by Van Barrett
Kellar nodded. Clay knew his advice probably didn't mean shit right now, but that Kellar might understand in a year.
And while Clay hoped to make the Capitals defense that year, he still knew it was a long-shot. The Capitals defense was already basically set in stone—Clay was competing for the #7 spot, the guy who pushes hard in practice but rides the pine during the actual games.
Still. That didn't make the disappointment sting any less when, on the very last day of training camp, his name wasn't on the roster sheet anymore.
At age 24, Clay softly laughed, shook his head, and cleaned out his locker.
He really thought this was going to be his year.
Back to Hershey, I guess.
***
Clay had been cut from the NHL pre-season roster enough times that it didn't make him cry anymore. (That had only happened the first time he was cut, like Kellar.) Did it suck? Oh, hell yeah—especially after going through camp and thinking that this time, things would be different.
But once Clay took a few hours to process and accept his fate, the bitterness subsided.
Sure, life on the road sucked. Minor league teams don't fly between cities like the professionals do. Instead, they travel in a sleeper bus, sometimes driving out to cities as far as twelve hours away. All that driving just to play a single game—and once that final buzzer sounds, it's back on the road, off to some other city to play another game.
That meant players didn't get to see much of their friends, families, girlfriends … the team was all they had. Each player got paired with a roommate, and that was who they spent most of their time with. They always became close. They shared a bond tighter than brothers. The guys that made it to the NHL always said, sounding all nostalgic and wistful, that they missed the brotherhood that they forged in the minors. (The pro guys had their own lives, their own giant houses and families.)
No, playing in the minors wasn't an easy life. But that was good, in a way. It separated the wheat from the chaff. It taught players how hard they had to work, and how badly they had to want it, if they ever expected to suit up for the big club.
For Clay, it also helped that life in Hershey wasn't all that bad.
He was the Bears' #1 defenseman. The boys loved him, and he commanded respect around the league. The year before, the Bears players proved how important Clay was to the team by voting him as their team captain. He was honored to see the 'C' stitched on his jersey at age 23.
The NHL was his dream job, but Hershey wasn't a prison sentence. Returning to the Bears was sort of like returning to his team. He ruled things on the ice—and at least here, in Hershey, he was the alpha and everyone knew it.
The first day he walked into the Bears' dressing room after being cut, he saw Rustin Kellar. Kellar saw Clay walk in, and his face twisted with surprise. He smiled, walked up to Clay and struck up a conversation.
“No way—they really cut you?”
Clay didn't say anything. He wondered if this was the kid's idea of a joke. But the look of shock on Kellar's face sure seemed genuine.
“I thought for sure you'd make the team,” Kellar continued. “You were the best d-man at camp, in my opinion. And yes I'm including the NHL regulars in there.”
“Oh. I get it. You're being sarcastic. Ha ha. You're a funny guy, aren't ya.” Clay clicked his tongue and brushed past Kellar, thinking to himself, and you're gonna pay for it during practice, kiddo.
But the rookie hurried to catch up with Clay and walked lock-step with him.
“What? I'm not being sarcastic at all. I hated doing line drills against you.”
Clay didn't answer, and Kellar kept running his mouth.
“You know, I'm a pretty confident guy skating the puck into the zone. But fuck me if I couldn't figure out how to get around you on the blue line. I try to dangle? You knock me off the puck. I try to play you physical? You poke-check the puck away. Like, whatever I tried, you had the antidote for. Okay, once or twice, sure, that'll happen, but standing me up every time? You got in my head for sure.”
Clay dropped his bag in front of his locker and started to take off his t-shirt. The kid was still standing there, watching him undress, apparently. When Clay's shirt came off, Rustin swept his eyes over his chest and sort of mumbled something under his breath.
Clay raised an eyebrow at him. “What?”
