“How old were
you when you lost your virginity?”
Tim Hollander
considered his friend Alex’s question as he perused the selection of free
weights. “I was thirteen,” he replied with a straight face.
His other
friend, Jason, scoffed. “The fuck you were.”
Tim
chuckled. “All right. I was twenty.”
“Twenty?”
They both looked at Tim, shocked.
Tim, Jason
and Alex were working out together in Jason’s home gym. Once upon a time, the
three of them had played for the New York Rangers, and even though they’d
eventually moved to different NHL teams, they’d remained good friends. Now over
a decade later, they’d been professionally reunited as San Diego Barracudas.
“I was a fucking
late bloomer,” Tim said. “I cared about hockey more than I cared about getting
laid. Sue me.”
Jason’s home
was within spitting distance of one of the most exclusive beaches in San Diego,
so the three of them had a fantastic view of the surf as they worked out. These
days, players had to come into training camp in peak condition. The off-season
was no longer a couple of months of vacation and then a month of getting back
in shape. In today’s NHL, you couldn’t afford to ever get out of shape.
“Hey, I
don’t give a shit when you lost your virginity,” Alex said. “I’m just trying to
help you find a number.”
Tim’s old jersey
number, twenty-one, was taken.
“How old
were you?” Tim asked Alex.
“I was
sixteen. Marissa Monteleone,” Alex said with a grin. He punched some buttons on
the elliptical. “What sweet fucking pussy she had. I swear to God it tasted
like peach pie.”
“My first
time was with a girl named Alison,” Tim said. “At the Calgary Hilton.”
Alex
blinked. “No shit. At the draft?”
Tim nodded
as he picked up a pair of dumbbells and started doing curls. “It was a good
year,” he said with a laugh.
“I’ll say.
Sex and hockey, that’s about all I need or want in life,” Alex said. “That and
beer. Can’t forget beer.”
Jason got
onto the stationary bike. “You know, I appreciate a stroll down Memory Fucking
Lane as much as the next guy, but I thought we were trying to find Tim a new
number.”
“I do want a
new number,” Tim replied. “I told you, I don’t want anything from last season
to haunt me now and that includes my number.”
“Wait a
second,” Alex said, grabbing the handles of the machine and starting to work.
“Let me get this straight. You’re getting rid of that butt-ugly polka-dot tie?”
Tim scowled.
Like a lot of players, Tim had a preference for particular items of game day
clothing. “First of all, it wasn’t butt-ugly, and yes, I got rid of it.” He
looked at Jason. “Did you think it was ugly?”
“Hell, yes.”
Tim scoffed.
“Well, let me know the next time someone nominates either one of you fuckers
for a fashion award.”
They all
chuckled.
“So, what
about the number twenty?” Alex asked. “You have good memories of your first
fuck, right?”
Tim nodded,
increasing the resistance on his bike. “Sure I do. Twenty would be okay.”
“Unfortunately,”
Jason said, “the pussy inaugural number twenty is out. That’s Carpenter’s
number.”
“Shit.” Tim
looked at Alex. “Does your number
have a special significance?”
“That’s how
long my dick is.”
Jason
laughed. Alex wore the number eleven.
“Seriously, Alex,”
Tim said.
“It’s just
my lucky number,” Alex said, picking up the towel hanging on the handlebar and
wiping the sweat from his face.
“I don’t
have a lucky number,” Tim said.
Swearing,
Jason glanced down at the odometer on his bike. “You know what? I’ve put in
three miles talking about this. You’d better pick something by the time I hit
ten.”
“Fuck you,
Jase,” Tim said. “It’s not like we’re deciding what to eat for lunch. It’s my
number, damn it.”
Tim didn’t
want any bad mojo following him. Past couple of seasons, he’d spent too much
time on the third and fourth lines and had been a healthy scratch more than
once. Sitting out games without being injured was one of the most humiliating
things that could happen to a hockey player. When the coach scratched you, he
was basically saying, “You’ve been playing like shit. Show me during practice
how much you want to win and we’ll see if you play in the next game.”
Then the
trade had come through. Initially, he’d been devastated. After twelve years,
the Blackhawks didn’t want him anymore, and for the first time he’d seriously
considered quitting the game he loved, even though he’d always planned to play
as long as he was physically able.
But after a
period of disbelief, anger and hurt, he realized this could be a fresh start. A
second chance. He’d be playing with Jason and Alex, just like the good old
days. They’d always been magic together on the ice, and his two friends seemed
pumped for the opportunity.
And yet he still
secretly wondered if maybe it was
time he hung up his skates. He had plenty of money. He
had his health. He could find himself a woman and settle down somewhere. Or
maybe travel the world. He wanted to see Europe, maybe Japan. Playing with the
NHL, he did more than his share of traveling, but all of it in North America.
“Where are we going for lunch?” Alex said,
breaking the silence. He addressed Tim, who was now doing some triceps work.
“San Diego is a hotbed of craft microbreweries. We could go to Zethus. Great pale
ale, great food. Huge burgers and fresh-cut fries. Their ribs are good too.”
