mining for gold in his mouth. When I enter the room, they don’t even notice me.
Beckett sits in the armchair, playing a video game. His eyes twinkle when he notices where mine are focused. He nods toward the couple. “I keep asking to tag in, but…”
I chuckle and settle on the other end of the sectional from the kissing couple, mindlessly watching Beckett shoot zombies on the screen. He loses the level when the horde traps him against a chain-link fence, then sets down the controller and reaches for his phone. He checks the screen.
“Still no lists,” he says.
I nod. Training camp wrapped up this morning, but the final roster still hasn’t been released. Jensen said there’d be two lists: the full roster, and the nineteen or so starters he plans to dress for our first game.
I’m worried about some of my Eastwood teammates. There’ll be guys who won’t make the cut, and that’s going to be a tough pill for them to swallow.
“I assumed it would be emailed at the end of the day,” Beckett says. “Like, regular business hours.”
I lift my beer to my lips and take a swig. “Maybe the asshole likes the drama.”
Beck snorts. “Right. Chad Jensen, Drama Queen.”
A soft moan sounds from the end of the couch. Shane has his hand up the cheerleader’s shirt.
“Yo,” Beckett tells them. “Take it somewhere else.”
Shane pries his lips off hers. His eyes are a bit hazy, but there’s an unmistakable gleam of humor. “Says the biggest exhibitionist I know,” he taunts at Beck.
“Fine, I’ll own that.”
“Besides, it’s not like you’re not enjoying the show.”
“Of course I’m enjoying it,” Beckett groans. “Kara, what are you doing over there with this asshole? I’m clearly the better man here.”
Shane’s hookup partner slides off his lap and settles beside him. I notice him do some strategic rearranging, as if we all haven’t seen it before. Dude’s been making a sport out of hooking up since his girlfriend dumped—sorry, mutually dumped his ass.
He throws his arm around Kara’s shoulders and reaches for the IPA on the coffee table. “Still no list?” he says, also checking his screen.
My phone dings, and both guys lean forward.
“Is that it?” Shane demands.
“Jesus Christ. Relax. No, it’s just Owen.”
OWEN MCKAY:
Got time to chat?
I’m about to text back, then think Fuck it and decide to give him a call.
“Be right back.” I’m already dialing Owen as I duck out of the living room.
I walk barefoot toward the glass sliding doors in the kitchen. It’s early September and the sun has already set, but it’s still warm outside. The houses on this street have decent-sized backyards, and I sit on the top step of our small cedar deck. Shane’s parents bought us a patio set to put out here, but we’ve been too lazy to assemble everything, so the table is still in its box in the garage, the chairs covered in plastic wrap.
Voices drift toward me from several houses down. Mostly male voices, with a few female ones in the mix. Loud guffaws of laughter intermingle with a pop-rock song whose lyrics I can’t make out. Sounds like someone’s having a party down there.
“Hey,” I say when Owen picks up.
“Hey,” his familiar voice slides into my ear. “How you doing?”
“Good, brother. You?”
“Busy as hell lately. I got suckered into a bunch of OTAs and it’s been eating up my schedule since July.”
Offseason team activities. I know the lingo. And I will say, it is kind of sick that I know an actual superstar in the form of NHL powerhouse Owen McKay. This must be how Gigi feels.
Sometimes I watch his games and wonder what the hell I’m doing wasting time in college. Owen went to play for Los Angeles right out of high school at the age of eighteen. As a rookie he didn’t see a lot of ice time, but during his sophomore season, watch out. He’s been playing for four years now, each season more explosive than the last.
Owen’s the one who talked me into sticking to the college route. He knew how important it was to me to get an education, so when I was vacillating, debating whether I should go pro after high school and follow in his footsteps, he reminded me of the education goals I’d set for myself.
I think it was the right call. I don’t know how well I would have done in the pros at eighteen years old, as demonstrated by my childish postgame performance in the Worlds. Luckily, I still got drafted despite that incident. Dallas has the rights to me, and I’m excited to head down there after graduation.
Apparently, Dallas is also the subject of this call.
“So, listen, I spoke to Julio Vega last night. He was at the golf tournament the team was playing in. Pulled me aside after the trophy ceremony and brought up your name.”
My back tenses. “What did he say?”