Puckless (Hockey Heroes Book 1), page 5
To my surprise, Marek threw his head back and laughed. It was a joyous sound that filled the room. “Aha, so you’re essentially a detective! Are there any sizzling tales you’ve uncovered recently?”
“Nothing fit for public consumption just yet,” I said, pasting on an enigmatic smile as a shield. “What I can say is there’s no shortage of intriguing characters in the world of sports.”
Marek nodded. “Fair enough,” he agreed. “So, what do you like to do for fun, Ryan, when you’re not playing Sherlock Holmes in the athletic world?”
“I guess I’m pretty much an ordinary guy. I find comfort in the company of friends. Taking in live sports events is always fun, and I adore exploring the nooks and crannies of the city. Even a small one the size of Madison is teeming with hidden gems.”
“Sounds delightful,” he said, his gaze steady and thoughtful. “You should join me and my friends outside of work sometime. I’m sure Nate and Ethan would enjoy seeing what you’re like behind the curtain.”
The invitation caught me off guard. “Perhaps,” I said as I struggled to hide my excitement at the prospect of having a standing invitation to hang out with Ethan and his buddies. “I’ll keep that in mind,” I said.
“Fantastic,” he replied. Marek paused, and his expression turned slightly more serious. “If you don’t mind, I have one more question for you—this isn’t about sports.”
I braced myself and said, “Go ahead.” I had no way to predict what he might ask next.
Marek suddenly grinned from ear to ear. “Have you ever savored a Czech beer?”
The question caught me off guard, and I laughed, releasing some pent-up nervousness. “I haven’t had that pleasure yet. But I’m always game for trying something new.”
He clapped his hands. “Next time we rendezvous—is that the word—rendezvous? I’ll bring some along. Prepare to have your palate revolutionized, my friend.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” I said.
Marek rose to his feet. He was a tall, imposing figure towering at least six feet two inches. “Alright,” he said, signaling an end to our conversation. “Thanks for the talk, Ryan.”
I stood and shook his hand. “Thank you, Marek,” I said, and I breathed out, relieved that my moment in the glare of questions was over.
I had less than five minutes to wait for my last interview subject.
“Hey there!” The voice was both cheerful and laidback. Biedler was a unique animal in the world of hockey. He was a former California beach bum who did an about-face, learned the game of hockey, and found himself a rising professional talent.
He stood in the doorway, his sun-kissed skin glowing under the fluorescent lights. I didn’t have to ask where he’d spent his Christmas and New Year breaks. Like sun-bleached straw, his blond hair fell into his bright hazel eyes. “Ready for our chat?”
“Absolutely,” I replied, gesturing for him to take a seat. “And for the record, I’ve been instructed not to address you as Cornelius.”
Biedler responded with an appreciative laugh. “Thank God—can you imagine growing up with that? And there’s no good nickname—Corny?” He laughed and folded his lanky body into a chair opposite me.
“Consider it swept away,” I assured him. “So, Biedler, I’ll start with the obvious question first. How does somebody transition from riding waves to scoring goals?”
He had an immediate response accompanied by waving hands. “You just trade your surfboard for a pair of skates and treat the ice like it’s a frozen ocean. Voila!”
His humorous analogy made me chuckle. I knew my talk with Biedler was sure to be unlike any interview I’d conducted before.
I took my next question in a different direction. “Let’s navigate through serious waters for a moment. What if the tide doesn’t favor you? What if you don’t rise with the fortunate boats and make it out of the minor leagues? Has that thought crossed your mind?”
Biedler’s playful smirk dissolved, leaving behind a pair of thoughtful eyes that met mine without hesitation. “Of course,” he said, his tone a shade darker. “But brooding over it would only pull me down, wouldn’t it?”
“I suppose so—does that mean there’s another harbor for your boat? Is there something you’re equally passionate about, aside from hockey?”
“Well, it’s not sailing,” Biedler laughed, “so the boat talk is kind of lost on me.” We both laughed before he continued. “I’ve always thought that if hockey doesn’t pan out, I can ride the wave back home and open a surf shop. I’ve got connections and spent plenty of years out there chasing waves.”
