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One of the few perks of getting traded to Montreal was that the Voyageur’s plane kicked ass. From what Jake Merrell had gathered, the uber-wealthy French-Canadian family that owned the team had “gifted” them a luxury jet after Shane Hollander’s rookie season, when they’d made the play offs for the first time in twenty-one years. The plane was spacious, equipped with seats that reclined into a serviceable bed for long flights, and had a section with a large flat screen smart TV were they could play videogames and watch movies. Or ESPN.
His friends from The Bears—current champions and Jake’s former team—had wailed with jealousy when Jake sent pictures of the set up to their group chat (the alternative one they'd created where they weren't supposed to discuss strategy). The Bears’ plane was some Boeign reject, a passenger plane that threatened to give them all scoliosis every flight. Jake really felt for them. There was a time when flying all over the US and Canada had been merely tedious, but lately air traffic worked as though whoever was running the show had a personal grudge against logic.
Take now, for example—the Voyageurs were on their way to Boston after narrowly beating the Miami Sharks on home ice and, for some incomprehensible reason, they would have a layover in Dallas. Though they were on the tail end of the pre-season exhibition matches, the team was desolate. The rest of the Voyageurs because they would miss the chance for a last practice session before their match against their consummate rivals, and Jake because now he would have zero chance of meeting up with his friends prior to their match.
He sent them a quick pic of the fancy plane conference room, together with a chirp that the Voyageurs were plotting their upcoming humiliation. In truth, they were all trying to kill time on the flight. The caterers had laid out a bunch of snacks, mostly the healthy shit that their captain, Shane Hollander, encouraged them to eat. Jake grabbed a cluster of grapes and slices of some fancy cheddar. He’d been opting for the healthy stuff and, much to his disgust, he had to admit that he was noticing some improvements in the bathroom, if not on the ice.
“What’ll happen if the plane can’t make it to Boston in time?” asked Babikov, their rookie D-man and Jake’s linemate. “Would that mean we forfeit?”
“Nah,” said J. J. Boiziau, another of Jake’s linemates. “They’ll just start the game later, as soon as they can ferry our asses to the rink.”
“Don’t fucking jinx us, man,” said Gilbert Comeau, their third line center. “I fucking hate playing jetlagged. Might as well forfeit.”
“Hush,” hissed Hayden Pike, their second line center. “Let’s just see what the talking heads are saying about the season.”
Nothing fascinating, it turned out. After ten years at this job, Jake could recite the pre-season ESPN slop from memory. Over in the Western conference, Seattle, California, and Vancouver were dominating. There was probably a Wagner or Wagner-related rookie who would surely win Rookie of the Year (for the last two seasons they’d been swearing that said Wagner or Wagner-related kid would overtake Hollander and/or Rozanov in the rankings). Colorado needed to get its shit together. As for the Eastern conference, the Sharks once again had a promising start and the Centaurs were, as usual, shitting the bed. Of course, the Bears and the Voyageurs were—
—wait. Jake perked up. It seemed like they were focusing on stuff beyond the Hollander-Rozanov rivalry, which had proven to be so popular (and thus profitable) for the MLH.
What’s got us all scratching our heads this season is how Voyageurs coach Henry Theriault managed to craft such a killer first line with two bottom tier draft picks.
“Wow, lady,” said Dylan Xie, one of said bottom tier draft picks. “Tell us how you really feel.”
Nellie, I’m not one for foolishness, but I’m starting to buy the theory that Theriault gave up Kalle Wynn and the first three rounds of the draft because he knew that no one else would go for Xie or Babikov.
“Hey, they’re talking about us!” said Babikov.
“Bro, did you just get that?” asked Patrice Drapeau, their goalie. “Who are the rookies in our first line?”
Shane Hollander chose to grace them with his presence at that moment. He nodded at them in greeting, then made his way towards Hayden Pike. The guy sitting next to Pike got up immediately to make room for the Captain, who always gravitated towards his former right wing. “Thanks,” mumbled Hollander, then fixed his attention to the screen.
Xie is definitely the most shocking development so far—the boy came out of nowhere and is probably the best rookie forward in the Eastern conference.
A few Voyageurs teased Xie for blushing at the compliment. Jake, ever the pessimist, noted the few whose faces went sour. Jealousy was a bitter poison and Xie already had targets on his back: being short for a hockey player, definitely too long-haired and pretty, and gay on top of it all (technically, only five players knew that for sure, but all suspected it).
Is Xie that good? Or his playing in the same line as Hollander and Merrell?
Hollander and Merrell aren’t scoring goals for him—the kid scored at least once every game he’s played so far.
The screen cut to a highlight reel of some of Xie’s goals and yeah, there was material to work with. Xie had good instincts and enough confidence to take shots that many rookies would chicken out on. It was the beginning of the season though, so they ran out of play footage fairly quickly and switched to shots of Xie waiting around at the bench. Often, he was talking and playing with either Babikov or Comeau. A few times, he was listening to Theriault’s orders, or just pointers from Jake or Pike.
“Why the fuck is the cameraman always focused on Xie?” asked one of the players.
“I bribe them before the game to always be filming me,” said Xie. “Cause I love that shit, especially when I close my eyes for a second and online hockey stans decide I’m disrespectful or dying.”
“Quiet, I’m trying to listen,” said Hollander.
I’m telling you, Theriault knew how good Xie was. It’s probably why he was willing to give up Wynn.
No scout ever mentioned him at all, not even after he was picked. There wasn’t much to say until the season started.
No way he knew; the man got lucky. Sometimes, average players flourish once they make it to the MLH. Who knows why? Maybe Xie just meshed with Hollander right away. They have so much in common.
Like what?
Jake watched as the talking heads looked at each other awkwardly before the blond one shook his head and changed the subject. There was only one thing—besides playing hockey professionally—that Xie and Hollander had in common: they were both East Asian.
J. J. snorted. “Bros, do you have racial telepathy?”
“But I thought Shane is Japanese,” said Babikov.
“My bad,” said J. J. “The racial telepathy won’t work if you’re different types of Asian.”
A bunch of the guys laughed and some tried to add to the bit, but Hollander shut it down. “That’s enough,” he snapped, glaring at the screen. “This is why I don’t bother with the ESPN talking heads. They don’t know shit about hockey. Watch all the games yourself and do you own analysis.” He stood up. “I’ll go do that before these idiots bust out the calipers and start measuring skulls.”
But he paused when ESPN started playing a reel of Rozanov’s goals of the season. There was more footage to work with. Rozanov had been on fire during the exhibition games; the internet speculated that he was responding to “concerns” that he hadn’t trained during the summer because he’d been too busy fucking his way through Eastern Europe. It was mostly an excuse for people to indulge salacious speculation about Rozanov’s rock star persona while pretending they were talking about hockey.
The reigning champions are dominating thanks to surprising on-ice chemistry between star center Ilya Rozanov and former Voyageur Kalle Wynn. Not to mention, they have Ryan Price hulking out on their behalf every game.
