Clusterpuck (Vegas Crush #9)

10. No Role Model Here

10 /

no role model here

Tripp

We’re two weeks back into team training and things are getting serious, thank fuck.

First priority was to just get this season going already, but if I have to listen to one more conversation about someone’s kid or perfect wife or charity work or whatever the fuck they did all summer, I might start running with scissors. I simply do not care to be best friends with all these people. I’m here for a single year. I just want to play hockey.

The offensive players head out for drills, some of them still reeling from Kazmeirowicz’s team-wide announcement that this is his last season. He made the announcement at our first all-team meeting. Then, Demoskev got up and shared he will retire the year after that. So, in just two years, two household names in contemporary hockey will be stepping off the ice for good.

I am not such a household name. There was a tiny bit of press when I said I was retiring from Anaheim, but my one-year contract to Vegas got three times as much press—mostly because analysts wondered why the hell a team in its prime would take an old guy like me on a short-term pass.

The reality is that losing Kazmeirowicz is a big deal. He’s a decent team captain; I’ll give him that. But his departure means there’ll be a first line spot open on the right wing. It means Georg Kolochev will be auditioning players for the role of his on-ice BFF. Emile Giroux seems like the most obvious choice. He’s played a ton, usually in as soon as Evan goes off the ice. The biggest issue is chemistry. Kolochov hates him, thinks he’s too uptight. Giroux’s really just quiet. He doesn’t engage much with the rest of the team. So, for that reason, I totally identify with him.

Can he fill an Evan-sized hole? That’s a decision for guys more qualified than me.

Aiden Kennedy, Yale-educated, fraternity-belonging, useful idiot, seems to think he’s the big man meant for the slot. He’s been aggressive at every practice, presumably because he thinks he’s protected by his friendship with team captain heir-apparent, Mikhail Zelenka. Who is way too serious for his own good. The son of the Great Zelenka seems like he’s spending every minute trying to climb that ladder so he can have his name up there with Daddy Zelenka’s. Which I also can understand growing up in a hockey family. We don’t get to choose what we’re born into. My family is all-hockey, all the time, too. I suppose the pressure would be different if my dad had played at that level. But he didn’t. He played minor league, coached minor league, and now he owns a minor league team. Not the same at all.

The next team captain is probably going to be a kid a few years out of rookie status who rarely speaks. He’s good and all, but what leadership skills does he have?

And why do I care? Putting even an ounce of thought into this is just stupid. I won’t be here for any of it.

I shake my head at my own line of thinking, getting my head back into the drills. We work for a while with some of the guys talking shit until Evan gets after them, calling for a water break. I skate over to the bench and hydrate as he takes the seat next to me.

“How you settling in?” Evan asks, pulling off his gloves so he can grab his water cooler.

“Fine. Hoping to go out on a high note. Don’t let me down.”

He chuckles. “We’ll do our best. You can just put your feet up.”

“Don’t mind if I do,” I say.

“What’s next after this?”

“Dunno.”

“Management? Coaching? Rocket science?”

“Ha. No, I heard it’s the goalie who’s smart enough to be a rocket scientist.”

“Cal? That kid could’ve gone to MIT but he came to hang with us dummies,” Evan says with a chuckle.

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I answer.

“So, no plans after this? Really?”

I shrug. My face probably doing the weird thing my mom calls Dumb Face—the face I make when I feel awkward and want the conversation to be over. “I’m not cut out for management, Evan. And I’m not going to go run little kids’ hockey leagues or some other dumb shit.”

The team captain looks unimpressed. “There are a lot of guys on this team that donate their time to little kids’ camps and other said ‘dumb shit.’” He slides his gloves back on. “They’re giving back, helping get next-gen players ready and giving kids a chance to play who might not otherwise be able to afford it. It’s a pretty noble way to spend your time, if you ask me.”

“Kids just aren’t a part of my life plan, you know? They kinda give me the heebs.”

Evan’s eyebrows float high onto his forehead. “I’ll remind my kids to stay away from you, then.” He pushes up off the bench to go back out. “Have a good year.”

I sigh before shoving myself up, realizing I’ve managed to offend the team captain two weeks into team play. Whatever. It doesn’t matter that much in the long game. I’m not here to make friends. I came to collect a nice, fat paycheck and, lady luck on my side, to go out with a kiss to the cup. These guys can go be do-gooders all they want. I’ll do my thing now, and shore things up with my karma later.