“Just—I dunno—I guess I'm hoping you can teach me some things. It sucks to see you here, but I guess I'm hoping you can kinda take me under your wing? Or something. I don't want to sound selfish, because I know you're probably upset about being sent back here. But if I can round out my defensive game while I'm here with you? I know it's going to make me a better player. I'd be honored if you teach me everything you know.”
Clay shook his head and let out a laugh. The kid had balls, coming up and proposing something like that to the veteran in the room.
But, if the kid was going to get to the NHL, that's exactly the attitude he'd have to have. And as captain of the team, this was exactly what the organization expected of him: to help the other players develop.
Besides, he still needed a roommate for the year—and veterans always paired off with rookies to teach them about life as a pro athlete.
Clay took a few seconds to mull it over, then let out a dissatisfied groan—though it was mostly for show.
“If you want to train with me, I've got a few rules. The first is, I expect you to bust your ass every damn day. I don't like half-assing things. So, are you gonna come ready to work or not?”
“Of course.”
“Yeah?” Clay poked his thick finger into Kellar's sternum. “'Cause right now, you're built like a chihuahua. And that's got me wondering if you're fucking off in your free time instead of hitting the weights.”
“I work out,” Kellar muttered defensively. He peered down at his own body, as if he needed a reminder that he was all skin and bones. “I've—I've just got a fast metabolism. Makes it hard for me to put on weight.”
“Bullshit.” Clay swept his hand over the dressing room. “Everyone in this room has a fast metabolism. We're athletes, Kellar. If you're lifting the way you should be, and you're still not getting results, then you're just not eating enough. And that's going to change.” Clay gave Kellar a steely stare before adding, “No more excuses—that's my second rule.”
Kellar swallowed, looking somewhat like he was wondering what he'd gotten himself into. “Oh—okay. No more excuses.”
“Third rule is, you do what I say. I don't like having to repeat things.”
Kellar nodded. “I promise I'll listen.”
“And?”
“And—uh—I'll do what you say.”
Good. He was catching on quick.
“Then you can start by tracking down Coach and telling him that I asked you to be my roomie on the road. Got it?”
When Kellar heard that last bit, he beamed. “Yes, captain! Thank you.”
“Just call me Clay.” Clay unzipped his jeans and peeled them off his muscular thighs. “Now go on. Get out of here.”
Kellar bit his lip to reel in that out of control smile, and slowly backed away. “You got it, Clay.”
***
Clay took a quick liking to Kellar—or, as he started calling him, “Rusty.” He wasn't one of those bratty, chip-on-the-shoulder kids who annoyed the piss out of you with their attitude.
Actually, Rusty was pretty excited just to be in Hershey and earning his first real paycheck by playing hockey. That was a refreshing change of pace for Clay, since most guys on the team viewed Hershey as a mere stop on their journey and couldn't wait to get out. Rusty, on the other hand, was curious about the town's history—it had to be related to the chocolate company, right?
Clay told him what he knew: that the town was founded by chocolatier Milton Hershey at the turn of the century, who wanted to provide a good life for workers of the factory he was building.
It wasn't all that long ago you used to be able to smell the
sweet aroma of chocolate in the air … but that stopped when the company moved the coco bean processing to Mexico.
Still. It was a quiet little town with some cool history. And the chocolate factory was still the major employer in town. And someone at the chocolate company clearly liked the Bears, because the team was always stocked with all the chocolate you could ever want.
After so many years, Clay couldn't eat the stuff anymore. But Rusty never seemed to get sick of it.
Even more impressive than Rusty's curiosity was the fact that he stuck to Clay's three rules pretty damned well. He had a good head on his shoulders, always listening and asking questions. And to Clay's surprise, he was a warrior in the weight room. Sure, Clay trained Rusty harder than he'd ever known—but Rusty never whined or said it was too hard or he was too tired or anything like that. He proved he was dedicated to getting better.
As Clay suspected, he wasn't eating enough. So they started eating together. Clay wouldn't let Rusty leave the table until he'd eaten so much, he gagged. At the sound of Rusty's first gag, he could officially stop eating.