They ended with a montage of Roz kissing Wynn’s helmet after his goals. Wynn had frozen or cringed at first but by the end, he stood still and angled his head like he expected the affectionate display, always nodding at Roz after. The other Bears swarmed around them, but did not touch them.
“Fags,” someone mumbled under their breath.
Hollander walked off with a huff.
“I can’t believe Rozanov won Wynn over already,” said Drapeau. “I was hoping they’d kill each other.”
Jake decided he’d had enough and retreated to his seat. He exchanged a few messages with his wife Xiaoyan, but she was busy putting their six month old to bed. Teething pains, or so she said. Jake was sad to be missing it. Fuck, what was he doing with his life? Did he want to quit? Was he having a mid life crisis? He itched to vent to someone. Roz, maybe. The man was a good listener despite struggling with English. But Roz was the captain of his team’s biggest rivals. If Jake wanted to whine, he had a new captain.
He snorted, imagining going to Hollander for emotional support.
As an aging pro hockey player entering the more mature stage of his career (twenty-eight years old), Jake was not surprised often. That should be kept in perspective when he considered that he’d been very surprised to learn that Shane Hollander was a dick. Not that much, considering that he was also a pro hockey player, but still. Jake had spent three seasons watching Hollander gracefully ignore every chirp thrown his way as he dragged the Voyageurs to the playoffs like the energizer bunny. Even Rozanov couldn’t get anything more than an annoyed huff from Hollander, and Roz could be so fucking annoying that there were three separate MLH betting pools about when/where Scott Hunter would finally cave and throw the first punch.
There were no such betting pools for Hollander. Jake got why. No matter how much the media hyped up the legendary Hollander-Rozanov rivalry, no matter how much Roz pulled Hollander’s pig tails, no matter how many leading questions reporters lobbed at him, Hollander was never anything other than vaguely polite and complimentary of Roz’s skills. They were intense at face offs and hyperfocused on each other every game they played, but win or lose, Hollander always nodded and shook Rozanov’s hand at the end.
Hollander was such a good sort, right? He wanted to play clean, fair hockey, like any good and polite Canadian boy.
So it had been a bit of a shock for Jake to witness Prince Charming of Hockey himself make eye contact with one of his players and say “Hey, fourth-line-left-wing, did you see if Theriault made it to his office yet?” in a completely casual tone of voice, like it was a normal and acceptable thing to do.
“Yeah,” said the poor guy, continuing to lace his skates. “He’s there.”
“Thanks,” said Shane, nodding at Jake as he left.
“What the fuck,” said Jake.
“Don’t worry about it, man,” said the fourth—Aubrey Williams, Jesus Christ. “I’m flattered he remembered what position I play.”
So that was Jake’s second day as a Voyageur and it set his expectations so low that he’d been pleasantly surprised ever since. The Voyageurs functioned with minimal drama despite having a captain so far up his own ass that he knew the names of maybe seven of his players. Jake tried to cut him some slack—Hollander was only twenty-two and had been semi-famous in hockey for almost a decade. By now, he was probably the most famous hockey player in the world.
Second most famous, but considering Rozanov was known partly for his antics with women and for being the only other hockey player who could challenge Hollander, that wasn’t saying much. Hollander certainly didn’t seem bothered by the fact that Rozanov sold more jerseys or won more popularity contests with the fans. He barely seemed aware of it.
Speaking of the devil, the Voyageurs and the Bears would be playing against each other in Boston next. First time this season, and while both teams were on winning streaks. The entire hockey world was on fire about it even though it was only an exhibition match. Hollander had been wearing a pinched look of his face for at least a day—since he’d chewed out Xie’s extortionist over the phone the previous evening. He was probably seated at the ass of the plane right now, analyzing the Bears’ last game frame by frame.
Jake stood up to stretch his legs, yawned, and decided to check on their line. After playing seven games with Hollander, he knew not to expect his captain to do it. He ran spotted Pike checking on the second like and nodded at him, then passed by the seats were J. J. Boizaiu and Patrice Drapeau were both sleeping soundly. A few rows down, their rookie left forward Dylan Xie looked like he was actually sleeping for once—mouth slightly open and breaths slow and deep. Jake had suspected before, but clearly he’d been merely laying down with his eyes closed for the last few nights.
Hopefully, he’ll play better from now on, thought Jake. Not that he’d been playing badly, but tomorrow they were up against the reigning champions. They had to bring their A game. Which their rookie defenceman didn’t seem to realize.
“What are you doing?” Jake asked Nikolai Babikov, who was sitting beside Xie with an active Nintendo Switch. On the screen, Mario fell off a platform.
“Playing Super Mario Galaxy,” said Babikov.
“That was rhetorical question.”
Babikov peered up at him, eyebrows furrowed. “What?”
“You need to be sleeping,” said Jake. “We have a big game in sixteen hours.”
“I can’t,” whined Babikov, squirming miserably. “These seats are uncomfortable and small and there’s a buzz in my ears! You’re not sleeping either.”
“Then put away your toy, get as comfortable as possible, put on earplugs like Xie did, and close your eyes,” said Jake. “Rest as much as possible. I’ll be doing the same once I check on everyone.” He watched as Babikov turned off his game and put it back inside his Voyageurs-branded backpack, pouting the entire time, making Jake miss his young daughters even more than he usually did. “I mean it, Nik. Try to rest. You may not like hockey so much right now—”
“—I do!—”
“—but this is your job,” finished Jake, aware that many rookies didn’t quite realize that losing streaks in the MLH could result in losing their position, and sometimes even their place in the league. For Babikov more than most, since he’d found himself on the same line as the top-ranked player in the world despite being one of the last draft picks his year. It might not help to say that to him out loud, though. “You have to learn to rest on the road.”
He waited until Babikov had at least assumed a resting position, then went on. A few moments later, he ran into Comeau, their third line center. “Carmichael’s freaking out about playing in Boston,” the man said, “something about his dad and his girlfriend coming to the game.”
“How bad is it?” asked Jake, foregoing any questions about this ‘girlfriend’. Carmichael had left their post-game celebrations with a puck bunny a couple of times, but he wasn’t the first and certainly wouldn’t be the last MLH player to cheat on his girl while on the road.
“He was refusing to play,” said Comeau, sighing tiredly. “I think I talked him down but. . . should we go to Shane?”
Hollander would probably go to Theriault immediately and demand another center be waiting for them in Boston. He probably wouldn’t bother to talk to Carmichael first, and might actually make things worse if he tried.
“Let me tried talking to Carmichael,” said Jake.
“I was thinking Hayden,” said Comeau.
“Pike dislikes Carmichael.”
“So do I,” admitted Comeau. “A lot of the time, anyway. But Hayden’s good at getting through to people.”
“Let me try,” said Jake. “We can go to Pike after if I don’t get through.”
“Okay, Shane’s work mistress.”
“Do not fucking call me that ever again,” said Jake.
Comeau raised his hands in a placating manner and walked around him. That had probably been a little harsh, but fuck it. Jake was too old to play along with stupid nicknames.
