Hazard

by Devon Monk

  Of course she hadn’t let me score a goal on her in drills, but still: nice.

  Our backup goalie was a guy from Chile named Tomas Endler. He was quiet, but it was hard to miss the adoration in his eyes every time he looked at Thorne.

  Our captain was a very serious Swede and Felidae shifter named Laakkonen. We called him Lock and he called us on our shit.

  My line, the fourth line, was made up of me at center, Duncan at left wing, Johan Jorgensen—or JJ as we called him—at right, and the mismatched D-men: Nazareth “Watts” Watson and the whistler: Graves.

  We were starting to gel, starting to figure out how our playing styles fit together. We had better. Our first game was in a few weeks.

  “Wiz!” JJ waved me over. “Stop daydreaming and start working.”

  Duncan zipped past me as he took his warm-up laps. “Yeah, Wiz. Quit daydreaming.”

  I groaned. I hated that nickname but the longer I was on the team, the more people used it. I really had to come up with a plan for them to just call me Hazard. I mean, that was catchy, right? Hazard on the ice?

  Before I could politely tell them to shut up and call me by my actual name, Coach blew the whistle and it was time to quit daydreaming and start working.

  “Don’t worry, Random,” I muttered. “It’s just going to be a small gathering, yeah? We practiced all the answers, yeah? I’ll be right there with you, yeah?”

  Duncan snorted, but didn’t stop lobbing the handball against the corridor wall. “Who said that? Betsy?”

  “She said it would be small, Dunc. Small.”

  “You are such a whiner.”

  “You’re not the one going out there to give an interview in front of thirty cameras.”

  “I’ll do it if you want me to.” He caught the ball one last time and leaned away from the wall. “Seriously, Ran, if this is too much, I’ll do it.”

  “You can’t do it. You weren’t there when it happened. You didn’t throw magic around at an NHL training camp.”

  “I didn’t make a miracle spell?”

  “Oh, screw you.”

  Duncan grinned and bounced the ball on the floor. “You’re going to do fine. They just want to hear you be humble and nice and all those other disgusting things you are. They just want a little look at the first wizard to ever play hockey. You don’t have to be anything you’re not, dude. Not anymore.”

  And dammit. He was right. Going out there in front of the cameras was a way of telling everyone who I was. Not who they had decided I should be.

  “Hazard.” Betsy rounded the corner and gave me a smile that should have been worn by a shark. A very short shark. “What are you doing pouting back here? They’re ready for you.”

  “I’m not pouting.”

  “Are you ready for them? This doesn’t have to happen today.” She had closed the distance between us and I knew that if I told her I couldn’t do it, if I told her we needed to call this off, she’d do it, no judgment, no foul.

  But I wanted this done.

  “Ready.”

  “All right. Follow me out. Duncan, you can come as far as the sidelines. I’ll show you where to stand.” She paused and gave me an up/down glance. “Hockey players sure do look nice in suits.”

  “Whoa, Betsy,” Duncan said, “no hitting on him. What would your girlfriend say?”

  “How about a threesome?”

  Duncan laughed and I blushed so hard, the roots of my hair were on fire.

  But then we were walking, and I was thinking about a threesome with a miniature shark and trying to imagine what her girlfriend looked like. Betsy guided me behind the table set up for the cameras and the interview began.

  The lights were blindingly bright. So many cameras: both what I’d seen on news channels and also just cell phones. Several microphones and recorders were arranged on the table.

  There was also an envelope in the center of the table with my name on it. I rested my palms over it and gave the world a smile.

  “So. Anything interesting happen in hockey lately?”

  The reporters chuckled, and I got ready to give my very brief statement, and answer their rapid fire, endless questions.

  I didn’t remember a single word of the press conference. Not a single question, not a single answer. But the lights, the dryness of my mouth, the sweat pouring off me, pooling under my palms and soaking the envelope—that, I remembered.

  When Betsy came out and thanked the press for coming, she motioned me to my feet, and waved me toward the exit. I didn’t remember walking out of the room.

  “Here,” Duncan said. “Drink.” He pressed a bottle in my hand and I took several gulps before I even registered that it was water.

  A few gulps later, and I saw that I was in the trainer’s room next to our changing room.

  Betsy was there. “You did great, Hazard. You’re a press conference dream. Those dimples, that easy smile. They were eating out of the palm of your hand.”

  “Yeah?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Solid work and a good job. I’ll let you know if you need to do anything else. But in the meantime, just play hockey and try not to worry about all this, yeah?”

  “Thanks, Betsy,” I said as she walked out. She waved her hand above her head and never looked back.

  “Wow,” Duncan said. “She’s something, isn’t she? Like a tiny Tsunami.”

  I nodded as I finished off the water.

  “Was it okay?” I asked.

  “It was actually what she said. You looked relaxed up there. And your answers were good. She’s a miracle worker. You’re a star, baby!” He did jazz hands for no reason I could fathom.

