Kaleb

"I never liked that motherfucker," Shea spits. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair. "What a piece of shit. I wasn't out of place when I said I should knock some sense into him. How can he do that to Ella? Fuck, I hate him. Why do men toy with women?"

A comment sits on my tongue. Shea did toy with Brenna, but he told her about the bet. Which they played to their advantage and took Connor down and blah, blah, blah. Overall, Shea's a better person, and they got married because of that.

Now they're having a fucking baby.

And I can't say shit about it in front of our team.

Keeping my mouth shut is killing me.

I'm joking. I can't wait until Shea tells the team, and I get to sit there like a smug asshole who already knew. Because I'm that petty.

After unlacing his skates, he turns to me. "Why are you telling me this? It's kind of personal."

"Same reason you told me about Brenna's eating disorder way back. Permission. She gave me permission to tell you and Brenna about it. Sometimes it hurts too much to tell the story. That's what friends are for. When you get home, will you tell Brenna? Ella wants our group to know the basics. So, if Brenna wants to contact her later and discuss it in deeper context, she's welcome to."

Shea nods, tossing his skates in his hockey bag. Just like when he was a teenager, his hockey bag is immaculate. Everything is compartmentalized and clean (minus the smell). There aren't balls of tape in the corner. Or energy bar wrappers. Empty bottles of Gatorade.

I scratch the back of my neck, staring at my hockey bag.

Okay. Maybe it's time for an invasive cleaning.

My skates join the rest of my equipment, and I zip it up, hiding the disaster. Not having Mel around is making me resort back to my untidiness. I can be tidy, but I lack the motivation. Mel motivates me to clean my shit up. Not because she's a woman who should know the basics of cleaning or because I expect her to clean up after me, but because she's fierce and she doesn't like an unkempt home. The murderous look she gets in her eyes is enough.

Besides, I need to improve my self-motivation. That's on me.

"Smith, Jones," Coach Brinsen barks. We look at him. Our coach is lanky and tall with a beard like I've never seen. He's dressed in his coaching gear: track pants, slip-on shoes, and a blue jacket. HIs clipboard is tucked beneath his arm. "You're wanted by the media." 

Shea groans. "That wasn't in the schedule."

Coach grunts in response. "Nothing's fair in the world of hockey, Smith. Get out there. The media are feeling fucking nostalgic today."

Next to Shea, I snicker. This was expected. Everyone across social media is buzzing about Shea and I's performance during our younger years. Videos of us playing against Brenna have been circulating the Internet. So have pictures and previous stories. Some good, some bad. Some false. And with the All-Stars tourney coming up in February, where Brenna and a few other members of the women's hockey team are joining us for the skills competition, Shea and I are the centre of attention.

Well... Brenna was joining. I'm not sure if she'll be able to participate now that she's pregnant. But we'll see. I think she could do it. It's not like the skills competition is full-contact. It's based on single levels of skill.

Getting back to the media... I'm eating it up. Whenever Shea and I play hockey together, there's chemistry. We're a force to be reckoned with. Everyone knows that, I and hope we intimidate everyone.

Mikael, one of my new teammates, nudges Shea. "Puck bunnies will love it. Bet there's a parade of them sitting outside, waiting for you two." He gives Shea's shoulder a squeeze before slinging his bag over his shoulder, collecting his hockey sticks, and exiting the locker room.

Shea grinds his teeth, his eyes flaring with annoyance as he stares after Mikael.

Coach snaps his fingers. "You're out there in two minutes. Get your asses in gear."

I give Coach Brinsen the two-finger salute. "Yes, sir."

He leaves with a grunt of approval.

"Not a fan?" I ask, turning back to Shea.

"Of Coach? He's not bad. Brutally honest, but he's got a good heart. Mikael? Not in the least," he shrugs, slipping his hat on. The visor points backwards with tufts of hair sticking out. Aside from the shrugging shit, his signature look has changed little.

After standing up, he frowns, looking down at me. "The fuck are you smirking about, KJ?" He holds his hand out, helping me to my feet.

