Page 6 of Season's Schemings
So, I decided to give Atlanta a chance. Acalculatedchance. I had Mike negotiate my initial contract to only be for a year’s duration instead of the standard five years so that I could bail if things didn’t work out the way Mike predicted, and there was better opportunity to advance my career elsewhere. My agent wasn’t pleased, but he did say that the silver lining to my decision was that we could revisit negotiations regarding salary, bonuses, etc.—whichIcared about much less—after the team’s management saw my performance on the ice for the franchise.
Which has been pretty stellar so far, if I do say so myself. Last season—my first season with the team—we came fourth in our division, missing playoffs by only a few points. This year, we plan on going all the way.
And I say “we,” because it turns out that Mike was right… I have no desire to go anywhere else.
I want to stay here in Atlanta for a long while. Make a name for myself on the Cyclones, and lead them to the playoffs, and eventually, to the Stanley Cup. I can feel it the same way I can feel when my stick hits the puckjustright, this is the team, the place, for me. It’s hard not to notice the whiff of victory in the air—and all of us can smell it to the point that we’re ravenous.
The Cyclones’ head coach Tony Torres has carefully curated peak camaraderie and brotherly vibes among our team. It’s nothing short ofTed Lasso-worthy. My teammates—despite their general idiocy and lack of wildlife biology knowledge—are really good guys. Guys who look out for each other. They immediately accepted me as one of their own and looked out for me.
And I, in turn, have each of their backs. To the point where I recently got three stitches removed from my upper lip for coming to the aid of Colton Perez—left winger and one of the guys on my line—after that dickhead on the Hawks illegally crosschecked him.
Boy, wasthata brawl and a half.
After I finally get my skates off, I head to the showers, but before I get undressed, I check all the stalls for any more rogue women covered in soapy water. Which is not something I’d normally be averse to finding in the shower, but after my restroom encounter earlier, I’m on higher alert than usual.
Whowasthat?
When I’m sure that the coast is clear, I get in and wash myself slowly, savoring the scalding water on my bruised body. My ribs are purple and black from where I took a huge hit in our last game, but it was worth it, because we won.
By the time I’m done, the locker room is quiet. I imagine my teammates have all piled into the player’s lounge to devour whatever protein- and veggie-rich dish Stefani, our nutritionist, has come up with today.
For once, I’m not particularly hungry, so I change into sweatpants and a faded gray hoodie emblazoned with the maroon Cyclones logo, and then pull a baseball cap over my damp hair. I’m absolutely beat, and I can’t wait to get a few hours of sleep…
But first thing’s first—we have a whole lot of game tape to review.
We have two home games this week against Charleston and D.C., and then next week we’re off to Vegas to face off against the High Rollers for a Thanksgiving Day special—a tradition established a few years back between our two franchises that’s always highly anticipated… and competitive.
I’m ready. I know we can beat them. Coach Torres has already gone through hours of tape with us, and I know exactly where their goalie’s weaknesses lie.
On my way to the media room, I swing by the kitchen. I’m hoping that Stef has a spare smoothie or two whipped up that I can grab. The smoothies aren’t my favorite—they always taste vaguely like chalky protein powder—but I can’t complain. I know what a privilege it is to have someone take care of all my nutritional needs and calculate my macros for me.
We guys don’t tend to go into the kitchen very much—it’s Stef’s domain—so I call out a “hello” before sticking my head into the room.
And for the second time today, I find myself looking at a short, green-eyed woman washing her hands frantically. Only now, she’s wearing an apron with the Cyclones logo on it.
Her eyes pop when she sees me, and her mouth pops open to match. “Uh… hello again, Slater. Um, Sebastian. Sebastian Slater.”
Despite my confusion as to what the hell the restroom lady is doing here, I can’t help but grin. “Seb usually works fine.”
“You don’t look like a Seb.” She frowns. “You look like a Sebastian Slater. Number 19. Center. Leading scorer in your division.”
“Hockey fan?” I ask warily. Why didn’t I consider earlier that she might be a crazed hockey lover/borderline stalker?
I had one of those once, back in Edmonton. I’m certainly not in the market for another.
I’m vaguely wondering whether I should be calling security right around now when she surprises me by replying, “No. Hockey’s never been my thing, if I’m being honest.”
Color me officially intrigued. Maybe I’m still experiencing that brain hemorrhage, but I’m beginning to think there might actually be a reasonable explanation for Lady Macbeth’s presence in our team kitchen.
“So, we meet again…” I stroll into the room and lean on the industrial metal counter, then wait for her to fill in the blank.
“Maddie.”
I smile. Cute name. Suits her.
“So we meet again, Maddie.” I nod in her direction. “And you’re scrubbing your hands again. Please tell me you didn’t commit a murder.”
She hops from foot to foot before turning off the faucet and grabbing a hand towel. “Well. Nottechnically.”