We finish our drills and then all meet up with the offensive coaching staff for notes. As we break, Coach Brown holds me back. “Blackburn, you’re looking good out there. How you feeling?”

“Thanks. I’m good and here to play, Coach.”

“We see that. You have great control of your game. Good strength, good hockey sense. I know you’re new here, but we’ve got a lot of younger guys who need to develop that kind of control. They need to learn to trust their teammates on the ice. We made a ton of progress last year, but we still have work to do to get these guys disciplined. We have two big retirements on the horizon and I need them ready.”

“With all due respect, I’m no babysitter though.”

Coach Brown laughs. “No, that’s not what I’m asking. I’m asking you to be a mentor. Marchessault, Smith, Kennedy. They need to see what experience creates. What patience and commitment means to the success of a team. They’re all full of piss and vinegar, and it shows in their play.”

“I’m just not a role model,” I argue, hoping to make him understand. “I keep to myself. Mentoring isn’t really a thing I do.”

“Look, you’re not Charles Barkley,” Coach says. “To this day, that guy still says he’s not a role model or whatever. But he’s also a superstar. And all due respect to you , you’re not.”

This makes me laugh out loud. I’ve heard that Coach Brown does not mince words, and I am totally here for it. “You’re not wrong, Coach.”

“You are, however, solid and consistent and controlled. You’re a grinder out there. That’s what makes for a long career. Not a bunch of showboatin’ nonsense. So, by the miracle of knowing the owner, you got a final year in the league with a team you don’t deserve. Max Terry thought this deal would be good for you and for us, and while I can see the paycheck being good for you, I have yet to see the other side of this supposed win-win. You need to show it to me, on and off the ice. This means you will be running drills with the offensive coaches and, yes, mentoring the kids.”

There’s no point in arguing, so I just say, “All right then.”

“Great. Now that we have an understanding, I need you to get your ass down to Dale for training. And take Devon’s nutrition plan seriously. Walk the talk. Capiche ?”

“I hear you, Coach,” I answer as I skate off toward the locker room. I pull off my practice gear and switch to workout gear, and then stalk down to the gym to find Dale.

There are a couple of other guys already in there hitting the weights when I walk in. Dale greets me and says he’s got a good workout scheduled today.

He has me warming up on the treadmill, which is fine apart from the fact that it makes me think of my trail run with Lila. It’s been a couple of weeks since I’ve seen her and it’s like an itch I can’t scratch. I keep thinking of things I want to say to her, mostly about how she could tone down the feminist rhetoric and stop taking offense to every damn thing I say. Somehow, though, I’m not sure that would go over well. Well, I’m positive it wouldn’t go over well. So, consequently, I’ve avoided the back office like nobody’s business. I just don’t know what I could say to her that would make the awkwardness between us any better.

“You doing okay?” Dale snaps me back to the moment.

I laugh. “Yeah, I’m fine. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“You’re new here. Just checking in.”

“This place is so weird,” I mutter.

“What’s that?”

I stop the treadmill and step off. “I said this place is really weird.”

“How do you mean?”

“It’s like a cult, man. They tell you how to eat, how to workout, how to engage. Like the army, for fuck’s sake. I just came here to play a last good year in the league. I don’t need all this hovering up in my damn business. You know?”

Dale points to the squat rack and loads weight before having me step forward to shoulder the bar. “Good weight?” Thankfully, he doesn’t comment on my little rant.

He works me out and he wasn’t wrong—it was a good workout, and I feel better afterward. He tosses me a towel. “Look, I get that things here can feel intense sometimes. But it’s mostly good. I promise, it just takes time to get used to it,” he says with a shrug.

I growl in response because I don’t want to get used to it. I just want people out of my business. I’m starting to think coming here was a mistake.

“You know what you need, man?”

“What?” I ask from beneath the towel I’ve thrown over my head like a hood.

“A beer in your hand and a hot chick on your lap. A true introduction to Las Vegas.”

I consider his suggestion. I’m not a party kind of guy, but maybe I could do with a night out. “Yeah, that actually sounds all right.”

“Cool. Let’s meet up later, then. Maybe nine? I’ll text you the address of my favorite spot.”

I write my number down and give him a fist bump.

Off to not be anyone’s role model.