by Van Barrett
My hand sneaks across the other side of her tummy. She tenses up, taking short, delighted gasps as her sensitivity ratchets higher. But instead of wrapping my hand around her waist and pulling her into me, I snatch the cellphone at her side and hold it up.
“... And so you took a picture for the memories, huh?”
“Hey!” she squeals, but she doesn't stop me. She knows she's busted.
I turn the phone on and her Twitter pops right up on the screen. That's how I learn, or re-learn, her name: Britt.
I also learn that Britt's taken a selfie. She's smiling real big, the bedsheets just barely covering her nipples. But even with her cleavage in the foreground, it's the background that is clearly the subject of the photo: me. I'm asleep next to her. She has the caption written and ready to Tweet to the world:
Look who I scored on last night! #tylervance #hawkscaptain #greatlay
I let out a groan. I'm disappointed, but not surprised. And above all, I'm relieved I caught it just in the nick of time.
“C'mon ... you can't send that out, Britt. It'd be all over the media. I don't need the attention.”
“Okay,” she sighs playfully, “I'll delete it.”
I hand the phone back to her. I watch as she deletes it like she said she would.
“Thanks.”
“No problemo.” She nestles closer and starts to climb on me. Puts her leg between mine and rubs it up and down, until the hairs on my thigh tingle and stand up. “But after last night I'm all wound up. Ready for round 2.”
“Eh.” I look at the alarm clock. “I can't. I've got a morning skate to go to. I actually gotta get up.”
“Oh ... that's really, awfully, too bad.” Her voice is dripping with sarcasm and she pouts with fake disappointment. Her hands dip under the sheets and trail down my torso. Over my hard abs. Down my thick bush of pubic hair. She grabs my cock and squeezes it with her dainty hands, willing it to pump up. She strokes it slowly, up and down.
“Ugh.” I groan. “I really can't. I'll be late.”
But with a carefree giggle, she crawls under the bedsheets and crouches between my thighs. My manhood plunges into the wet heat of her mouth. The tight seal of her lips pushes and pulls at my length. A chorus of sloppy slurps, giggles, and muffled moans come from under the sheets.
Fine.
I close my eyes and try to enjoy it. For just a bit.
I STROLL DOWN THE SIDEWALK, the arena coming into view amid the other downtown Chicago buildings. At 10 AM, the crazed panic of rush hour is over – and even though there are plenty of cars out and about, the late morning traffic lacks that anxious, cut-throat edge that normally marks the time when the masses are hurrying to their day-jobs.
At this point in the morning, the early Spring air is still a little nippy – but I knew that by the time our skate is over, the Sun will be over our heads, its rays beating down on us, and the temperature will be nearing the 70's. So I didn't bother wearing anything heavier than my suit jacket. A beanie, tight and comforting on my head, kept my ears warm and covered up my light-brown hair, still wet from my morning shower.
With the way the team is playing, and the stretch of must-win games coming up? The last thing I needed was to catch a cold.
Someone on the sidewalk recognizes me as we pass each other. He grins and nods his head at me, quietly and politely says, “hi!”
I smile back, and return the nod. “Mornin'.”
Ever since my rookie year, I've lived in a hotel downtown – our hometown rink just a couple blocks away. I've made this walk before and after games and practices. I haven't had any run-ins with a psycho fan, like my teammates always joke about – psychos who might stalk me back to my hotel room and chop me up into a thousand pieces when I refuse to confess my love for them.
Actually, most fans seem polite in person – maybe even shy – and don't know what else to say to me but “hi.” Or, depending on how the team played most recently, they might say – “good game last night!” or, “tough game last night, eh?”
In my experience? It's not the fans you run into in person ... it's the nameless, faceless jerks on the internet who are the crazy, hate-filled ones. I don't bother with the internet. I've never even thought about 'tweeting' and stopped reading what the media had to say after we lost that Cup game.
