Page 1 of Puck Me Harder
1
Dakota
The Houston Snowhawks’ training facility— affectionately known as The Nest— is as new as the team that calls it home.
The Nest is a sprawling compound sitting adjacent to Snow Summit Stadium, just outside the city limits. It’s been a long time since H-Town boasted an NHL squad of its own, and it’s clear that the suits spared no expense in securing a new home team. The installation takes up several acres, rising up against the Texas landscape like a mirage.
Built around a central “neighborhood” where players live, train, and relax in close proximity year-round, The Nest is a first-of-its-kind for the Hockey League.
Inside the walls of the training center, the excitement leading up to The Hawk’s opening night is palpable.
“Right this way, ladies.” A uniformed security guard leads us through yet another set of double doors. “Coach should be here shortly. Feel free to look around while you wait. Welcome to The Nest.”
A burst of rapid-fire clicks explodes beside me as Sofie raises her Nikon. She’s stalking through the space like a panther on the prowl, shooting pictures before the guard has even left the room.
“Holy shit,” I whisper reverently, taking in the state-of-the-art gymnasium. “I can’t believe we’re actually here.”
One of The Nest’s most iconic features, the gym is an athlete’s dream— a three-story building set apart from the full-sized practice rink and player housing.
A 2500 square foot weight room complete with cutting-edge equipment dominates most of the main floor. There are both indoor and outdoor tracks, two heated pools, a steam room, and a fully-stocked yoga and Pilates center. The scent of fresh paint still clings to the walls.
I’m one of the first people outside of the Snowhawks organization to see The Nest. The significance of this moment isn’t lost on me. Adrenaline and nerves settle like a weight in the pit of my stomach.
Do not fuck this up, O’Connor.
After months of grunt work and paper pushing, I am finally out on my first solo assignment. Not some fluff piece, either. I’ve been handed a multi-part team interview and behind-the-scenes lead-up to the Snowhawks inaugural game of the season.
More importantly, this assignment is the key to my own recurring hockey column.
My editor made it very clear. The only way he’d even consider adding The Hat Trick to the weekly sports page rotation is if I bring in a real story. So I don’t care what it takes, I’m not leaving The Nest without a bombshell.
This is exactly what I’ve been working for my whole life— ever since my humble beginnings covering JV lacrosse for the high school paper. Right now, the official press badge around my neck is worth more than a strand of diamonds.
I can almost smell my first Pulitzer.
“Why does it smell like sweat and culo in here?” Sofie lowers the camera that’s permanently attached to her face and wrinkles her nose. “What even are men?”
Sofia Rivera and I met during our freshman year of college. We were both studying communications at UH, working towards a career in journalism. We’ve become fast friends in the time since— clear proof that opposites do, in fact, attract. Last year, we began internships at The Houston Chronicle together— me riding the sports desk and Sofie making a name for herself behind the camera. And while there is nobody else I want to work with for the next few days, I can’t help but feel that Sofie would rather be covering literally any other assignment.
“That’s the smell of hockey,” I grin at her. “Ice, blood, and testosterone. You’ll get used to it.”
Sofie looks unconvinced.
She’s not wrong. The only thing tougher than a hockey player is the smell of his gym bag.
Before I can say another word, the doors open again. The security guard is gone. Instead, a squat man with a broomhandle mustache strides in. He’s red in the face, with wide sweat stains already spreading beneath the arms of his polo. The chewed-up stub of a cigar dangles from one corner of his mouth.
“Mizz O’Connor,” The man grips my palm in an overly aggressive handshake. “We’ve been expecting you. The Snowhawk Organization is thrilled to share this exciting time with the citizens of Houston.”
It’s a stilted, practiced speech. The kind written by overworked PR agents and handed out to loose cannons before a press release— or an important interview.
“Please, call me Dakota.” I tighten my own grip, returning the handshake with a warm smile. “It’s an honor to meet you, Coach Wallace. My father played under you—briefly— back when you were at UALR.”
Coach Drake Wallace is one of the most notorious names in professional sports. Wallace’s win-at-all-costs attitude made him a contentious choice for The Snowhawk’s head coach. Rumor has it a lot of his players are still unhappy with the decision.
According to my dad, Drake Wallace is also a total dick.
But I didn’t get to be one of the youngest sports journalists in the region by having thin skin.