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Chris
Even ten years into the game, Chris still felt the same thrill as he first stepped onto the ice. This wasn’t even a major match – just a friendly before the main season started. Even so, he could feel the adrenaline coursing through his body. He felt the same strong bond with all his teammates as they skated neatly into position, and the same temporary animosity he always felt for the other team’s players.
Afterwards, they’d drink together. Chris already knew a few of these guys, and on a personal level he liked them. But right now? They were enemy soldiers, and Chris was ready to go for blood.
The starting signal was something he felt internally now, rather than with his five main senses. See, Chris played on another level; all the movements he made were pure muscle memory. It left his head clear to think. That was his most valuable asset as a player, or so said their manager. There were more powerful players in the league, and faster players – but his quick thinking was completely unmatched.
It felt good to be the best, but it felt even better to play and prove it. A crowd like this was especially rewarding. They were so loud that he felt it in his bloodstream, and in his chest. Even as he tried to drown it out to focus, they were still there ringing in his ears and spurring him on. He knew it was arrogant, but what made it even better was the knowledge that plenty of them were there to see him.
Their home stadium had actually banned paper signs recently. It had caused an uproar with the fans, who liked to make their feelings known – but it was largely signs with his name on them that had showed up in the stands.
He’d worked hard for this career, and he continued to work hard. For that reason, he supposed, unable to restrain himself from grinning as he made a killer pass to his best friend Darren Schloss, he did kind of deserve this.
It was difficult to cast that thought aside once they’d won the game, team cheering and roaring like some kind of pack animals as they exited the stadium and climbed onto their tour bus. It wasn’t a long drive back from Jersey to New York – but they’d sure spend the whole ride celebrating anyway, with Chris central to their celebrations.
One thing that had surprised Chris about professional sports was the friendliness of his team. He had been expecting a little competition and unpleasantness behind the scenes. College hockey had been full of that kind of shit – people who considered one another rivals as much as they were teammates. Here on the Rangers, there was no such feeling. Chris guessed that was partly due to where they were. In college, you were fighting to be noticed by the scouts, and there were a limited number of places for professionals.
Once you got onto a professional team, you were made. There was nothing left to fight your other players for but glory – and you were better off working together to get that.
As such, the Rangers were kind of like family to him. Loud and obnoxious in a way that he truly appreciated, his teammates filled his life with noise, stupid laughter and gruff, masculine support. They’d cheer him on when he got friendly with a groupie, and he’d cheer them on when they got friendly with a groupie. They had a tally chart hidden from the manager which detailed who puked most during their wild drinking sessions.
Frankly, he was living the dream. Things were a little quieter when he got home to his empty apartment, populated only by the sound of his TV running in the background, but that was alright for now. He could find company when he needed it.
Things were good.
“Man,” said Darren, finally reaching him from across the other side of the bus. “That last play you made – fuck me. You were like fucking Roadrunner, stripping straight past Wile E. Coyote; they had no fucking chance...”
Clearly, judging by his language, he was already a little drunk – but Chris didn’t mind that. He grinned, slapping Darren on the back a couple times in solidarity. “Thanks, man. Felt good.”
“Felt good? Shit. It fucking looked good. The crowd’s screaming – one girl nearly had her tits out, but security got there first...”
Chris laughed, easily able to picture the scene. He hadn’t noticed at the time, with his attention all occupied by the game – but Darren had always been more distracted by the crowd and the world around him than Chris was. It wasn’t such a bad thing, even if their manager hated it. It hadn’t cost the team much so far. Last season had been record-breaking for them, and this upcoming season looked like it was going to be strong too.
What more could you ask?
“You’ve got your pick of girls tonight, my friend,” said Darren, finally dropping into the seat beside him instead of hovering around in front. “We’ll get to a sports bar where they’re doing replays; they’ll be standing in a line for you to choose from, like a fucking Vegas brothel...”
Chris wrinkled up his nose, laughing. “Christ. I’m beat; are you guys really heading out tonight? It was just a friendly.”
“Are you kidding?” said Darren. “Yes, we’re going out. You’re coming out too. You have to, man; you’re going to have to be on your best behavior from next week on.”
At first, Chris wasn’t sure what he meant. The season was starting soon, sure, but they were never all that well behaved, even mid-season. Only after a moment’s thought did he remember what their manager had been talking about this morning. Sports Illustrated was sending a reporter to write a profile on Chris, and he’d be following him around for a couple of weeks.
“Ah, shit,” he said, realizing that Darren was right. There was no way he’d be able to get wild with some journalist around. If anything went wrong – and things had gone a little wild and wrong in the past – then they’d be fucked. “You’re right.”
“I know I’m right,” said Darren, slapping him on the shoulder again. “So get your ass in gear. Drink some coffee; I don’t fucking know. You’re not going home. Not alone, and not yet.”
That was the decision made for him, he guessed. No changing it now – and maybe it’d be good for him to get out and have fun tonight. He’d been training hard before the match, as he did every time. Friendly matches weren’t technically all that important, but being on a winning streak was motivational, and it put you in the right mood. There could be no underestimating momentum.
Granted, that momentum argument might be all the more reason to continue training instead of going out.
A couple of hours later, Chris found himself in a VIP booth with Darren and the rest regardless. There were any number of arguments you could make about the benefits of team camaraderie anyway.
“Hey, asshole,” said Darren, cutting neatly into his thoughts about the importance of good teamwork. “Come to the bar. They’re giving us free shots.”
Presumably, they’d be the first of many. Technically – according to their manager – they were meant to turn down free alcohol. The drunker they got, the likelier they were to get into trouble. Whether that meant injuring themselves or getting locked up overnight didn’t matter; either way, it would damage the team in some way.
Like many of their manager’s rules, though, it went largely ignored. It was like that old ‘tree falling in the forest’ argument. If their manager wasn’t around to see them transgress, then... had they even broken the rules in the first place?
Or something.
Maybe he was already a little drunk.
As it turned out, however, shots weren’t the only thing at the bar. As soon as he arrived there, a pretty redhead turned and gasped as if she’d only just seen him, play-acting so badly that he couldn’t tell whether it was intentional or whether she was just really, really drunk. Either way, he didn’t care. She was hot, and when she bent over to touch his arm, she was showing off an ample cleavage.
“Oh, my God,” she said, her tone about as convincing as her facial expressions. “You’re Chris Knoll. You played so well today.”
“Yeah?” he said, grinning at her as he knocked back the first of his shots. “You like hockey?”
“I like hockey players, if that counts...”
Like most evenings he spent out with the Rangers, the rest of the evening was a blur. He stumbled into some cab or other, the redhead on his arm; he remembered drinking something bright green at a different bar, and downing a pint of expensive beer at yet another. In the morning, when he extricated himself from the redhead’s sleepy grip, he might wish he’d downed a little more water – but this was the life he’d earned as a professional hockey player, and it was a life he loved.
He didn’t think that would ever change.
He was about to learn that it would.