Seems like everyone on the internet just wants to drag everyone deeper and deeper into the mud until they all die a muddy, sloppy, awful death. So no thanks. Twitter, Facebook – they're not for me. Not after the shit I've been through.
Anyway. Some of the guys on the team – the older, more veteran guys, mostly – give me a hard time about still living in my 'rookie digs.' Why don't I have a place of my own yet? I'm 29, after all, which in career terms is ... well, it's not ancient, but it's definitely 'time to settle down,' as they never fail to remind me.
But all the married, veteran guys have huge houses on the outskirts of the city. Their wives do a hell of a lot of work to make sure the household runs smoothly. With us players on the road for half the month, their wives are practically single parents. Plus they handle all the cooking, cleaning, bill paying, etc. All the over-looked things that have to get done, the things that an athlete can't really handle when he's away from home for half the month.
All these married guys love to joke – because I'm living in a hotel – that I must be out late at night, hopping from bar to bar, taking home hot, young, hockey-crazed and sex-starved puck bunnies. Surely, I'm some kind of playboy, too busy chasing skirts, too irresponsible to keep a place of his own. I'm not sure if they actually believe that this is what I'm up to ... or if they just wish they could be doing that.
Truth be told? Last night was the first time in a couple years that I've been with a woman – but I'm not about to tell any of the boys on the team that. I might as well cut my balls off in front of them and toss my pair into the middle of the dressing room for them to point and laugh at.
By the way, I should just clear something up right now. In hockey player's lingo, every player on the team, no matter how old he is – is “one of the boys.” It's got nothing to do with age, alright? Just a thing us hockey players say. So get used to seeing it!
My walk comes to an end. I reach the arena and walk around back, to the athlete entrance, and head in for another day at the office.
2.
M.E.B.
Tyler
Suppose you broke into a professional hockey scout's office and stole the folder where he kept notes on all the players he's studied. This is probably what you'd find about me:
Tyler Vance, #22. Born and raised in Boulder, CO. Captain of the Hawks. Play-making center who looks to pass first instead of shoot. Elite 'vision' allows him to see the game unfold ahead of time, and make plays that no one else can see. Average shot power, but highly accurate. A strong, sturdy skater who isn't afraid of dirty areas on the ice and is tough to knock down. Hard worker on and off the ice – after a particularly painful loss, he can sometimes be found running up and down the arena stairs as a form of self-punishment, while the janitors sweep popcorn off the floor (and look at him like he's absolutely bat-shit insane).
... Or something along those lines.
A lot of people think that NHL talents stand out among their peers even from a young age. Truth be told, I was never the most skilled player. Actually, I was so average at hockey for most my young life, I've lost count of how many teams I've been cut from. It's more than a handful, I'll tell you that much.
But my parents, Dad especially, taught me to never half-ass anything. Worse than losing a game was not giving a 110% effort. If my team won the game, but Dad didn't think I gave it my all?
We might as well have lost 10-0. He was so disappointed in me. He wasn't abusive – I wasn't whipped or spanked, nothing like that. He just really believed that a man's value was in his work, and he wanted me to reach my potential.
So that work ethic became pretty deeply ingrained. And I kept working hard, practicing eve
ry skill in the game I could, trying to get better so I wouldn't let him down.
It wasn't easy – and I had to sacrifice a lot. Like any kind of a social life in my teen years. Girlfriends and stuff like that. With all the time I spent in the rink and at the gym, all that stuff was pretty foreign to me.
But, slowly, the years passed. And I started to get better as I grew into my man's frame. I wasn't getting cut from my squads anymore: now I was earning the 'A' stitched on my jersey. (That stands for Alternate Captain. A team designates two alternate captains, who serve as leaders behind the team's main captain.)
And before long, I had the 'C' stitched on my jersey. (That stands for Captain, as you probably guessed.)
But I still couldn't believe it when I earned a scholarship to play hockey at University of Wisconsin. And I really couldn't believe it when I was drafted to the NHL.
After my freshman year at UW, I left school early and made the jump to the pros. No one thought I could make the team then – as a lanky 19 year old, still with a smattering of zits – and I didn't really, either.