“But don't puke,” Clay always reminded him. “Because if you puke, you lose all the food, and you're gonna have to eat everything all over again.”
Eating six meals a day like that, Rusty finally started putting on some pounds. Thankfully, the kid had a tall, lanky frame to grow into—and the weight he was adding was sticking to his bones nicely. He was rounding out, turning into a man.
Even better was the fact that Rusty was truly willing to work at improving. He worked with Clay on the ice after practice for hours, adapting the tips and tricks that Clay had picked up along the way. He was starting to look and play like Clay out there on the ice. The fact that Clay was leaving his mark on such a promising youngster was a point of pride for the captain.
Rusty always kowtowed to Clay's leadership, both on and off the ice. Even in the cramped confines of the team's sleeper bus, the two could talk for hours without driving each other nuts. They weren't just teammates and roommates—they were becoming fast friends.
The closer they grew, the more Rusty wanted to know about Clay's life and past. That was a strange thing—because the whole team joked about Clay being this mysterious cowboy, yet no one ever really bothered to ask about his background. But Rusty had—so he told him.
Clay's Mom had passed when he was just a toddler, and his Dad was a workaholic who raised cattle on 250 acres of land. (But you had to be a workaholic to make it raising cattle in this day and age.) Clay grew up working on the farm, herding cattle on horseback. As he told Rusty, herding cattle was sort of like playing defense—you steered them by pinching off angles and directing them where you wanted them to go. Rusty thought that was funny. Clay had to admit, it was a bit of an odd origin story for a hockey player, which is probably why he never exactly volunteered that information before.
On road trips, Rusty brought his guitar. He played covers of country songs—Clay's favorite—while Clay sang. The other boys on the team gave the two endless shit about their hobby, mercilessly cracking jokes about hockey's top country duo.
But they just didn't get it.
In their hotel rooms, Clay and Rusty often stayed up far too late just talking. Talking like best friends who hadn't seen each other in years. They traded all sorts of stories: memories from childhood, hockey stories, first kisses (and more), loves, loves lost … anything and everything. A man's most intimate secrets. They always managed to spill something juicy when it was just the two of them late at night in a hotel room.
And the fact that Clay sometimes snuck beer in for them to drink sure helped their lips loosen.
And so it wasn't much of a surprise when, half-way through that first season together, the Bears coach paired Rusty with Clay on the team's top defensive unit. It was a huge vote of confidence—both in Rusty's raw hockey talent, and Clay's ability to lead. And their on-ice chemistry was a testament to the two players' respect for each other and their strong, budding friendship.
All in all, that first year together flew by for both men.
***
And then it was another year, another NHL training camp—and heartbreak—all over again.
During camp's very first scrimmage, Clay took a bump from a forward in the corner. The hit wasn't monstrous or anything, hell, it looked and felt routine to Clay. But something about the way he hit the ice wasn't right. He knew it right away. He tried to stand up, but something went wrong. His ankle rolled, his skate buckled under his weight, and he tumbled to the ice a second time.
“Fuck,” he hissed.
He knew in his heart something was broken, but prayed that his intuition might somehow be wrong. Furious, he slammed his stick against the glass and skated, hobbled over on one leg, to the bench. That sickening feeling of failure—by now far too familiar to 25 year old Clay—once again roiled in his stomach.
The training staff helped him out of his skate boot. They didn't need a doctor to see the obvious: his ankle had a compound fracture. His NHL dreams were set back by injury, put off for another year.
Rusty, on the other hand, survived the first round of cuts—that was an improvement upon last year's performance. But without Clay by his side, the young player looked tentative, anxious, almost lost. And when the second round of cuts were announced, Rusty cleaned out his stall and headed back to Hershey.
The first thing Rusty did when he arrived in Hershey was stop by Clay's apartment. Clay didn't waste any time—he asked the youngster if he wanted to be roommates in an additional sense of the word, and move into his apartment.