He found Carmichael nearly at the end of the plane, hugging his knees to his chest, a few seats ahead of where Hollander himself was glued to a tablet screen, oblivious one of his players having a freakout. Jake sighed and sat down on the seat next to Carmichael.
“Are you going to be able to play?” asked Jake, after a few long moments of silence.
“I guess not,” said Carmichael, burying his face between his knees and taking a deep breath.
“Okay,” said Jake. “Do you want to go talk to Hollander?”
“Would it really be so bad?” asked Carmichael. He took another little breath and looked up at Jake with watery eyes that barely looked blue in the dim light of the airplane. “To quit, I mean? My family has money. I could go party at some college and then get a fake power point job.”
He wasn’t as dumb as he pretended to be if he knew it would be a ‘fake power point job’. “I don’t know,” said Jake. “I don’t know you well enough to guess what you might want from life. But financially? Yeah, it’d probably be fine.”
“My dad would be so disappointed in me that he’d probably try to cut me off,” said Carmichael. “But my mom wouldn’t let him.”
“That’s. . . good,” said Jake, trying to gauge if the kid was realizing that he actually wanted to quit hockey for real. There was a time Jake would have recoiled at the thought—getting to play for the MLH was a fucking dream—but now. . . well, suffice it to say he was beginning to understand why a couple of top performing players retired unexpectedly at the end of every season.
“But,” Carmichael sighed. Hugged his knees closer to himself. “You know John Bryne?”
“First line center for the Florida Sharks,” said Jake. Good player; would probably be getting more attention if Hollander and Rozanov weren’t active.
“He’s my brother,” said Carmichael.
“Ah.”
“Obviously not legitimate,” said Carmichael. “But he is and my—our dad paid for—well, everything.”
“Okay,” said Jake, rubbing his forehead. He did not have the time for whatever ultra-wealthy family drama was going on.
“I have to play,” said Carmichael. “I can’t go back home being this. . . mediocre.”
“Well, try to rest then,” said Jake. “Lay back, get as comfortable as possible. Tomorrow’s gonna be a long day.”
And Comeau said he’d talked the kid down. He was a meltdown waiting to happen. A meltdown in process. Jake should’ve fucking let Pike tackle this.
He hadn’t though, so he had one last stop to make before he could find a corner to try and sleep. He took the last few strides needed to reach the back of the plane and plopped down next to Hollander. On his screen, a recording of the Bears’ last game was near the end. Wynn, Hollander’s former left wing, had scored a goal and prevented it from going overtime.
“You need something, Merrell?” asked Hollander.
“We need to have a back up center ready.”
Hollander paused the game and looked up, dark eyes narrowed. He took out his bluetooth headphones. “What now? Is someone blackmailing Carmichael too?”
“How do you know Carmichael’s the problem?”
“Hayden would have come to me and Comeau would’ve gone to Hayden, who would’ve come to me,” said Hollander. “So it’s Carmichael.”
“Maybe I’m worried about you.”
“Merrell, please. I don’t have time for this.”
“Fine, it’s Carmichael. It’s a psychological. . . thing,” said Jake. “It’s—”
“—I’m not concerned with the details unless it’s something actionable,” said Hollander.
“Fine,” repeated Jake. He counted to three in his head. “About the back up center.”
“Already handled,” said Hollander. “Before I even talked to Theriault. It’s not like Carmichael’s been playing decent hockey.”
“Have you actually exchanged more than ten words with the kid?”
“Sure,” said Hollander, slipping his headphones back on. “First week, when he telling me he was coming after my position.”
“Dude, he was probably just trying to joke with you,” said Jake. God, he hoped Carmichael had some earplugs on.
“Oh, it was very funny,” said Hollander. “Do you need anything else?”
“You cannot be holding a grudge about some fucking jokes,” said Merrell. Hollander was the top center in the whole fucking league, and he acted like he was very aware of it.
“This isn’t personal for me, Merrell,” said Hollander. “I haven’t said or done anything to sabotage Carmichael. His behavior and performance speak for themselves. I don’t decide whether he plays or not either; you can take it up with Theriault if it’s that important to you.”
“You have to—”
“—I’m gonna stop you right there because whatever you’re going to say, no I fucking don’t,” said Hollander. “What I have to do is play hockey at an elite level so people buy tickets and MLH merchandise. That’s what I’m paid millions to do, and that’s what you’re paid millions to do. Can you do that tomorrow, Merrell? Or you having a psychological problem too? Should I ask Theriault for a back up right wing?”
“Okay, I don’t know if anyone has ever told you this,” said Jake. “But you’re an arrogant asshole.”
Hollander smiled, sour and mean. “You know, no one has ever told me that. You’ve my first, Merrell.” He looked at the screen and took breath. “Look, I’m not saying he can’t try. Theriault might say that, but that’s not what I’m saying. There will just be a back up center there, which is what you came here to ask for. Not to mention you went to whine about how you didn’t trust Xie and Babikov before they even played their first game, so I don’t know what it is we’re talking about right now.”
“You’re right,” said Merrell, grimacing. “Thanks for listening, Captain.”
He left Hollander to his asshole ritual and pulled out his phone as he walked away.
Ilya Rozanov
Jake Merrell
Hollander is a fucking douchebag
I won’t be too mad if you fuck him up tomorrowIlya Rozanov
Aw don’t worry if angry kitten is tense
I will tire him out for you
The next day, Hollander introduced the back up center and said he was there in case “me, Hayden, Comeau, or Carmichael fuck up”. It was extremely obvious who he was expecting would shit up the ice, but Merrell was surprised by even that slight glimmer of an attempt to give Carmichael some plausible deniability.
“All of you know by now that I’m not so great at motivational speeches,” said Hollander, “but I don’t think we’ll need one today. Boston sucks, Rozanov is an asshole, and the Bears are all obnoxious pricks—except for Wynn, it’s not his fault he’s there—”
“—pretty sure Wynn is an asshole—”
“—fine, then you have more reasons to go out there and destroy them,” said Hollander. “Do not fuck this up for me.”
Christ.
The worst part was that Hollander wasn’t even close the worst captain in the league. And the Voyageurs despised the Bears and respected Hollander, so they chorused “yes, Captain” and filed out of the locker room.
It was odd to go into this rink not wearing a Bears jersey, just like it had been odd to use the guest locker room and showers. Jake’s eyes automatically went to the row with all the WAGs, half expecting to see Xiaoyan waving at him. Their oldest, five-year-old Lina, had started coming along to his games last season, at least on the weekends. They weren’t there, of course, but they would be watching on TV from Montreal. It was a bittersweet thought—Jake had been terrified that Xiaoyan would refuse to move when he got traded, had almost been. . . hoping? Something. That she would demand that he quit the league. He certainly had done well enough for himself financially and ten years in the MLH was a long time. A very long time, especially for someone who wasn’t legacy.
