Son of a bitch.
There wasn’t a player in the league who didn’t know what a silent locker room meant.
Trade.
Since I didn’t get a call from management, and I didn't get one from Evvy, I knew neither of us was shipping out. For sure my best friend would have phoned me right away if he were getting sent off to god knows where.
So if not us, then who?
The whole thing sucked. Most days, I enjoyed my job—especially the cheers of the crowd when I knocked a guy down on the ice—but I loathed trades. They were by far the worst part of playing a professional sport. At any given moment, my entire life could be uprooted. Within hours, I could be required to pack my crap and get my ass on a plane to a city I didn't know, with nowhere to live, a bunch of teammates I'd never played with before, and on top of all that–I would still be expected to give my very best performance on the ice. Sometimes that very same night.
Thank god it hadn't happened to me… yet. I reached out and quietly knocked on the wooden panel of the nearest row of wardrobes to prevent a jinx. I left Canada for a reason, and just the thought of getting traded to a team north of the border sent my terrified balls crawling up into my body.
On a deep inhale, I stiffened my spine and, after disrobing and hanging my suit in the first changing area, which consisted of a simple row of upright wardrobes, strode into the second changing area. No one wants their suit to smell like used, sweaty hockey gear, so everything is kept separate. Clad in only my boxer briefs, I padded into the actual locker room and approached my cubby, the one I use to store my gear and uniform and where I dress for practice and games.
Nearby, a small gathering of players huddled around a guy who—since I was staring at the guy’s back—I didn't recognize. I didn’t, however, miss the fact that whoever it was, was one tall motherfucker and had blond hair. What I did know, was that he wasn't one of my teammates, which meant he was new. From there it wasn't hard to put two and two together and figure out I was looking at the back of Unlucky Traded New Guy’s head.
Someone thumped me in the arm and I heard a familiar cackle.
“Ow! Shit, Evvy. What's your problem?” Ev isn’t exactly the gentle type. I grimaced and rubbed my shoulder. Out of the corner of my eye I caught him grinning like a lunatic.
Still smiling, and still creepy as fuck, Ev leaned in to conspiratorially whisper in my ear.
“Lookie who we got.” As Evvy said the words he tipped his head in the direction of Unlucky Traded New Guy. “It's your number one favorite person in the whole wide world,” he sang. “After me, of course.”
I narrowed my gaze and focused on the back of the big, dirty blond head that sat perched atop a super tall, super wide, super stacked body, and wracked my brain to figure out who the hell it could possibly be.
Almost as if Unlucky Traded New Guy felt me staring at him, he slowly twisted his thick neck until I got a good look at my brand new teammate.
“Oh, fucking hell,” I murmured, only not nearly as quiet as I thought, because Ev snickered, and at the same time, Bastard New Guy’s mouth curled into a sneer.
New Guy wasn’t the unlucky one. That particular prize went to me.
Because I was staring directly into the Cro-Magnon-like face of Rocco “Sasquatch” Calloway.
He’s my new teammate? What the ever-living-fuck? Why would they send that shithead here?
I dropped my chin to my chest and sighed.
Aw, fuck.
Last week, our best defenseman, first line player and one of the coolest guys on the team, Gordon Hatcher, broke his ankle. And yeah, in theory I knew they’d have to replace Gordie at some point, but never in my worst nightmares did I think his replacement would be Rocco Calloway.
The sour look on Calloway's face reflected my exact thoughts—basically, a summary of every single obscenity in the Urban Dictionary.
“St. Clair,” Calloway growled.
Great. Just great. Put a cherry on top of the shit sundae and call it a day.
In an attempt at awkward politeness, instead of walking up and socking the guy in the solar plexus like I was dying to do, I cleared my throat and remained calm-ish.
“Uh, hey Calloway. Does this mean you're one of us now?”
Twitch, twitch, twitch.
Dammit. I blinked in a futile effort to stop my spazzing eye. If I was gonna have to play with Sasquatch on a daily basis, I needed to try to make things a little less weird, right?
One thing I learned at an early age is that you don’t disrespect your teammates. They’re your family. Granted, it looked like we were about to be a big-ass fucking Sasquatch family, but still a family. The trade also meant the two of us wouldn't face each other on the ice anymore, which was kind of irritating. Punching Rocco Calloway was one of my favorite pastimes, plus I wouldn't get another chance to break the guy’s ribs.