I clap him on the shoulder, looping my arm around him as we head for the door. "Your shrugging and signature look. Nothing much had changed, Smith. Kinda sad." I squint at him, still grinning. "Except, maybe, your ability to grow facial hair."

He runs a hand across the stubble on his jaw. His gaze is focused on the door ahead. Through it, we can hear the buzz of the media. "What's it to you?"

"You couldn't grow shit when we were teenagers," I snort.

The crease between his brows intensifies. "You have a very altered perception of the past. Jayden was the one who couldn't grow a beard."

We stare at each other, grinning.

Jayden was the only one who could grow a beard.

*  *  *

"Kaleb," the reporter says. "How does it feel to be playing in Vancouver?"

Shea and I are sitting at a long table. There are two microphones. One for each of us. The backdrop is blue and green, scattered with the Canucks logo. Shea is hunched over his microphone, elbows resting on the table. I'm leaning back in my chair, legs stretched out beneath the table and crossed at the ankles. My arms are crossed.

"Can't say much," I chuckle. "Y'know, I have yet to play an exhibition game with my new team. But practices are going well, and they've been nothing but welcoming. This city, y'know, is, uh, fantastic. Closer to my hometown, where I was raised. Yeah, overall, I'm just, y'know, excited to be here and contribute to the team. I think everyone's goal is to win the Stanley Cup in their career. This is the team I want to win it with." My gaze flicks to Shea. His expression is just as fake as his smiles. He's not a fan of the media. His reaction makes me smile. Some things just never change. "Shea and I used to discuss playing in the NHL together and winning the Stanley Cup. We never thought it could become a potential reality. You can bet we're gonna try hard to help guide the team."

Cameras flash before us as reporters yell out their questions.

"What is it like to be playing hockey together again? On a professional level?"

Shea and I exchange a glance. I raise my eyebrows. For the past twenty minutes, I've been handling most of the questions. It's his turn.

He expels a sigh, then leans into his microphone. "Nostalgic, y'know. Like KJ said, we never expected this. We dreamt about it, but never thought it would happen. Trust me, it's better playing hockey with your friend than being on opposing teams. Besides, Jones and I have chemistry. We're excited for you to see what will happen on the ice. I hope we can represent this city with dignity and give them the Stanley Cup this season."

Fuck this man.

His comment hits me in the chest. Few people will understand the deeper context of his words. He's referencing everything that happened in high school. The overall lesson he learned was that. It's better to be friends than enemies, and I've heard lots of stories about hockey impeding friendships. I'm glad that was never the case for Shea and I.

Soon enough, the questions change from Shea and I to more hockey-based ones. We discuss our defence and offence. Projections of the season.

Twenty more minutes pass before we're thanking the media and heading back into the locker room. As we collect our belongings, we discuss our plans for tonight. It's the annual preseason team party. Shea and Brenna are hosting it this year. All the teammates and staff, along with their families, get together for drinks and appetizers. It's supposed to act as an icebreaker for newcomers and create relationships.

I suppress an eye roll. These things are the worst. I'd rather hang with Brenna and Shea than wish I could ram my head through a wall with every passing hour. High school parties were enough, and hockey ones aren't much different. With the younger guys, anyway. There are a lot of young guys.

"Do I have to come?"

Shea snorts. "Coach will probably bench you if you don't. He's a firm believer in icebreakers. The team is a family unit, KJ. Not sure what your previous coach was teaching you, but you're under Brinsen's jurisdiction now."

I make a face, which causes Shea to laugh.

"Invite Ella," Shea continues. "It'll be good for her. Ask Abbey to come along, too. That way, you'll know more faces. You can huddle in the corner with them and talk all night."

Inviting Ella isn't a good idea. She needs time to grieve. Her heart was just broken by her ex. Her ex that was fucking cheating on her. But I don't deny Shea's suggestion. He's thinking about her, which is nice.

Plus, he's also fucking me over.

"Hilarious," I drawl. "Ella and Abbey will demolish me, Shea. They'll force me to mingle."

And they would. They'd tell me to talk to my teammates. To loosen up.

Shea claps me on the back, grinning. "Why do you think I suggested inviting them? You're antisocial, Jones. We need to change that."