The trade would upend her life as well, but he knew deep down that she would never try to ultimatum him into giving up his career. Even if that career didn’t care how successful he was, how he’d offered to take a pay cut in exchange for trade protections so his kid, who was getting old enough to make friends and memories, didn’t have to move all over two countries depending on the whims of coaches with God complexes. After seven years playing for the Bears, being consistently ranked as one of the top right wings in the league, and never causing any drama or problems, he could ask for that much, right?
Apparently not. Though Jake had no proof, he couldn’t help but wonder if the trade had been retaliatory.
In any case, Xiaoyan had taken the news as the perfect excuse to stop waiting for Harvard to give her a tenure track position. Finally, after nearly eight years, she’d decided that she trusted Jake enough to give being a homemaker a shot. Or, as she put it, a full time domestic worker. Her version of trust involved getting a lawyer to draft up a contract where Jake paid her a salary, complete with benefits, which he’d signed with some level of amusement since she already handled most of their finances anyway.
“This protects you too,” she’d said, “if I come to my senses and decide to leave you, then you’ll have a much easier time stopping me from taking all your money.”
Jake very much doubted that—he was smart enough to realize that his wife was much, much smarter than him—but he’d signed the papers without even asking how much he was “paying” her.
One of the Bears’ WAGs recognized him and waved at him. Jake waved back and looked at his not-so-new team. He was getting used to them and was was happy to note that both Xie and Babikov looked as calm as could be expected. If nothing else, they were getting used to the routine of MLH games. At the opposite end of the bench, Carmichael looked. . . blank. Comeau noticed him looking and gestured at himself with a nod. Right. He would handle it. Maybe he would have better luck than Jake.
A few minutes later, Ilya Rozanov himself skated over to their bench with his most obnoxious smirk plastered on his handsome face. Kalle Wynn trailed beside him on the left, pale face expressionless as usual. On Rozanov’s right, first line defenceman Cliff Marlow looked very put upon and his linemate Ryan Price looked at his feet rather miserably. Who had dragged poor Ryan out for this inevitable pissing contest?
Someone had the brilliant idea to project them up on the jumbotron, and the crowd started hollering, likely expecting a fight.
Theriault glanced at them briefly and then went back to glaring at the screen of his tablet. The man had too much confidence that Roz wouldn’t goad a Voyageur into starting a fight before the match started.
“Jake Merrell!” said Roz.
“Ilya Rozanov,” said Jake, standing up to greet him, unconcerned that Hollander was next to him looking like he couldn’t wait to pounce. “You’re very popular on the Voyageur group chat.”
“Dude!” Comeau said.
Roz’s face split into a genuine grin, which drew Hollander to his feet.
“Shane,” said Wynn, a little breathlessly. “I didn’t expect to, but I do miss playing for the Voyageurs.”
Hollander slid close to the edge of their bench and gazed at Wynn like he was seeing a long lost pet.
“Wynn, you can still message us,” said Hayden. “Just not on the team group chat where we discuss strategy.”
As if there was much strategy being discussed in that group chat. Jake didn’t roll his eyes because that was true of basically any team group chat.
“I don’t want to talk to any of you,” said Wynn.
“We, uh, miss you too Wynn,” said Comeau. “Why don’t you tell us about the Bears’ group chat?”
“I obviously don’t go there either,” said Wynn.
“I miss you too,” said Hollander. “I’m sorry there’s no time or place for us to train together. Maybe someday you’ll be traded back to us.”
“Or you can get traded to the Bears,” said Wynn.
Marlow snorted. Roz’s eyes got wide.
“Beautiful moment, gentlemen,” said Jake, then looked to his team—to the Bears. “But how can we help you?”
“We are here to ask for a tentative truce,” said Marlow.
“No,” said Shane. “We are going to destroy you.”
“Not about match,” said Roz.
“Since our coaches went and sold Merrell to you Montreal clowns,” continued Marlow, “we need to merge our post game celebrations.”
“I don’t think so,” said Shane.
“Wait,” said J.J., nudging Shane. “They probably know all the good clubs.”
“We will go to sports bar that serves orange juice also,” said Roz, gesturing at Ryan. “We have our almost-rookie who is not twenty-one yet, and the ones we got on the draft, and you have your two. The cute one and the ugly one.”
“Dylan, I think that’s you and me,” said Babikov, nudging Xie’s shoulder like an excited puppy. “We get to party with the Bears!”
Xie grimaced and shook him off.
“You get to party with us!” hissed Comeau. “After every game. We’re on a fucking winning streak.”
Great, no one was even mentioning Carmichael.
“Is that a chick?” asked Marlow, looking at Xie.
Xie shot him a glare.
“Yeah, that’s your sister,” said Comeau. “We let her join so we can gangbang her in the showers after every victory.”
Marlow scowled and tensed up, but Roz put a hand on his shoulder. “Anyway,” he said. “We will bring Wynn post-game so he can explain how we beat you.”
“We can do a post-game analysis together, Shane,” said Wynn.
For the first time, Hollander looked intrigued by the idea. “I do miss doing that. Why did we stop? We can still do it over the phone.”
“We’re on rival teams now; we can’t help each other,” said Wynn. “Except when we play against each other. I’ve thought about it carefully, and it would be a fair exchange of insight.”
“That’s true,” said Shane, nodding to himself. Then he looked at Roz. “Fine. We accept the truce.”
“This is such a bad idea,” mumbled Pike, who had not even gotten up from the bench.
“Okay,” said Roz, patting Wynn’s shoulder. “You will not watch whole game, though. Only highlights of my goals will be needed.”
The game itself proved to be a blast, which Jake had expected. Hollander and Rozanov really were the best centers in the league and when they played together, they always brought their A game. They made even an exhibition match look like that seventh game of a Stanley Cup series, drawing top line performance from their lines and ecstatic cheers from the crowd. No goals were scored the first period, but the passes, checks, and overall speed of play was exhilarating. Certainly, attempts to score were made, but both Drapeau and St. Simone were fortresses.
“That was really hard,” said Babikov, while they waited for the second season. “Wynn tried to check me!”
“What do you mean ‘tried’?” asked Pike, dry heaving. His line had finished off the first period. “He almost flattened you.”
“Price is not aggressive as usual tonight,” said Hollander. “Why not?” He took a gulp of his Gatorade.
“I think he’s being plenty aggressive,” said Xie.
No, Jake saw where Hollander was coming from. Ryan had been almost shy all of first period, which he was most of the time, just not on the ice. Not my problem, Jake told himself, shaking his head. That was his opponent until the game was done. He could check on the kid after, or at least message Roz about it.
“It doesn’t matter why,” said Hollander, glancing at Merrell. “We pass left every chance we get.”
Jake nodded.
Most of second period was the teams’ second and third lines tiring each other out. Theriault and Terrent (the Bears’ coach) glared at each other, each silently daring the other to trot out the first line. Or so Jake assumed.
Eventually, Theriault blinked and switched out for the fourth line. Carmichael hesitated only for a moment, but he stood up and went out to the ice. Hollander managed to restrain himself until the kid was out of earshot before swearing. At least Terrent didn’t take the bait and bring out Roz.