But the Hawks were bad that year, and they had a need for a defensive-minded center who could come in and fortify the team's fourth-line. So I simplified my game and did just that: focused on a fourth-line defensive specialist role.
I made the squad out of training camp. And I've been with the Hawks ever since, slowly taking on more responsibility as I improved, until I earned the C for this team, too. I've walked from my hotel to this arena, through these hallways, and step into the dressing room almost everyday for ten years now.
Ten years. Holy shit, time flies.
SINCE TODAY'S A GAME day, our session will be light. We'll have a light skate to loosen our legs, but nothing strenuous. We want to be fresh for tonight, after all. We'll lob a few pucks at our goalie, Travis Brickley, to get him sharp, too. But the goal for practice is to get loose, have fun, and get our heads in the right place for tonight.
Three other players are already in the room:
Jim Donovan, a hard-nosed and short-fused defenseman who plays with a mean streak. A former captain with his previous team, Donovan is a new player for us this year. He was brought in to 'help add leadership' to our struggling team.
Dave Emerson, once a speedy goal-scorer who, now in his late-30's, plays the fourth line defensive specialist role that I played in my rookie year. He doesn't view this as a demotion – he just wants to keep playing in this league, so he'll do whatever you ask him to do. He's one of the veteran 'old guys' with a lot of tricks to teach the younger guys.
And Jake McNabb, a quiet rookie defenseman who still seems in awe of the fact that he's playing in the NHL and has a habit of observing all the action around him with wide eyes and an innocent and permanent grin.
McNabb sees me first. He's already dressed and geared up, just sitting in his stall with a smile, waiting for everyone else to show up. His eyes light up when I walk into the room and he directs that smile at me.
“Hi Vance.”
“Sup Nabbers.”
Emerson and Donovan, engaged in some lively argument, turn and spot me.
“Ah-ha! There he is,” Emerson says with some relief.
“Hey captain.” Donovan grins. “You hear the news?”
I give a cautious, almost annoyed shrug. I go out of my way to avoid the news, so I'm not sure what he's talking about. Could be anything – anything from hockey to politics to world events. Who knows.
I shrug. “Guess not?”
“Really? You didn't have anything to do with ... this?” Donovan holds up a copy of the sports section of the newspaper, straightening it. There, I see my official team head shot.
“Oh, great.” I roll my eyes. I'm not really interested in what the local media has to say, and so I don't read the headline. “Do I even want to know?”
Donovan thrusts the paper in front of my face. I slap the newspaper away, but Donovan insists I take it. “C'mon, Mr. Bachelor, read it.”
With a grumble, I steady the paper and read the bold headline above my photo.
“Poll of Single Area Women Names Hawks' Captain Tyler Vance 'Most Eligible Bachelor.'”
My teammates chuckle and punch at my shoulder, tittering like schoolboys. I look up at them, not amused.
“Seriously? This is considered news?” I ask. “Did you guys have something to do with this?”
“No ... Donovan thought you did, though,” Emerson informs me. “In fact, we've got a bet riding on it.”
“Hell no, I didn't,” I scoff, and I toss the paper half-way across the room. The newspapers' inserts fly out, tumbling through the air and scattering into a mess all over the floor. “Why the hell would I want the attention?”
... It's not exactly a year for me to be gloating about, after all. My numbers are down, along with everyone else's, and we're running out of time to make the playoffs.
Emerson puffs his chest out at Donovan. “Told you he wouldn't do that!” Emerson slaps Donovan with a backhand to the chest.
Donovan shoots a skeptical look at me. “You're sure you didn't have anything to do with this, Vance?”
I shake my head. “I'm sure. I wouldn't even know how to arrange something like that. And I'm not sure why you think I would in the first place.”
“Well, c'mon.” Donovan folds his arms. “It's not hard to figure out.”
I give him a look, waiting for the punch-line.