“Sounds a
little heavy,” Tim said. “I don’t want to show up to training camp flabby.”
“Training
camp is two months away,” Alex said. “Plenty of time to work off any flab from
a burger-and-beer lunch today.”
Jason took a
swig from his water bottle and said to Tim, “There’s a good sushi place down
the street.”
“Sushi’s
good,” Tim said.
Alex
grumbled. “Killjoys. One beer’s not gonna kill you.”
“Like you’d
stop at one,” Jason countered. “Besides, Zethus is forty-five minutes from
here.”
“Then how
about KFC then? I could go from some extra crispy. I’ll even go get it and meet
you on the sand.”
For a man
whose livelihood depended on his physical fitness, Alex drank too much and
binged on junk food. Conventional wisdom was “ninety-ten”—eat right ninety
percent of the time so you could goof off the other ten. But Alex held to more
of a fifty-fifty ratio. His rationale was if his game didn’t suffer, he should
be able to eat whatever the hell he wanted.
“Look, if you’re going to pollute your body with that shit,
you fucking can do it without me,” Jason said.
What’s wrong with him? Tim mouthed at Alex. Alex shrugged.
Noticing the
exchange, Jason narrowed his eyes. “What are we, in junior high? If you have
something to say to me or about me, just fucking say it.”
Tim frowned.
“I was just asking Alex if you were on your period, because you’re sure acting
like it.”
Jason looked
like he was going to fly off the handle, when he suddenly blew out a breath
instead. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”
“Hey,” Alex
said. “When it’s that time of the month, it’s that time of the month.”
Jason
nodded, acknowledging the joke. “It’s just…look, we’re all three of us pushing
the limit. You hit thirty in our league, you’re on borrowed time. Everyone
knows that,” Jason went on, “including the kids that just got called up. Sure,
some of them will look up to us, but in the back of their minds, they’ll think
they’re stronger and faster.”
“They are,”
Tim said wryly.
“Which is
one of the reasons I asked you to come over today. We have two months until
training camp, and I want to show up in beyond peak condition. They’re
expecting to see the three of us skating like old ladies. I think I know how to
prove them wrong.”
Alex worked
the elliptical but not particularly strenuously. “I don’t give a fuck what
anyone’s expecting,” he muttered.
“Alex, you
don’t give a fuck about anything,” Jason said.
“Life’s a
lot easier that way. Look, as long as I pass the physicals, that’s all I care
about. It doesn’t matter what shape I’m in if I play great hockey this season.
And that’s what I aim to do.” He paused. “But just out of curiosity, what’s
your plan?”
Tim
suppressed his chuckle.
“I’ve been working out at this place called Power Play,”
Jason said. “It’s one of those sport-specific training centers. I think it’s
been doing me a lot of good, but I won’t be able to tell until camp. I think
you should come with me so we can work off each other. I think it just might
give us an edge on the kids.”
Or at least level the playing field, Tim thought. “It
couldn’t hurt,” he said.
Alex
grumbled. “I’m in great shape.”
“When you’re
not hungover,” Jason said.
“Well, I’m
game,” Tim said. He flicked a towel at Alex’s arm. “Come on. If you don’t do
it, when Jason and I blow everyone’s minds at camp, I will personally see to it
you regret sitting around on your hamburger, French fry, pale ale ass all
summer.”
“Okay, okay.
I’ll do it,” Alex said with a scowl.
Jason nodded.
“Great. We have time scheduled tomorrow at eleven. I’ll email you directions.”
“You were
that sure we’d say yes?” Tim asked.
Jason
shrugged. “Pretty much.”
They said
nothing for a while, each lost in his own thoughts until Jason announced, “Mile
eight.”
Tim opened
his mouth to tell him to fuck off again, when Alex held up a hand. “Wait a
second. Wait a second. I’ve got it. What is your all-time greatest achievement
so far? Outside of winning the Stanley Cup.”
Tim held up
two fingers. “Twice.”
Alex rolled
his yes. “Yeah, yeah, rub it in. Anyway, it’s winning the Rocket Award, right? So
your new number could be the number of goals you scored. Or the year.”
Tim smiled.
Every year the NHL gave the Maurice “Rocket” Richard trophy to the highest goal
scorer in the regular season, and in 2003, Tim scored fifty-seven goals in
eighty-two games. Earning that award certainly had great personal significance,
but the number fifty-seven didn’t feel right. Three was okay to commemorate the
year, but just as he was about to say so, he realized what his number had to be. He felt stupid for not having
thought of it right off the bat.
“Twenty-five.
I need the number twenty-five.” Putting down the weights, he slid his gaze
toward Jason. “Anyone have that number? That was Mollie’s birthday.”
Jason gave a
slow shake of the head. “No. No one has that number.”
Tim breathed
a sigh of relief. Thank God. He’d already thought he could try for the number six
to represent the number of letters in Mollie’s name as a backup, but luckily it
hadn’t come to that.
“That’s a
great number, bro. Really great,” Alex said with a solemn expression on his
face. “I just have one question.” He let the elliptical coast to a stop. “Can
we go to KFC now?”
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