“This is getting a little boring, isn’t it?” Babikov asked a few minutes later, after watching the third and fourth line eat the clock.
“It’s not boring for them,” said Hayden, gesturing at the ice. “And it’s not gonna be boring for us either come third period.”
And it wasn’t. Even if Roz and Hollander spent every moment on the ice on each other’s asses, skating way too fast for a freaking exhibition match. Theriault’s play went to shit almost immediately; Terrent’s too probably, and Jake tried to focus. He was embarrassed to admit that at least once, he almost passed the puck to Roz on instinct. He wondered if Wynn was having a similar problem.
He dodged Marlow, let the momentum drag him closer to Hollander—and got slammed into the boards as Roz checked Hollander. Jake got ready to split up a fight, but Roz and Hollander where grinning at each other. Not the first time that happened in the middle of a game.
Then a fight broke out a few meters from them. Babikov and Price. “Come on,” yelled Jake. To both Roz and Hollander.
He saw Xie scrambling to his feet—so much for Ryan being less aggressive than usual.
“Babikov, stop it!” yelled Hollander.
“He fucking started it!” yelled Babikov, like they were in a fucking backyard.
Ryan didn’t say anything as J. J. held Babikov back, but he didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Furtively, he glanced at where one of the medics was checking Xie’s pupils. Shit. How bad had the kid hit been?
Ryan ended up with a two minute penalty.
“Yes, power play!” hissed Hollander.
“Second line!” yelled Theriault.
Bad idea; Roz was too fast for the second line. But Hollander wasn’t the type to argue with a coach. Or check on his rookie, it seemed. His gaze was laser focused on the ice.
Jake skated over to where the medics were running Xie through a concussion protocol. “I didn’t hit my head,” he was saying as the doctor shone a light at his eyes.
Over on the ice, Roz won a face off against Pike. The second line managed to hold off Roz for almost forty seconds, which was honestly longer than Jake had expected. The crowd erupted in cheers. The goal was replayed on the jumbotron. Nothing against Pike, but he didn’t have that much experience as a center and their second line D-man were freaking turtles compared to Roz. To add insult to injury, Roz scored off an assist from Wynn.
“Train your pet better, Hollander!” Roz yelled as he skated by their box.
“Dick,” mumbled Hollander.
“Doc, is Xie good to play?” asked Theriault.
The doctor cleared them and soon, they were on the ice. Hollander won the face off. They were all skating faster, both defencemen on Roz while the forwards kept passing. Wynn managed to steal it off Jake—he was getting fucking old—but Xie took it off him and passed to Hollander. Who scored and tied the game. Hollander turned to smirk at Roz.
Jake patted Xie’s head. “Good job.”
Terrent called back his first line and Theriault—cautious bastard—called them back and sent in Pike’s line again. They had about forty seconds left on their power play.
“One-to-one; we can do it,” Hollander said to their box at large.
Roz skated over to them, a broad a grin on his face.
Wynn skated beside him and peered at Xie. “You are very good.”
“Thanks,” said Xie, as he gulped Muscle Milk.
“Jake, you are playing like Hunter,” said Roz.
Jake gave him the middle finger. Hunter was a decent player, but Roz like to pretend otherwise.
“Fuck off to your side,” said Hollander. “I’m trying to pay attention.”
“Go back to your side, boys,” said Theriault, so Roz had to settle for a smirk.
Both Hollander and Roz scored again in the third period, dragging them into overtime. Theriault put Hollander, J. J., and him up against Roz, Wynn, and Ryan. Jake felt more nervous than he had in years. He realized that he’d never played against Roz, not even in an All Star game. Though Roz’ gaze was fixed on Hollander, the thrill was undeniable.
“I will fucking kill you if you pass to him by mistake,” Hollander.
Jake rolled his eyes, wondering how the fuck Hollander had noticed a fuck up that hadn’t even happened.
“Come on, man,” said J. J. “Jake’s not an amateur.”
Seventy-two seconds later Hollander scored the final goal—and his first hat trick of the season—with an assist from Jake, thank you very much. He went over to pick up a Bears-branded hat as the rest of the Voyageurs spilled onto the ice to celebrate. Babikov was the first to throw his arms around Jake.
“Great game, great game!” the boy yelled. “We beat the Bears!”
“We sure did, kiddo,” said Jake, watching as Hollander skated close to Roz to hand him his Bears-branded hat. He said something and Roz watched him, still as a predator watching his next meal.
Jake was surprised that the joint post-game celebration was actually going to happen, and not even because the Bears had lost. It’d been an excellent match; a very close call. But Bears and Voyageurs had enough bad blood that Jake was hesitant to be in a bar with them while at least some guys got shitfaced. Both teams had a full week before their next game—plenty of time for the younger guys to get absolutely wasted and be ready to go for their next match. Counting both teams, at least twelve players had confirmed they were going. More than enough dudes to start a freaking riot.
Carmichael was not one of them. His line had played. . . well. Enough. They’d done their jobs for the limited amount of time Theriault had played them. Carmichael hadn’t scored and Jake knew that it was no comfort to him that only Roz and Hollander had scored at all. The kid had something to prove. Jake was at the door, ready to find the poor little rich boy, but he found Pike at his threshold.
“Hey,” said Pike. “Can I talk to you?”
“Yeah,” said Jake, stepping aside to let him in. “J. J.’s waiting for me and the rookies at the lobby.”
“And Shane too,” said Pike, rubbing his face. “Listen, you’ve probably noticed that Shane’s been a little. . .” Pike frowned.
“He’s been a dick,” said Jake.
“I was gonna say intense,” said Pike. “He usually doesn’t get like this until the play offs. Now he agrees to go party with Rozanov and his douchebags.”
“And Wynn.” Did Pike not realize that Jake had been one of those ‘douchebags’ a handful of weeks ago?
“That’s another thing,” said Pike. “I don’t know how the fuck Rozanov convinced Wynn, of all people, to go to a bar.”
“Weapon-grade Slavic charm, I’m sure,” said Jake.
“Right,” said Pike, rolling his eyes. “But like I was saying, when Shane agreed to a post-game party in Boston, it hit me. He’s must be having a fight with Lily.”
“Lily?”
“Boston Lily,” Pike added. “Shane always hooks up with his Boston chick when we play here. Win or lose, rain or shine.”
“Okay,” said Jake, though he had his doubts. Hollander had never mentioned this ‘Lily’, or any other girl, for that matter. Jake had assumed his head was so filled with hockey that he either had no sex drive, or handled it with high end escorts. Or his own hand. None of Jake’s business.
“So like, watch him,” said Pike. “Shane can be—he’s not the best in social situations, and Rozanov is pretty good at pushing his buttons.”
“Why don’t you come along to this party?” asked Jake, annoyed. “Shane’s work wife.”
“Virtual date night with my actual wife, asshole,” said Pike. “I could use the work mistress stepping up.”
“I fucking hate that little nickname.”
