“Not gardenia,” I argue, taking a deep sniff. “Lilac?”
“Nah.” Trevi smells it again.
That’s when O’Doul walks into the locker room, catching three bare-assed men, nose to nose, sniffing a gooey liquid out of Drake’s palm. “What the fuck, boys? What is that?”
We all straighten up quickly, as if caught with something far more scandalous than bath products.
“Never mind. I don’t even want to know.” He gives us a grumpy look. “Video meeting in ten minutes.”
“But what’s with all the new stuff in the locker room?” Drake presses. He’s like a dog with a bone. “We don’t get it.”
“Hey, just ignore that stuff. Rebecca wants to provide perks for her female players—like shakes and stuff. But the salary cap rules say that she can’t give them anything unless it’s for everyone who works here.”
“Ah,” Castro says. “That makes sense. Although maxi pads in our shitter is a bridge too far.”
O’Doul shrugs. “Not my circus, not my monkeys. But you guys are my monkeys. And we need to keep our eyes on the prize, guys. There’s a video meeting for all monkeys in ten minutes.”
“Roger.” I head for the dressing room and my clothes.
Bryce Campeau is sitting on the bench poking at his phone. “Hey, thank you.”
“For what?” My mind is still on maxi pads and gardenias.
“For earlier. Going to the store for Sylvie’s things.”
“Oh. No big deal. How’s that going, anyway?” I pull on my briefs.
“The smoke detectors work, but I do not love the burglar bars.”
“No, man.” I jump into my jeans. “I mean—how is it going with her. And you.” I eye my friend, the broody Canadian. He looks uncomfortable.
“She is annoyed with me. But I can’t change the circumstances. I can’t make my life less hectic. It’s not a good time to change our relationship. I can’t give her the attention she deserves right now.”
“So you’re just going to make her wait for it?” That’s cold.
“I only want the best for her. Right now, I can’t be my best.”
“You’ll help keep her safe, but you won’t sweep her off her feet.”
“Yes.”
And I’ve got nothing.
“Will you keep an eye on her?”
“What kind of eye?” I ask, grumpy now. Keeping my eyes on her is all too easy.
“She is very sheltered. New York will be a lot for her.”
“Didn’t she play for the University of Michigan? That’s a huge school.”
“I still worry. Just watch out for her. As a favor to me.”
“Sure, man. Sure.”
I’m a good teammate, and a good friend, even when I think my friends are crazy.
Besides—I plan to be around the neighborhood a lot this season. No more clubbing. No more late nights, and no more scandals. This will be the year when I make everything happen.
I guess it’s just as well that the only woman I’ve been interested in since last spring is basically off limits.
Three rules, I remind myself. Let’s not break ’em.
Seven
Sniper Speed
SYLVIE
It’s my fifth practice, and our preseason is flying by at top speed.
And so is the puck, unfortunately.
The Bruisers’ goalie coach snaps a puck toward me. I’m forced into the butterfly position, protecting the five-hole. We’ve been practicing for forty-five minutes, and I’m dripping with sweat, my muscles shaking.
So I’m slow to recover in time for his next shot. I lunge to the left, deflecting sloppily with my stick. The puck drops to the ice. It’s not a goal, but it creates a rebound opportunity that would cost me in a real game.
The coach blows a whistle. “Reset!”
I basically stagger out of the crease to help the other goalies gather up all our pucks.
This practice session is a huge opportunity for me. The Bombshells don’t have their own goalie coach, but the Bruisers’ guy invited us to work out with his netminders today.
That means I’m practicing alongside veteran star Mike Beacon and up-and-comer Silas Kelly, as well as the other Bombshells goalie, Scarlet McCaulley. She’s twenty-five and an alternate for Team USA.
She’s also kicking my ass. Our season opener is ten days away, and it’s painfully obvious that I’m not ready yet. Scarlet has spent the last forty-five minutes stopping everything that moves. And the men are also crushing it.
I started out strong, but the pace of this session has been brutal. My instincts are still sharp. I stopped a lot of pucks that the coach slapped my way. But then I got tired awfully fast, and now half the time my body can’t close the deal.
It’s humiliating. At least Scarlet looks good. The goalie coach won’t necessarily go back to his pals and say, Tommy Hansen’s kid is going to sink the new women’s team before they even get started.
“We’ve got ten minutes left. Let’s do some harder shots,” Coach says, skating backward. “I always get help for these, because…” He crosses his left hand to his right shoulder. “Already had one surgery to repair the repetitive-stress injury I gave myself shooting on goalies. Don’t need to go under the knife again.”
That’s when two players skate onto the ice from the bench. The first one is Leo Trevi. But when I glance over to see who the other player is, I find myself looking into the sturdy gaze of Bryce Campeau.
It just figures, since Bryce is the other super-frustrating thing about my stint so far in Brooklyn. He’s not avoiding me, exactly. We’ve had lunch together twice. And when I left a message for my father the other day, asking a simple question about the WiFi hookup in our apartment, it was Bryce who rang the doorbell two hours later to fix it for me.
That’s exactly the type of attention I’m getting from Bryce. The polite, obligatory kind, followed by two cheek kisses and the occasional text to ask me how I’m doing.
So I’m frustrated—with Bryce, with my performance, and with so many other things. I’ve only been here for ten days, but so far Brooklyn is a tough nut to crack.
Leo and Bryce line up a series of pucks on the ice. They’ll skate past the four goalies, firing on us each in turn. Longer shots provide more reaction time, but greater force and speed.
Then the drill begins. The coach and his assistant skate through the foreground, obscuring our clear view of the shooters and their setups, while the two players fire at us.
Leo shoots the first puck on Silas, who handily stops it. Then Bryce gets a missile off on Scarlet, who just barely swats it away with the tip of her glove.
Suddenly there’s a puck hurtling toward me at high speed. I dive, but miss it as it whistles past my ear and into the net’s upper corner.
Damn it. I pick my exhausted self up just in time to misjudge a shot from Bryce, sending that one through the five-hole.
Focus, Hansen, I coach myself. I know I can do this.
It works, too. I get the next one from Leo. No problem. And then I stop three more from Bryce. But as I’m batting away the third one, I realize that the speed of that puck wasn’t much to deal with.