But that’s all in the past now. We’re both over it, and we’re back to being there for each other like we always were. I’m happy he’s found someone who can be there for him in a way I never would’ve been able to.
Tripp and West continue to bicker while I sit back in victory.
“I’m gonna let you guys talk this all out while I go back to sleep. All I have to do is hit the gym today.”
“Prepare to lose tomorrow,” Ollie says to me.
“You wish, Strömberg. Last night was the first of many wins we’re going to take home this season.”
A stream of “Boo” and “Whatever” gets thrown my way as I end the call on my side.
Then I do the worst possible thing I could do. I go back to the article and read the comments.
I’ve broken the golden rule, and now I can’t unsee all the implications that Anton and I never hated each other and our rivalry is one big publicity grab.
Whether it’s hate, lust, or the primal need to fuck and fight, whatever Anton and I have just got a whole lot more complicated.
Not only do we kick New York’s ass the following day, we take out the next two preseason games too.
Four wins. Four. There’s something in the vibe of the team that’s clicking. There’s a good chance we could head into the season undefeated. It’s years like this I wish the preseason scoreboard counted.
The game is so unpredictable. A great preseason sometimes means it’s all downhill from there. It sets up high expectations that could crumble under the slightest pressure.
Where we should be riding high, we’re all scared shitless something is going to happen to bring us down, and we’ve still got two more games to play before the regular season kicks off.
We have a short practice today, and I arrive at the practice rink at the same time as Larsen. He approaches me like an excitable puppy with what he thinks is a great idea. “So I’ve been thinking. What if we don’t change our socks for the entire season?”
We scan our security cards and enter the building, where Diedrich is just ahead of us. “Scaring off the other teams with smelly socks isn’t the best offensive strategy.”
Diedrich, hearing me, spins. “Well, whatever we do, let’s not let Ezra grow out his beard again.”
I rub my chin. “Whatever. My beard is a work of art.”
The guys snicker, but I don’t know why. My beard is awesome. Especially now it’s trimmed and neat. I’m keeping it, damn it.
We have a game in two days against New Jersey, and I hope we can keep the streak going, but as we walk into the locker room, it’s like walking into a funeral. There’s an air of quiet mourning, and for a brief second, I think someone actually died.
Trades can happen anytime. Usually during preseason, it’s a drafted rookie or someone who isn’t doing well. We’ve all been playing great, so I don’t understand what’s going on.
That’s when my eyes land on Wagner’s cubby. Our equipment manager is clearing it out.
“No,” I say. “When did that happen?”
“Last night,” Kosik says. “Orlov too. They’re going to announce it today.”
“Who’d we get?”
As if waiting for their damn cue, in walk the trades.
Rookie Josh Moreau from Philly and—
Fucking fuck fuck.
No.
This is not happening.
I blink a few times, but Anton Hayes still stands there, bag over his shoulder, sullen look on his face.
Coach Stephenson walks into the room and shivers. “Wow. Cold reception in here. I can see you’re all aware of what’s going on. Before any of you complain”—he sends a pointed look my way—“you know how these things go.”
I have to admit, the trade is decent for us. Trading our third-line center for a second-line winger is a smart move. I will never deny Anton has talent. But Wagner for a draft rookie? Wagner may be nearing retirement, but he’s a solid player and a veteran. Trading that for someone green and unpredictable is a risk.
I bet Coach used Wagner as leverage to get Hayes in on the deal. We’ll trade you two solid players for an excellent one and a risky one.
I understand it from the outside, but come on, our preseason was showing promise. All the unwashed socks in the world can’t help this.
Hayes refuses to look at me, and I don’t blame him.
“Get settled in,” Coach says to Hayes and Moreau and then turns to me. “Palaszczuk, my office. Now.”
I throw my head back like the petulant child I am and follow him into his office.
He closes the door behind him and tells me to take a seat. “I don’t need to tell you to pull your head out of your ass on this, do I?”
“No, sir.”
His lips flatten. “Why don’t I believe you?”
“Philly is screwing with you. Why would they so willingly give up Hayes to us other than knowing our rivalry could undo this whole team?”