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My team, the Jets, is on the last leg of a road trip and we've got a game tonight against the Hawks. The Hawks have an 11 AM skate, and we'll hit the ice for our own morning skate once they're done.
That's the way it always works with ice-time before a game – the home team gets the choice if they wanna practice first or last. They usually wanna practice first, because that means they get an extra hour of rest before the game.
One thing you're not supposed to do is watch the other team's practice. Because, you know, it's really rude, and it's totally a show of poor sportsmanship. The fear is that an opponent might watch your practice and, gasp!, see what you're working on! And then they'll steal your game plan and use it against you later!
“As if!” I chuckle to myself and sip my steaming mug of herbal tea as I watch the Hawks skate some drills from behind the glass.
I'm decked out in an athletic tee with our team logo on the front, basketball shorts and sandals. I don't care if the Hawks see me standing here – actually, I want them to. In fact, I stand as close as I can to the glass so they see my damn face staring right back at them.
Look. Hockey is a sport that clings to its 'traditions' like no other. And while that's great for all the old folks who hate change, it also means there's a lot of outdated superstitions in hockey. This is just one of 'em.
Maybe in the old days, when games weren't even televised, I could understand a team not wanting its practice to be seen. There was an advantage to an opponent not knowing how you played.
But nowadays? There's no secrets anymore. The reality is, we all spend countless hours watching film of every player from every team in the league. We even have a video coach, for crying out loud – a video coach! A guy whose job is to sit in a dank, musty office and watch clips of hockey ... all ... freakin' ... day. He analyzes who did what, and in what situation, and how many times, and what his tendencies are ... blah, blah, blah. On and on.
The point is, you're not gonna learn anything that you don't already know by watching an opponent practice. But this old-fashioned superstition still persists today.
But it makes teams real mad when you watch their practice anyway.
Honestly, I don't care what the fuck the Hawks do in their shitty practice. But I do care that it pisses them off so damn bad when they realize I'm in the stands watching! That's an advantage for my team. 'Cause it gets these guys off their game. It gets 'em all pissed at me before the game has even started.
And that's my job. Get the opponent riled up. Get 'em so goddamn rip-roarin' mad they can't even focus. And as soon as they come for me, trying to take my head off? I've already won. Because they're not thinking about hockey anymore – they're thinking about getting even with me.
Yeah, I got a target on my back. I'll earn a few black eyes and I'll take some nasty hits over the course of the season – but I'll do whatever it takes to help my team win.
After a few minutes of watching, one of the Hawks players finally spots me. He does a double-take, realizes hey, that's Callan Jones!, and he tells somebody else. That somebody else – I think it's Michel Dufresne – flips his shit. He slaps his stick on the ice like an outraged beaver, slapping its tail on the water as a warning. He makes a big stink about me being here, and his chest-pounding ape-routine gets a few of the other Hawks players riled up, too. And then Fresno skates over to where I'm standing, scoops up a bunch of pucks, and starts shooting slapshots aimed right at me from 30 feet out.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
Honestly, his aim is great. The pucks bounce off the quarter-inch glass right in front of my face, and loud, resounding booms echo through the empty arena. Fresno's got a blistering shot, and if that glass wasn't there, I gotta admit – I'd be in a world of hurt right about now. But I ain't worried, 'cause that glass isn't breaking anytime soon. I don't even flinch. I just sit there and laugh at his childish display.
Another Hawks player, Donovan, can't believe what's going on. He points at me and mouths the words, “you're dead.” I just laugh some more, 'cause I know he's gonna be looking for me all game long. That gets a whole bunch of other Hawks players all good and outraged, and then they join Fresno in shooting pucks in my direction, too.
Too fucking easy, I chuckle to myself.
But their captain, Tyler Vance, doesn't take the bait. As usual. Vance takes in the scene – his outraged teammates firing pucks at me, the fact that I'm loving all the attention from behind the glass – and he gets the smallest and briefest of smiles. Vance is missing a tooth, his front-left tooth, and the gap where his tooth should be fucking melts my heart every time I see it. I guess I'm a fuckin' hockey player through and through, eh? Because I don't know anybody else who thinks a missing tooth is sexy ... but here I am, getting all worked up about it.
But Vance shakes his head and that cute smile disappears and he goes back to what he was doing: shooting one-timers at an open net.
For a guy like me – a guy whose job it is to get everyone else off their games – Vance is a bit of an enigma. Most guys, it's easy to figure out what makes 'em tick. How to get under their skin. People don't realize if you react to something, and you show me that what I'm saying pisses you off, well – you've just giving me more ammunition.
But a guy like Vance? He gives me nothing.
Still. I can't help but notice where Vance is shooting from on the ice: in the slot, top of the faceoff circle. The same place he took 'the shot.' His shots are ringing off the crossbar, just like that epic miss – but this time they're all deflecting right into the net after. I mean every last shot. Off the bar, down and in.