“Pick you battles, man,” said Pike. “Look, you could at least keep Rozanov occupied if you don’t want to babysit Shane?”
“I’m going to the thing,” said Jake, choosing not to add that he was only going because Roz had gotten them into the VIP suite of The Screaming Huddle, one of his favorite places in the city which he’d thought he’d never set foot in again since he was a fucking Voyageur now. “I can’t promise I’ll get between them if they pull out knives, but I will try to moderate the situation.”
“Good,” said Pike, shoulders relaxing.
“Could you go check on Carmichael before you call Mrs. Pike?” asked Jake. “I assume someone’s filled you in on that clusterfuck.”
Pike nodded and thirty minutes later, Jake was leading the Voyageurs to The Screaming Huddle. The bouncer glared at them, more than was common for the job, but he nodded at Jake and let them into the elevator.
“The griyo here is famous,” J. J. said as the elevator rose. “I’m so excited; never thought I’d get in here.”
“You think you’d have been recognized?” asked Babikov.
“In Boston? After a Voyageurs-Bears game? At The Screaming Huddle?” J. J. nodded. “Fuck yes. I’d have been lynched on the spot. Do not go to sports bars in Boston without grandpa Jake to protect you.”
Jake sighed but couldn’t bring himself to disagree. Boston hockey fans were very enthusiastic and held on to grudges tightly.
“Everyone likes Shane, though,” said Babikov, as the elevator doors slid open.
“Not in Boston,” snorted Drapeau. “You seen the videos of Bears fans burning Hollander jerseys?”
The elevator dinged and the doors slid open. Hollander was the first to step out, looking out as though he could summon Wynn to his side by sheer force of will. The victory, though achieved with his hat trick, had not relaxed him one bit. Not that Jake could tell. Maybe Pike was right and he was fighting with some girl.
Jake stepped in front of him and scanned the suite. At least two screens were replaying a rerun of their game, a few others were tuned into post-game commentary, and the rest were playing an MMA fight. Jake went to the hostess, who grinned at him and immediately led them past the crowd, towards a set of stairs, and up into the VIP suite at the roof. They were the first to arrive and Comeau grumbled that Roz better not be setting up a trap. No. It was just early but Hollander had blown up the Voyageurs group chat with orders that whoever was going to the post game celebration needed to be professional and “on time”. Like they were going to a freaking press conference.
“Don’t worry,” Jake said to Comeau. “Roz texted me he’s on his way. You’ll get a chance to ask for his autograph.”
Comeau growled, but J.J. and Drapeau grabbed him and made a v-line for the center table brimming with delicious appetizers—first couple of rounds would be free to entice the crowd of rich hockey players to start ordering booze with abandon. Babikov and Xie were immediately mesmerized by the view of the Boston skyline, and Hollander peered at the laid out plates with a scrunched nose.
“Where are the vegetables?” he asked. “Not dripping with sauce and cheese?”
“Dude, you have to at least try griyo,” said J. J., stabbing a piece of succulent, marinated pork with a plastic fork. “I’ll be offended on behalf of Haiti if you don’t.”
“I already tried it when I visited your folks in Saint-Michel,” said Hollander. “I doubt this is better.”
Jake loaded a plate and found himself a spot near the window, at a table angled towards one of the screens playing post-game commentary. He had no interest in looking at the game frame-by-frame, but he could spend some time with the highlights. And even more time on the post-game gossip, which he secretly loved as much as any unhinged hockey stan. As any unhinged puck bunny, if all the time he spent on gossip blogs and social media was anything to go by.
Not that he wanted to fuck any fellow MLH player, or that he was delusional enough to think any of his coworkers were having secret gay affairs. Though statistically speaking, there had to be some closeted MLH players. Besides Xie, if he could even be called “closeted” considering he was a sheltered eighteen year old with almost no romantic or sexual experience, horrible college hook up aside. They were all working on that.
He sighed and focused on the TV screen to read the close captioning.
The Voyageurs and Bears both have put together menacing first lines, to the delight of hockey fans everywhere.
You sure? According to online buzz, at least some fans were hoping for chaos after the shocking Merrell-Wynn trade. But everyone played an extremely professional game today, especially after that bad check against the Voyageur rookie left wing, Xie.
Standard defencemen scuffle. Merrell and Wynn both played at their usual elite level.
I have to go with Wynn himself on this—there isn’t enough of a difference between Hollander and Rozanov that any experienced winger would have significant trouble switching between them.
Speaking of, it sure looked like those two were about to bite each other’s heads off tonight. Did you see the look on Rozanov’s face when Hollander handed him that hat?
Jake had, and he knew Roz enough to notice when the man was impressed and. . . interested? Certainly, Roz hadn’t looked angry. Jake had known that Roz liked Hollander, or at least playing against him. Roz had always been more energetic and enthusiastic than usual before their matches against the Voyageurs, but Jake had never noticed Hollander paying him much mind. As a matter of fact, Jake couldn’t remember a single time either of them had ever ended up in the penalty box after messing with each other on the ice. Even Scott Hunter had spent a few minutes in there after being goaded into an aggressive check, but Hollander never did anything more than glare and huff. And score goals.
He caught another group of Voyageurs coming up the stairs and opened his chat with Roz.
Ilya Rozanov
Jake Merrell
Where the fuck are you guys
Voyageurs gonna be shitfaced by the time you get hereIlya Rozanov
is 19:30 I bet all are getting ready
why are you early
men still cleaning their pubes in case they pullJake Merrell
because king hollander said we had to be ‘on time’Ilya Rozanov
lol
Wynn complaining about lateness too
my Voygaurs kittens
will bring him soon
Marlow and St. Simone picking up some bunnies
Breaking news in hockey world, viewers. We’re getting credible reports that the Montreal Voyageurs are celebrating their victory against the Bears at The Screaming Huddle, one of Boston’s most luxurious sports bars and noted hang out spot for the Bears themselves.
Quite frankly, it’s a miracle they were let through there. Even with Jake Merrell on the team.
By ‘breaking news’, they meant the selfies that Babikov was spamming. With Xie. Which of course had been picked up by Voyageur fan accounts, and subsequently all of hockey social media. Where was J. J.? Where was fucking Hollander? Was Jake supposed watch the kids by himself?
Ten minutes later, Rozanov and his douchebags—as Pike had so charmingly put it—were escorted into the VIP suite like they were royalty. Jake stood up and affectionately rolled his eyes as he went to greet them, noting that Rozanov had dressed like he intended to get laid. He had slicked back his messy curls, put on lip gloss, and a semi-cheer blue dress shirt that brought out his eyes and put his infamous bear tattoo on display. Beside him, Wynn looked like he’d rolled out of bed by comparison.
Well, he looked just like Hollander: comfy hiking pants, formless plain white button up, and an annoyed look about him. He scanned the room and went straight for the spot Hollander had chosen without pausing to greet any other Voyageur. Hollander invited him to seat on the same couch and gestured at the plain grilled vegetables, shrimp, and chicken he’d bullied out of the kitchen.