I smiled at his proposal. “Tell me more about this hypothetical surf shop.”
Biedler’s eyes softened, and his gaze focused on a point somewhere beyond the confines of the room. “Picture this,” he began. “It’s a cozy shack on the beach, overflowing with custom boards and gear, all of my own design. And instead of a faceless staff, it’d be local kids who I’d teach to surf and offer part-time jobs. We’d be like one big, happy, sun-drenched family.”
The vision Biedler presented was vivid. I could practically smell the salty breeze. As I listened, I hoped that whatever path in life made the most sense to him would lead to happiness.
“It sounds like your very own paradise,” I said.
We chatted for almost half an hour, consistently switching back and forth between hockey and other more mundane everyday life subjects. When I was getting ready to wrap up, Biedler pulled a surprise on me. I didn’t know if something strange had gotten into the water, but he embraced Marek’s trick. “Can I ask you a question, Ryan?”
“I—well—I suppose so.” I couldn’t let it get out that I let Marek grill me but said no to Biedler.
“So, are you planning to interview Ethan Underwood? You know, the big guy that almost took you out on the ice the other day.”
A guarded “Maybe” escaped my lips. “Why do you ask?”
“No reason,” Biedler shrugged, and the sunshine in his demeanor quickly returned. “I just reckon it might be interesting, is all. He’s one of our best players and an even better friend.”
I nodded. “Thanks for the tip. I’ll keep that in mind.”
“Do that,” he urged as he rose from his chair. “And hey, it was a blast talking to you, Ryan. Best of luck with your feature!”
His parting words echoed in the room as he left. It had been a good day, and, despite the anxiety I experienced when I was on the spot, I didn’t regret anything about any of the interviews.
Although I realized that the responses to my questions might never see the light of day in a published article, they did offer me something of far more value—insight. I’d been given a peek into what made some of the key Madison Mitts players tick.
They were no longer just skaters on the ice, scoring goals and dodging opponents. They were individuals, each with their unique dreams and struggles. They also helped me understand more about Ethan and even myself. I picked up my recorder and played back the conversations, each word now laden with a depth I hadn’t fully appreciated earlier. A smile played on my lips as I leaned back and wondered what was yet to come as the rest of the hockey season unfolded.
SEVEN
ETHAN
“Listen up, men!” I bellowed, my voice cutting through the clamor of the locker room. A pungent blend of sweat and determination hung heavy in the air, mingling with the acrid bite of disinfectant. My words echoed in the humid space as I stood tall before my teammates, their eyes fixed on me.
“Tonight is the night we prove ourselves,” I continued, my gaze unwavering, as if I could will their confidence to rise. “We are an unbreakable force, and it’s high time the world takes notice.”
Nate swaggered over, a mischievous smirk curving his lips. “So, Captain, do you have a master plan for this?”
“Damn straight, I do!” I declared. A surge of adrenaline fueled a grin as I clapped my hands together. “And I want to hear each and every one of you chant it with me—One team, one dream.’”
“That’s catchy,” Nate conceded. Joining me, he began to chant. Our voices harmonized. “One team, one dream!”
Our teammates joined in the shout, blending their voices into a powerful chorus that resonated throughout the room. It bounced off the walls like a thunderous battle cry. The sound sent a surge of electric excitement coursing through my veins, and at that moment, I knew we were primed and ready for the upcoming clash on the ice.
“Alright, let’s bring that powerful energy to our game,” I commanded, my voice cutting through the uproar. As we marched out of the locker room, my teammates exploded into boisterous cheers.
A feeling of anticipation enveloped the arena as we skated onto the ice for our pregame warm-up. Our Madison Mitts mascot, a whimsical figure in an exaggerated hockey player outfit with an oversized, comically gloved hand, danced along the boards. His stunts stirred the early spectators into a frenzy.