Hmm. I make note of that. I don't think it's a coincidence. I bet that missed shot is still bothering him. A rink rat like him? A guy who practices every little aspect of the game relentlessly, until he has it down perfectly?
I bet he's still haunted by that. I bet it's eating him alive, actually. I've given him a hard time about it before, but he didn't even react. Maybe I just didn't try hard enough? Maybe I didn't find the right scab to rip off?
Vance has had a down year. So have the rest of the Hawks. My job tonight will be to make sure his bad year keeps going – to make sure he doesn't turn his season around against us. I almost feel bad about it – almost. Because secretly, I want him to do well. The game is more fun to watch when guys like Vance are tearing up the league.
And even I have to admit, the way the media tore into him for missing that shot was total bullshit. After everything he did for the Hawks that year? He was the reason they were even anywhere near the Cup in the first place ...
... But maybe I'm just going soft because I think Vance is cute as hell. Yeah, I've got a weakness for the whole strong but silent, handsome and hard-working, jacked fitness freak thing – and that's Vance to a T.
Apparently, the community of single ladies in Chicago feel the same way I do – after all, they voted him most eligible bachelor! Haha! I'll have to remember to give him a hard time about that shit later tonight, too.
I've totally spaced out, staring at Vance, while a volley of pucks are still slamming against the glass right outside my face.
“Oh, right,” I mutter to myself, snapping out of my trance. I let out a satisfied sigh, content in knowing that my job for the night is already half-over.
“See ya later, boys!” I give the Hawks a little wave and waltz cockily back to my dressing room. The firing squad doesn't relent, though – and the non-stop barrage of pucks, banging into the glass, follows me as I circle around the rink and finally disappear into the tunnel.
I walk back into the visitor's dressing room. More of my teammates have showed up for our practice, and they greet me as I enter.
“'Ey Jonesy!” “There he is.” “Sup Jonesy.”
Our captain, Dimitri Burkhardt, sees me and rolls his eyes. “Where were ya, Jones?”
Some of the guys call him Meat-Tree instead of Dimitri – because at 6'6 and 240 pounds, that's just what he is. A freakin' gorilla of a man.
“Scoutin' the competition,” I wink.
The other boys – the ones closer to my age – laugh and make jokes.
The older guys in the room aren't so amused by my antics. They mumble and shake their heads and roll their eyes and look at Burky, and I can tell they want him to speak up and say something. Probably something about how my lack of respect for the integrity and history of the game makes the team look bad ... same speech as always.
“Fuck's sake,” Burky mutters under his breath. “Doin' that shit again, eh Jones?”
“You know it. You should've seen how mad they got. Bet they take a penalty right off the draw.”
“I bet.” Burky wipes at his mouth. “You know, it wasn't all that long ago when we could just grab a punk like you and make him eat a knuckle sandwich.”
Burky's an older guy, something of a dinosaur, really – and he's not lying. Back in his days, you really could just grab a guy you didn't like and start punching him. But the league is changing. They don't want that kind of stuff anymore. The world's changing, and grabbing a guy and punching him without him wanting to fight? Well, that kinda thing ends up on the news, and the league isn't so impressed by the bad PR. If you try that today you'll get a hefty fine and a long suspension. So, uh, it's not really a smart thing to do.
Instead, two guys have to agree to a fight. I mean, getting a guy's consent before you smash his face in – gee, what a horrific concept, right?
But Burky has more to say and he continues. “Maybe you should be more careful, Jones? Some of us older guys might just forget that we can't do stuff like that anymore, and we might pound your face anyway.”
I give Burky a cock-eyed look and laugh. He's been up my ass lately and I'm kinda getting sick of it. Yeah, my style is controversial – but I'm top 3 on this team in scoring, for fuck's sake. I'm not some talentless goon – I'm a good hockey player that knows how to put the puck in the net. Pissing guys off is just another dimension to my game.
But I know as well as anyone else that you don't get to be known as one of the biggest pain-in-the-asses in the league without making a few enemies. And that includes your teammates sometimes.
Burky isn't finished. “All I'm sayin' is, Jones, you go stirring up all this shit, and someone has to answer the bell when you aren't willing.”
I snort. I actually take offense at the accusation. “I've never run away from a fight, Burky, and you know it.”
My teammates, the younger guys, back me up. “Yeah, Burky, you can't say that.” “CJ doesn't back down.” “You can call Jonesy a lot of things, but turtle ain't one of em,” another one laughs.
“Alright, alright,” Cody Smith, one of the team's alternate captains, steps into the middle of the room – literally and figuratively – and tries to put out the flames. “Let's all pull our panties up and fuckin' get along, alright boys? We got a game tonight, we need to get on the same fuckin' page here.”
Both sides agree to a ceasefire with a grumble and retreat to our respective sides. Hands drop down and root through equipment bags and we focus on getting dressed instead of being at each other's throats.
“Somebody pass me some tape, eh?”