“Jake!” Cliff Marlow pulled him into a bear hug which Roz quickly joined.
Moments later, Jake had led them to the center of the suite, where all the snacks were. The whole point was to get some mingling going, right? A lot of the dudes were focused on the girls that had come with the Bears, and maybe that was fine too. With any luck, the girls would start calling their friends and there would be enough women around to keep the guys from starting fights.
Jake nudged Marlow until he tried to start a conversation with Babikov, the most friendly Voyageur. Probably the most friendly hockey player in the MLH. So long as Marlow could restrain himself from making any dumb comments about Xie, it ought to be fine.
“What prompted this invitation?” asked Jake. “For real?”
“We were telling the truth! We want joint custody of you and Wynn post games and off season,” said St. Simone, popping open a can of craft beer.
“Mostly, we want to send Wynn back to Montreal,” said another Bear.
“No!” said Roz. “I love Wynn; will never give him back.”
“Dude, he had a meltdown because someone grabbed his favorite stick by mistake and put it back at the ‘wrong angle’,” said St. Simone.
“Ah, don’t touch Wynn’s shit,” said Comeau. “We basically gave him three separate lockers back home. And always let him pick a locker first at away games.”
“Give him one of the private shower booths always,” said Drapeau. “He doesn’t like it when water from a neighboring nozzle ‘sprays’ into ‘his’ area.”
“Yeah, we’re getting all that,” said St. Simone.
Jake nudged Roz and led him to a booth, wondering if any of the idiots realized they were describing an autistic person. Someone on the spectrum, at least. “How come the Bears haven’t hazed Wynn into a breakdown?” he asked Roz.
“I am handling it,” said Roz. “Wynn has simple needs; he likes order, he likes to score goals, he likes to be neat. Other Bears will. . .” Roz frowned the way he did whenever he was searching for an English word. “Do as he wants? Even when annoying or silly?”
“Indulge,” said Merrell. They were most definitely not ‘accepting’.
Roz held out his phone and Jake typed the word into Google so he could look at the definition and the Russian translation.
“Ah, yes,” said Roz. “Good word. They will do this with Wynn so long as I do it. Hollander did it too, back in Montreal. He must have.”
Maybe. Jake had trouble picturing it, but clearly the Voyageurs had played with Wynn for three seasons without any serious problems. Hollander obviously liked Wynn, though, and maybe that had been enough. Jake bet Pike had been the one to manage the whole thing, or maybe Theriault yelled at the locker room that Wynn should be tolerated.
“And what about you?” asked Roz. “How is Montreal? As boring as they look?”
“It’s fine; they’re a good team,” said Jake. Not all that different from the Bears, when it came down to it, thought definitely more clique-y. Hierarchical, Xiaoyan would say. The forth and third line guys, with the exception of Comeau, rarely spoke to the first and second line players. There were like five guys who so much as made eye contact with Hollander outside of drills, though everyone fell in line without question during training. Being arguably the best center in the league bought Hollander a lot of clout.
“And him?” asked Roz, gesturing at the spot where Xie was talking to a pair of girls. For once, Babikov was not glued to him—Jake scanned the area and found the rookie defenceman grinding on a chick with a curly bob.
Jake shrugged and turned back to Roz. “What about him?”
“You are stuck to his side if Montreal socials are showing reality,” said Roz.
“Social media isn’t reality,” said Jake. “It’s fine; he’s my lineman and a rookie, so I’m helping him. The Voyageur locker room is as good as can be hoped for. They won’t fuck with Hollander’s left wing beyond chirping. Hence why Wynn is even alive to be a menace on the ice with you.”
“Is he. . . how do you say? Out of closet?” asked Roz.
“Is that really your business?” asked Jake. “You planning to shoot your shot, Rozy? What will Mother Russia think?”
“I would not dare speak for Mother Russia,” said Roz, smirking. “Just curious, like everyone else is.”
“He’s just a kid playing hockey, Roz,” said Jake, wishing so hard that it was as simple as that.
“And Hollander?”
“Kind of a dick, but not about this,” said Jake. A large figure drew his eyes, cutting off his train of thought. “Holy shit, Ryan came out.”
Roz followed his gaze and found his defenceman by the stairs, looking a bit like a giant frightened ginger rabbit. Ryan hated these things; Jake had once found him dry heaving in a filthy club bathroom after a particularly rough game. He was dressed in a nice blue button up shirt, so he must have really worked himself up to come. For God knew what reasons.
“I’ll go talk to him,” said Jake, laying a hand on Roz’s shoulder. Though well-meaning, the Bears’ captain was a bit too energetic for Ryan. “Go find your piece for the night. Don’t pick on Hollander too much.”
Jake went to greet Ryan and steer him from where he was standing awkwardly, looking around while trying not to make eye contact. He tried to get the kid—though he was pushing twenty-one now, hardly a rookie—to open up, but didn’t have much luck.
“So, this isn’t usually your scene,” prompted Jake.
Ryan glanced at him and sipped his virgin Coke Zero. “I thought, you know. Bears and Voyageurs partying. Didn’t want to miss it.”
“It sure is thrilling,” said Jake, gesturing at the area.
Aside from Jake (and Hollander and Wynn), all hockey players had quarantined themselves into segregated little groups. The women fluttered about between them like butterflies, picking their favorites. Over in a corner, J. J. had a beautiful girl in long braids on his lap. Marlow was chatting up a chick wearing his jersey, and Rozanov was flirting at the bar.
“Better than a fight,” mumbled Ryan. Jake followed his gaze to Xie’s spot, where he had his hands buried in a blond girl’s luxurious tresses, presumably teaching her how he did his own hair before a match. Those braids could get fairly elaborate.
“He’s fine,” said Jake. “Barely bruised.”
Ryan cringed. “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to check him that hard.”
Yes, Jake had seen the highlight by now. The game had been fast, to say the least, and Jake had played with the Bears long enough to guess that Ryan had been going for J. J., not expecting him to pivot at the last moment to try and block Roz. It wouldn’t look that way to anyone else, but also? No one would think that a defenceman checking Xie was out of line, even if they went at it from a bad angle.
“Come on, let’s go,” said Jake. “We’re supposed to mingle.”
“Jake!” Xie beamed at him a few moments later. Part of his hair was up in a bun, but long strands had escaped and framed his face. “You’re here!”
“I’m here,” agreed Jake, noting how flushed Xie was, how broadly he grinned. The two women with him were beautiful, or at least glittery, with sparkly eye shadow and low necklines. It was hard to tell their age. “Ladies, may we join you?”
“I’m showing Carla here how I keep my hair out of my face,” said Xie. “She didn’t believe I’m a hockey player.”
“Hm,” said Jake, glancing at the cans and glasses at their table. “Remember the rule about drinking, Dylan? Just the one beer J. J. gets for you.” The rookies had been decent about it so far. Seven post-game celebrations without a single spectacle with police or women.
“J. J. is not my mom,” said Xie.
The girls attempted to giggle, but quieted the moment Jake shot them a warning look.