Clay needed help those first few weeks, after all. Mostly in keeping his spirits high. A broken ankle meant no skating, and that meant no hockey. And since he was injured, team policy kept him from traveling with the boys on road trips. Clay told Rusty he'd go completely nuts if he didn't have constant updates about the team.
So Rusty moved in and helped Clay recuperate. Of course, Rusty quickly realized that Clay stubbornly refused any sort of help, or as he disdainfully called it, 'nursing.'
“When was the last time you got laid, Tex?” Rusty asked his teammate one day, when Clay seemed particularly short and irritable. “Ever since you broke that ankle, you haven't wanted to go out to the bars even once.”
That was another thing the two did together—hit the bars and try to pick up women. More often than not, they struck out, but hell, that was half the fun.
“How do you expect me to get a girl when I'm wearing this?” Clay replied bitterly, pointing at his cumbersome and unsightly orthopedic boot.
“Are you kidding?” Rusty laughed. “Think about it, Clay. Handsome captain of the hockey team, whose NHL dreams are sidelined by a broken ankle. It's tragic, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Pretty tragic, alright, and it's the true story of my life.”
“If there's one thing I know about chicks, it's that they eat that kind of thing right up. If you'd just drag your ass to the bar for once, you'd see.”
Clay scoffed and rolled his eyes. “I'm not in the mood, Rusty.”
But Rusty fetched Clay's truck keys and brought him his jacket anyway.
“C'mon. We're going out.”
***
Rusty was right: the boot was like catnip for girls. It didn't matter that Clay wasn't in the mood to approach women, because they saw a reason to walk up and break the ice with the two handsome, well-built men.
“Oh no, what happened to your foot?” one girl came up and asked before they'd even ordered the first round of drinks.
Clay might have been out of 'the game' ever since he'd broken his ankle, but once he was thrown back into the action, it was impossible for Clay not to turn on the ol' southern charm.
With Rusty appointing himself as designated driver for the night, he encouraged Clay to drink himself stupid and blow off steam. And, as the night progressed, Clay and Rusty found themselves a pair of cute girls that they flirted with for the better part of an hour.
&
nbsp; The girls were best friends, which seemed a natural arrangement for the hockey players. The girl that showed an interest in Clay—her name was Manon—was clearly the more outgoing of the two. A Francophone from Montreal, she spoke with a French-Canadian accent that was a touch heavier than Clay's mild Texas twang.
Manon was visiting the other girl, Emily, her best friend from college. Emily was shy and soft-spoken. She and Rustin paired off and tried to make small talk. She was a cutie too, but it was clear that she was just along for the ride, and not looking for any action.
Manon, though, was definitely into Clay. She couldn't keep her hands off the muscle-bound athlete—it only took a few minutes of talk before she wrapped her hand around his forearm, or tried to anyway, and bit her lip with a look of pure, pent-up lust.
“Wow. Your forearm. It's so … thick.”
After that moment, Manon didn't let go of him. For the rest of the night, she kept a hand on him, whether she was poking and squeezing at his muscles, or suggestively sliding her nails up the inside of his thigh. She had claimed him and let the other ladies there know that, at least for tonight, the Texan belonged to her.
Rusty and Emily, both more introverted creatures, attempted some small talk here and there:
“So you're in school? What do you study?” he asked.
She gave him a dry report, and then asked him,“So what's it like being a professional athlete?”
When they'd run out of things to talk about, Rusty and Emily went quiet and instead listened in to the flirty banter of their best friends, who obviously shared a lot of chemistry.
And when Manon suddenly sat in Clay's lap, and rubbed her ass into his crotch … Clay finally asked the question she'd been waiting to hear.
“Would you girls like to come back to our place?”
The girls looked at each other, exchanged expressions, silently working out some kind of agreement between them. At last, Emily nodded somewhat hesitantly, and Manon giggled, “yes!”