“Alright, gentlemen, let’s give them a little show,” I called out, casting a sweeping gaze across the eager faces of my comrades. “Remember our presentation drill. Precise. Cohesive.”
“Lead the way,” Nate said, nudging me playfully with his shoulder.
I inhaled deeply. My expectations weighed heavily on my shoulders, but I knew it was our time to shine. With a mighty push back on my skates, I propelled myself forward, guiding the team into a seamless formation—a drill I meticulously devised to showcase our unity and unrivaled skill.
We moved as if possessed by a single consciousness, fluid and precise, weaving and gliding across the ice in perfect synchrony.
“Wow, that’s truly awe-inspiring!” a fan shouted from the stands.
“Our pleasure!” I shouted back. The thrill of performing for an audience sparked a fiery rush, and I fed off the energy. Moments like these were the essence of my existence—the crowd’s deafening roar, the unbreakable bond between teammates, and the pure, unadulterated love for the game.
“Maintain the momentum, men!” I roared. “We’ve only just begun!”
“Watch your back, Ethan!” Marek’s warning barely registered as I glided backward, leading the team across the ice. “Serious—watch your—“Marek cringed. I focused solely on executing the drill flawlessly, oblivious to the mascot’s mischievous antics behind me.
Without further warning, my skate entangled itself with the colossal, skate-clad foot of the mascot, and suddenly, I was weightless, soaring through the air. I flailed for anything to grab to steady myself as I collided with the padded, oversized mascot body.
“Whoa!” I gasped. I rebounded off the costume and slid forward, crashing right into Nate.
“Are you kidding me, Ethan?” Nate grunted, his eyes wide with shock. His balance faltered, and in an instant, we were both entangled in a web of limbs and equipment, crashing to the ice in an unceremonious heap.
“Look out!” a teammate’s voice cried out, but it was too late. Like a chain reaction, the other players toppled in rapid succession, a perfect line of dominos, forming a chaotic pileup of Madison Mitts sprawled across the ice.
Stunned silence filled the arena. Then, uproarious laughter shattered the stillness—an orchestra of high-pitched giggles and deep, resonant belly laughs. The sound echoed off the walls, and I found myself caught between embarrassment and amusement.
“Way to go, Puckless,” Marek teased as he struggled to his feet.
“Hey, not every play can be a masterpiece,” I retorted. My cheeks flushed as I watched the reactions of my teammates. None of them were shocked. Their expressions varied from amused eye rolls to chuckles. There was no hint of anger or even frustration from any of them.
“Alright, men, shake it off. Let’s all rise and deliver a victory,” I declared, embracing the unforeseen turn of events. With renewed determination, we scrambled to our feet, and the sounds of laughter faded.
“Wave to the crowd, men!” I ordered. “Let them know we’re in on the joke!”
In unison, we waved and laughed with the crowd. It was a moment of shared joy with our fans. I glided toward the center ice with my stick raised in a mock salute.
As I returned to the team, I glanced at Nate’s grinning face. He was genuinely amused. At that moment, I knew the game would be one to remember.
“Come on, men, let’s keep that momentum going!” I shouted, my voice resonating through the icy arena. The game stood at a tense tie. Our earlier mishap had transformed into a source of unyielding strength, and we fed upon it with unwavering determination.
“Let’s go, Mitts!” Nate’s voice cut through the crowd’s roar, clear and forceful.
Coach Pritchard bellowed from the bench. “Thirty seconds left!” My heart pounded in synch with the ticking clock. I knew any margin for error had long ago evaporated.
“Stay focused, Ethan,” I muttered as I looked around the ice, searching for a glimmer of opportunity. Marek met my gaze before threading the puck toward me with a precise pass.
“Got it!” I shouted as the weight of the puck slapped against my stick. It was my moment, my chance to shift the game’s tide and secure a win. My muscles coiled like a tightly wound spring.”
Ten seconds!” The warning echoed around the arena as my pulse pounded in my ears. For a brief moment, the world faded away—the raucous cheers, the blinding lights, and even any hints of self-doubt. All that was left was me, the puck, and the goal ahead.