“Let me see,” said Jake, tapping Xie’s shoulder. When the kid tried to squirm away, Jake grabbed his chin and tried to examine his eyes. The lighting was too dim and his eyes too dark to check his pupils. It was possible that they’d gotten Xie shitfaced on vodka, but Jake had no real way to make sure.
Xie jerked away. “Oh my God, I am not high! I’m a little tipsy, is all. We don’t have another game for a week and Carla wanted me to taste her drink.”
“I gave him a little vodka,” said the girl with curly hair. Carla, presumably.
“How thoughtful of you,” said Jake. “Will you and your friend give us some privacy, please?”
Xie made a mournful sound as they departed but didn’t try to stop them.
“Where’s Nik?” Jake asked, hoping he hadn’t decided that J. J. wasn’t his mom too.
“I don’t know,” said Xie. Suddenly, he turned to Ryan, then back to Jake and tapped his shoulder furiously. “Hey, that’s Ryan Price! He almost knocked me out today!”
“It was a mistake,” Ryan said, large frame squirming miserably.
“I know!” said Xie. “Still awesome; my team back home, they can’t believe I got right back up. But it wasn’t that bad. I can skate and I’ve been checked before. Everyone overreacted. Good for us, though, even if it was embarrassing for me.”
So Xie was a happy drunk. Good to know.
“You’re okay, then?” asked Ryan.
Xie nodded furiously. He tried to grab a can of Coke off the table and Jake slapped his hand away. Every drink drink those girls had touched was suspect. He pulled out his phone and texted Babikov to get them plain Cokes.
“Hey, can I take a selfie with you, Ryan Price?” asked Xie. “My friends back home, they’re big fans of the Bears. Me too, but that’s a secret because I’m a Voyageur now.”
“Uh, sure,” said Ryan, blushing.
Jake waited until Babikov returned, introduced him to Ryan and told him to behave and not leave Xie alone for the rest of the evening. He bet the girls had slipped Xie some Molly or something, but they couldn’t be too safe. Tomorrow, he would have to have a talk with the rookies about how they needed to guard their drinks at bars since it was common knowledge that pro hockey players were young, high net worth morons and thus relatively easy to entrap and blackmail. Which Xie should fucking know.
Jake was definitely getting too old for this shit.
He went to the bouncers and warned them about the women who potentially roofied Xie, though he imagined they’d hightailed it out of The Screaming Huddle the moment they realized that Jake had made them. It was only 21:30, so they had plenty of time to try their luck elsewhere. For his part, Jake wanted to go to bed. He decided to stop by the bathrooms before finding trying to find J. J., or Comeau and Drapeau, to see if they could babysit the rookies. If not, Jake would drag them back to the hotel for his own peace of mind.
On the way to the toilet, he ran into Hollander. They nodded at each other and kept going, Jake leading they way. He opened the door leading to the narrow hallway that gave way to the bathroom and stopped in his tracks. Right there, Roz was making out with a blond chick in short shorts who was wearing a styled version of his jersey, her long legs wrapped around his waist. The girl froze and giggled when she noticed them, making Roz lift his head from her neck. He stepped back from her slowly, keeping his arm around her waist as he placed her back on the floor.
“Ah,” said Roz. “Jake! Hollander.”
“Excuse me,” said Hollander, deftly walking around them to head to the bathroom.
“Oh my God,” said the girl. “I’m a huge fan of you too!”
“Thanks,” said Jake.
About half an hour later, Jake decided he’d seen enough. He grabbed Xie and Babikov and told J. J. he was heading back, ignoring Xie’s whining that he was fine and not tired. Jake was.
“Remember you too are buddies at these things,” Jake told them at the threshold to their hotel room. “Babikov, take care of him. Don’t let him post anything.”
He left for his room before either of them could whine to him more. Briefly, he wondered what the rest of the team was getting up to—both teams. Then he sighed and fell onto his crappy hotel room bed. He was not being paid enough to take care of grown ass men, even if he was the oldest in the group.
Next morning, at the plane, Xie looked hung over but otherwise fine. Jake found no evidence of any catastrophes on social media from either team. He supposed the evening could be called a success. More than a success, maybe. A triumph of sportsmanship, as one stan blog had put it, gushing about a pic Roz had posted of himself drinking Coke Zero with Marlow, Wynn, J. J., and Hollander. The comments pointed out that his hashtag were clearly a joke: cokezero, Voyageurs, Bears, and worldpeace.
Jake snorted. Was the “truce” just Roz trying to orchestrate a viral post for Coca Cola? Probably not, at least not just that. But it sure was funny to pretend that it was.
They’d gotten word from Theriault that they wouldn’t have mandatory practice until Thursday, which meant that their coach was extremely happy and thus giving them time to spend time with their families before the proper season started. Two of their American players had gotten leave to stay behind already. Not Xie or Babikov, Jake noted.
Xie looked hung over as hell as he shambled into the plane, but alive, and he had a week to get over it. “What did you learn?” Jake asked him.
Xie gave him the middle finger and plopped down on a seat.
“Vodka is terrible,” falling down on the seat next to Xie and pulling out his Nintendo Switch.
The rest of the team filed in. Jake spotted Carmichael, looking a little dejected, but fine. Fine enough. Jake might have to talk to him, but he hadn’t spent enough time with the kid to have much to say. A part of him—okay, almost all of him—wanted to leave that mess to Comeau. Honestly, he might mute all work related group chats and not check his MLH email until Thursday. He was a hockey player, not a fucking surgeon. Work-life balance and all that.
Hollander was the last guy to step onto the plane. Jake noticed right away that something about him different. Lighter. His shoulders looked more relaxed and he seemed to be on the edge of a smile. “All right, guys!”
Everyone paused what they were doing. Xie opened his eyes and morosely sat up straight.
“I don’t have to point out that we killed it these last couple of weeks,” said Hollander. “Our lines are in sync, our plays are killer, and we took down the champions on home ice.” He paused so a few guys could cheer. “Okay, okay! We all have a lot of room to improve, obviously, but we can worry about it after a much-deserved break.”
Another pause so dudes could cheer and pat each other on the back.
“Have a good time,” said Hollander, tone growing more firm, “but also be smart. Don’t get too inebriated—if you’re crossing the border to the USA and are under twenty-one, remember that you’re not supposed to drink alcohol—and no matter where you are, do not drive under the influence. Do not get into fights with your wives or girlfriends—definitely not with strippers or. . .other professionals.”
“We get it, boss,” someone from the back said. “Don’t let bitches ruin our winning streak.”
“Do not let yourselves ruin our winning streak,” said Hollander. “Anyway, that’s all I wanted to say. We did great; let’s keep at it.”
That was the longest speech Jake had heard from him and he had to admit, it wasn’t half-bad. Hollander actually flashed him a small smile on his way to the back of the plane. Nice. Maybe he’d made up with this ‘Lily’ Pike had mentioned. Maybe that was Hollander’s post-hook up glow.
Whatever it was, Jake hoped the good mood lasted.