Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 528(@200wpm)___ 423(@250wpm)___ 352(@300wpm)
When we reach the locker room, I brace myself. This is a bigger test than meeting the owner. Oliver swings open the door, and inside it’s boisterous. A tune from Muse blasts from someone’s speaker. There’s a game of cards in one corner, a debate over the best barbecue in another. I scan the faces, matching them with the names I’ve researched.
Oliver clears his throat for attention, and the noise lessens a bit. “This is Hayes Armstrong. Last season with LA, he had twenty-nine goals, sixty-three assists, and ninety-two points. We just traded for him, and he’s going to do great things.”
The praise is embarrassing. I don’t want to come across as a guy who buys his own press. My stats aren’t bad—they’re fucking awesome. But they are better than the guy they let go in free agency last season—Alf Nilsson. The team brought up a left winger from the minors to replace him but word from my agent is he wasn’t ready. So, here I am.
Nobody acts too impressed as Oliver talks me up. No one except the right winger, who whistles when the PR guy is done. Brady Clampett is from a hockey dynasty in Vancouver. His dad and brother played before him. “Let’s call him Hot Shit, then,” Brady offers with a lopsided grin.
Ah hell. The nicknames have begun already. Please don’t let Hot Shit stick. Pretty fucking please, universe.
Over by his stall, Stefan rips off his Number Eighteen jersey with his name, Christiansen, on the back, then turns around. “Nah, I vote for New Alf. What do you like better, New Alf?”
I rein in a grin. Stefan loves to stir the pot. Plus, he’s not treating me like his kid brother, which I really fucking appreciate.
Of course, he can joke. He has a bad-ass nickname—The Viking. But the star forward from Copenhagen has earned it. He’s three years older than me, but we played together in college. He’s fearless on the ice.
My nickname in the last few years of my college career was my favorite—The Iceman. But nothing gets you labeled a prima donna faster than trying to pick your own nickname.
“Whatever works for you guys.” The less I say the better.
“Let’s call him…him,” someone shouts. I turn to the deep voice and see the goalie, a guy named Devon Ryland, but goes by Dev. He’s from Minnesota by way of San Diego—born by the beach, raised in the snow, he’s said. What matters most is he’s a brick wall in the net. Well, a flexible brick wall.
And he has some good ideas. I can work with him.
But Dev shakes his head, dismissing his own idea. “Nope. I’m wrong. That’s gonna get confusing.” He scratches his jaw, then a slow smile spreads. “Hey, you,” Dev says, droll enough for the desert.
Stefan’s brow pinches. “Hey, what?”
Dev points at me. “That’s his nickname. Hey You.”
Stefan nods a few times, then tests it out. “Hey You.” He gives me a onceover. “Yeah, I fucking like that.”
The captain polls the crowd, and nearly everyone seems to agree. Stefan turns back to me. “New guy, you’re now…Hey You.”
That beats Hot Shit.
During practice, I play fast and tight as we take turns shooting into the open net, then Dev moves in front of the goal and does his damnedest to stop us. He’s a brick wall, all right. We take turns shooting puck after puck, but eventually I slide one past him.
Then another.
Some might say it’s only practice. But this time on the ice with a whole new team is absolutely critical to fitting in. And to staying. I’ve got to be at my best at all times.
Every team has its own rhythm, its own routine. But after changing teams so many times, one of my greatest strengths has become adapting. I have to. I don’t have any other choice but to fit into their style.
When practice ends and I skate off the ice and into the tunnel, Stefan shouts to Dev, “Hey You is handling the laundry, right?”
“Yeah, and that’s perfect,” Dev says to Stefan. “Because he can deal with the mascot thing then.”
Let the errand hazing begin. This is a good sign. I bet the mascot thing is related to the possible name change.
After I shower and get dressed, a former Avengers player strides into the locker room. It’s Ryker Samuels, one of the top defenders in the league. Huh. Wonder what he’s up to. But he says hi to his former teammates, who are still clearly his friends, then grabs some shirts from his locker before he catches up with Dev and Stefan.
“You don’t even work here. Why the fuck are you here?” Stefan says.
But I don’t catch his answer. A minute later, Ryker says a quick hello to me and nods to the laundry cart. I grab it and push it into the hall, both Ryker and Stefan following behind me. “Hey You, here’s the deal,” Ryker says, and I’m glad they gave the ex-Avenger my nickname. He gestures to the end of the hall. “Gotta separate the whites. Don’t forget Christiansen likes the lavender dryer sheets.”