Page 5 of From Coast to Coast
“Is the stalker talk meant to convince me to let you move in?” I ask, returning his smile. His grows, and he steps toward me, tipping his head back to keep his eyes on mine as he thumps a hand against my chest guard.
“Yes,” he says, before stepping neatly around me and onto the ice. “Now come on, let’s warm up before the rest of them get out here.”
Snorting, I join him, watching as he skates a figure-eight pattern, slowly tightening the loops as he warms up. I’d known why they signed him—anybody who watched the All-Star Skills last season was impressed by his footwork—but seeing it in person makes me feel a stirring of excitement. He isfastand can turn so quickly it seems incredible he doesn’t lose an edge each time and wipe out. If I tried to mimic him, I’d embarrass myself.
“You skate like Troy,” I muse, and then mentally smack myself for saying it out loud. He coasts to a stop in front of me, far enough away that he doesn’t have to strain his neck to look me in the face.How tall is he? 5’11”? Shorter? Maybe I need to catch up on some NHL news, myself.
“Nichols? You guys played juniors together, right?”
“Right.”
“Cool. And you skate good.” He eyes me. “For a giant.”
The sound of our teammates joining us derails the conversation and I automatically skate backward to put more space between us. Stone’s eyebrows pinch together in a frown, but before he can say anything, he’s called over to the boards by Petterson. With one last look my way, he skates off. Zolkov joins me, fiddling with his glove and smirking.
“Z,” I warn, “don’t.”
He shrugs, but doesn’t say anything. Nor does he stop smirking.
“New guy is going to stay in your old room while he finds his feet,” I admit, and Zolkov nods sagely.
“Will be nice for you. Now you will not be so lonely.”
Sighing, I shake my head and skate away without responding. Behind me, he laughs softly. I skate all the way to the other end of the ice where Gordon, our first-string goaltender, is stretching out. Bending over so he can hear me over the voices of the rest of the team, I make the prerequisite small talk before diving into defensive strategy. Other than Zolkov, Gordon is my closest friend on the team. I couldn’t say whether that’s because he’s a tender and I’m his defensive shield, or if he doesn’t buy into the homophobic shit. Either way, I’m happy with the way things are between us and eager to keep them that way.
Practice endsand I fall into my usual routine of waiting out my teammates. I strip at a glacial pace and don’t enter the showers until most of them are done. Z, as always, waits for me—sprawled lazily on the bench seat in front of our stalls, towel barely covering him as he chats aimlessly to me about his latest girlfriend. By the time we finish showering, the locker room is empty but for Remy Stone sitting fully clothed in front of his locker.
“Fuck, Stone, sorry.” I pull my street clothes out and start getting dressed. “I should have given you my address so you could head out if you wanted.”
“No worries. I, uh, don’t actually have a car here, so…” He grins at me, the left side of his mouth higher than the right and blond hair an unruly mop on his head. It doesn’t look like it’s seen a brush in days.
“Oh, right, you said Petterson picked you up at the airport. You planning on going back to California, then, at some point? Or just getting a car here?”
“Well, I have a house there. Right on the beach—it’s fucking sick. Perfect morning waves.” He grins, staring off into the middle distance of the locker room as he thinks about the ocean. “I figure I’ll go back there over the summer and I’ll need a car. I’ll just get something for here at some point.”
He shrugs, unbothered by the fact that he came here with nothing but a duffel bag and no home or means of transportation. I suppose it’s something all of us have to think about at some time in our careers. It’s the unfortunate fact of professional sports. At any point you could be sent to another team, and you’ll be lucky to have enough time to make plans before you go. When I first came to Calgary, I lived in a hotel before someone took pity on me and offered me a spare room.
“You can ride in with me,” I offer, and he smiles—a flash of white teeth against tan skin.
“Right on,” he says, “thanks.”
“Right on,” Zolkov mimics from beside me, trying to copy Stone’s Californian drawl. I laugh and nudge him with my elbow.
“Z, I’m not sure you have a leg to stand on when it comes to making fun of the way people talk,” I tell him, slinging my bag over my shoulder and waiting for Stone to stand up. He’s still smiling slightly, amusement glinting in his eyes as he looks at Zolkov.
“English is stupid language,” Zolkov says dismissively, and follows Stone and me out the door. Stone doesn’t comment, unconcerned with our chirping.
“Z rode in with me today,” I explain, even though he hadn’t asked. He flashes his teeth at me again. “His car is in the shop. Again.”
“Maintenance?” Stone asks.
“I hit someone,” Zolkov answers morosely. Stone’s smile slips and he glances at me.
“Something. You hit something, Z, not someone.”
“Is same thing.”
“It’s really not,” I grouse, and Stone grins, looking delighted with our bickering. “He jumped a curb, popped two tires, and fucked up his rims after he drove home on the flats. Word of advice? Never get into a car with Z. Not if you value your life.”