“Shoot!” Marek’s cry barely pierced the tense buzz.
“Here goes nothing,” I unleashed the puck with every ounce of strength coursing through my veins. I sent it into a forceful glide across the ice, a missile cutting through defenders, slicing a determined path toward the net. Time itself slowed as I watched, holding my breath in agonizing anticipation.
“Three—two—“The countdown continued, and the crowd held their collective breath.
“Goal!” The announcer’s proclamation erupted from the press booth. His shout rebounded off the arena’s walls as the puck found its home. I threw my arms in the air, and my body trembled with the emotion of the moment.
“YES!” I screamed, triumph roaring through my veins as my teammates swarmed around me. Marek reached me first with a wide, infectious grin spreading across his face. “We did it, man!” he shouted, wrapping me tight in a bear hug.
“Couldn’t have done it without you. I clapped him hard on the shoulder to show my gratitude. One by one, the rest of the team joined the jubilant celebration, forming a colossal heap of victorious hockey players, each reveling in the hard-earned win.
“Way to go, Captain!” a muffled voice hailed from beneath the tangled pile as laughter bubbled up around us.
“Let’s hear it for the Madison Mitts!” I called out, thrusting my arm toward the crowd as we disentangled ourselves. The response was a deafening chorus of whistles, shouts, and applause.
“Good game, men,” declared Coach Pritchard. He clasped my hand firmly as we exited the ice. “You showed them you’ve got grit.”
“Thank you, Coach,” I replied, feeling the warmth of his approval envelop me like a cozy blanket.
The press room after the game pulsated with chaos. It was an orchestra of overlapping voices, blinding camera flashes, mingling fragrances of cologne and perfume, and sweat. Having quickly dressed in street clothes, Nate and I took our places at the front table.
“Boys, that was a game for the ages!” a reporter shouted as she gripped a notepad in one hand. “Was the pregame collision a calculated part of your strategy?”
Nate cast a glance my way with mischief glimmering in his dark eyes. “Ah, well, it certainly got the crowd going, didn’t it?” he replied, running a hand through his hair.
“True,” I chimed in, unable to suppress a grin. “But honestly, it was a complete accident. We couldn’t have planned something like that if we tried.”
“Perhaps it’s best if you don’t.” The comment came from a familiar voice in the crowd. My heart skipped a beat as I spotted Ryan, his penetrating stare peering from beneath tousled brown locks. His lips curled into a seductive smile, and I couldn’t stop myself from blushing.
“Ryan Parker, long time no see,” I said, striving for a casually nonchalant sound. “Any hard-hitting questions for us today?”
“Always,” he said. “But first, how does it feel to lead your team to victory after such an unpredictable start?”
I hesitated as I searched for the perfect words. “It feels extraordinary,” I confessed. But this wasn’t just about me—it’s about the collective effort of the entire team, and we’re just starting to rise.”
“Spoken like a true captain,” Ryan murmured as he scribbled something on his tablet. Our eyes connected again, lingering momentarily before another reporter’s question drew my attention.
“Does this win carry greater significance considering the tumultuous season you’ve endured?” a burly journalist inquired, pen poised in anticipation of my answer.
“Every victory holds its significance,” Nate interjected, stepping forward before I could respond. “But yeah, this one feels extra sweet.”
“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” I nodded my agreement with Nate. Reporters hurled additional questions at us, but I found it hard to keep my mind off Ryan. He was the man I wanted to talk to about the game. I was desperate to hear his thoughts and feelings—and taste another kiss.
Finally, the press conference drew to a close, and as we exited the room, I managed to catch Ryan’s eye once more. For a fleeting moment, it felt like the world belonged solely to us—the triumphant team captain, the tenacious reporter—and the journey ahead.
“Man, that was intense,” Nate exhaled as we exited the press room. Above us, the fluorescent lights hummed softly as they cast a sterile glow on the beige corridor walls.
“Tell me about it.” I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “But we came out on top.”
“Thanks to your last-minute heroics. That goal was legendary!”