“Livin' in that hotel like you do ... right on the downtown strip, always prowlin' for pussy ... maybe your stock has lowered after 'the shot' ... maybe you need something to convince the ladies to come home with you?”
'The shot.' Any Hawks fan could tell you what that refers to. My infamous and ill-fated shot that rang off the crossbar in double-overtime. For being such an anonymous, generic phrase? It sure is impressive how it carries an entire city's metric fuck-ton of disappointment.
McNabb, sitting in his corner stall, chuckles with disbelief. I look over at him and I can tell he's shocked that Donovan would make a joke about the missed shot.
But I don't mind. Obviously I wish that shot had gone in ... but humor's the best medicine. Honestly, I'm glad Donovan can joke about it – every team needs a guy who can drag the skeletons out of our closet and expose 'em to the daylight. Even if it hurts.
“'Prowling for pussy'?” I laugh. “You're so out to lunch, Don-o.”
Donovan gets a shit-eating grin, raising his eyebrows over and over at me like a damned cartoon character. “That's not what Fresno said about last night.”
I let out a groan, my head dropping. Damn it. Of course Fresno's told everyone already.
“So who is she, huh?” Donovan needles. “She a model? Or just some random puck bunny piece'a ass?”
“Don-o ...” I just laugh and shake my head. I'm not into sharing intimate details like that. Plus I'm not exactly proud of myself right now.
“Hey, you heard the man!” Emerson grabs Donovan by the shoulder. “He didn't have anything to do with the damn vote! Now pay up already, you cheapskate motherfucker!”
“Ahh, damn it.” With a grin, Donovan opens his wallet, pulls out a $20 bill, and then drops the money.
The bill falls and lands between Emerson's feet, but Emerson doesn't even glance down at it. “You better pick that up, Donovan, 'cause I sure as shit won't bend over for your greasy money!”
They shove each other, bickering over who owns the responsibility picking up the fallen bill – but it's all in good fun. And at last, Donovan rights the wrong. He bends down and properly, if not theatrically, hands the money to Emerson. The dispute is over just as another one of our teammates arrives.
It's Lee Tanner. He's a 25-year old defenseman and one of the players who was with us during the failed Cup run. A great guy – quiet guy for sure, but well-liked in the dressing room. He's got a wicked sense of humor when he decides to show it.
Fresno, the loud-mouth, comes after him. I shoot him a burning glare. He sees it and plays ignor
ant. “What? What?”
With each new arrival, the dressing room gains a new element – another body, another voice, another personality. Everybody adds their unique detail to the tapestry. Soon the room is bursting with life, with jokes and arguments and shouts and singing. Everyone's heard the news, apparently, about my being named most eligible bachelor, and I'm the butt of everyone's jokes. But I take it all in stride, soaking it in with a laugh.
Yeah, it's dumb, and I don't like being the center of attention. But for once this year? Our room is laughing again. And today begins to feel like one of those days where we're all on the same page and we're actually gonna play together, play a team game and maybe even win.
Lately, we've had fewer of these days. Ever since that loss four years ago, we've had a darkness hanging over us.
I guess people don't hear how much it can kill a team to come that close to the Cup and lose it. Some teams have lost in the Finals, only to rebound and win it the next year.
But none of those teams lost like we did. No one came ... one goal away, one inch away, only to lose it a second later. No one but us.
Coach Stevens comes in and greets us. He can sense that we're in the first good mood we've been in since, well, all year, and he doesn't want to ruin it by harping on all the problem areas that have been plaguing this year. After a short pep talk, he sends us out to the ice.
“A'ight boys, let's have some fun, yeah?”
3.
League's Most Valuable Pest
Callan Jones
My team, the Jets, is on the last leg of a road trip and we've got a game tonight against the Hawks. The Hawks have an 11 AM skate, and we'll hit the ice for our own morning skate once they're done.
That's the way it always works with ice-time before a game – the home team gets the choice if they wanna practice first or last. They usually wanna practice first, because that means they get an extra hour of rest before the game.