  “Let’s just go home and ignore the news, okay?” I said.

  “Oh, I think we need to go home and watch every clip. See if they got those dimples and that smile.” He fluttered his eyelashes and I threw the empty water bottle at his head.

  He ducked because we’d been brothers for a long time. I stuffed the envelope in my jacket pocket and shoved Duncan toward the door.

  Outside, a man stepped away from the overhang and approached us.

  “Random Hazard?”

  I turned. “Yes?”

  The guy was familiar, but it took me a second to place him. He had been standing in the back of the room, behind the cameras during the press conference. He wore slacks and a button down under a light jacket. Built on the thin side, his face was sallow and bony with a puckered scar on one cheek, his dark hair styled and combed back.

  “Shit,” Duncan whispered.

  “Mr. Hazard, my name is Don Nowak. I coach the Tacoma Tide.”

  He didn’t offer his hand, so neither did I.

  “Nice to meet you, sir,” I said.

  Duncan was stiff next to me in that way that said he sensed danger. Of course he had done the same when we first met Graves. Graves had turned out to be a decent guy, a solid defenseman, and a linemate.

  Still, it was a little weird to have the coach from a different team, from our rival team, introducing himself to me.

  “I just wanted to put my eyes on you,” he said. “First wizard in the league. That’s a hell of a burden to bear, Mr. Hazard.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “It’s a hell of a publicity stunt too. Get the eyes of the WHHL and NHL staring right at you. Put your name out there. Make yourself special. You’ve certainly used it to your advantage, blocking that shot. If I were a less charitable man, I’d say that was planned.”

  I clenched my fists and settled into a stance that could take a punch. Or land one.

  “It was not planned. Not in any way.”

  “Well, you lied your way into the NHL, Mr. Hazard. You expect me to believe anything else you say?”

  Duncan growled. It was low, but there was no way Nowak missed that warning.

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Nowak. I don’t expect you to think about me at all.”

  For a split second, his face flashed with fury and I knew he was going to strike. But just as quickl
y, the anger was gone, locked down with a cruel smile.

  “What I know is that this league doesn’t have a place for you, Hazard. Not for your magic, not for your weaknesses. You will fail.”

  “You will.” He nodded. “No question about that. Clay has always been a little soft in the head when it comes to hockey smarts. And this stunt.”

  He gritted his teeth. “This inclusive, every kid plays, get your participation prize bullshit will not stand in this league. We play hard hockey. This is a blood sport not fucking afternoon tea. Clay is out of his mind. Because good press or not, magic fucking spells or not, you, Hazard. You are going to drag this team down so far they won’t see a win for decades.”

  Duncan started forward and I grabbed the back of his shirt and held on. The last thing we needed was him punching out a coach.

  A thousand furious comebacks rolled through my brain. But Betsy had spent hours coaching me on how to handle heated barbs and attacks.

  “I disagree. But I guess we’ll find out. See you on the ice, Mr. Nowak.”

  I pulled with all my weight and dragged Duncan away with me, toward his broken-down Chevy Vega.

  He was too angry to drive. Too close to losing control of the beast within him to even speak. I forced him into the passenger seat and put all my focus on getting the car to start, and getting us the hell out of there.

  “You coming out with us tonight, Hazard?” Nazareth “Watts” Watson, was a third-year defenseman and a tiger shifter. He held the league record in penalty minutes for fighting two years in a row, which he was ridiculously proud of.

  Coach had paired him up with Graves. It was like watching oil and water wrestle: Graves’s easy-going, slow-whistling, hard-as-hell hitting attitude colliding with Watts’s win-or-die, fire-and-fight, skull-busting drive.

  I wasn’t sure pairing them up would work, but Watts seemed to be calming down a little when he was out there on the ice with Graves. Seemed to be playing better, smarter. Who knew? Maybe he’d even score a goal someday.

  “Nope.” I rubbed the towel over my hair, threw it into the pile and shrugged into my T-shirt. “Gonna go home. Sleep. Big game tomorrow, remember?”

  The game was against the Tacoma Tide. I wanted to pull the win away from Nowak so hard, I could taste it.

  “Naw, you gotta come out with us,” Watts insisted. “We’re going to Downpour. There’s live music and shit.”

  “And cheap beer,” Johan “JJ” Jorgensen, played right wing on the fourth line. He was a sensitive and had incredible ice intuition out there—like he always knew where the puck was going to be and made sure he got to it.

  He put his hand out dramatically and wavered a bit on his feet. “I can feel it. Your ancestors are talking to me. What’s that, Uncle Owen? You want Random to go to Downpour? You want him to drink a beeeer?”

  “Sorry, Uncle Owen. Still no.”

  “You should listen to the sensitive,” Duncan said.

  “Yes,” JJ agreed. “You should all listen to the sensitive. The sensitive wants free beer.”

  Duncan threw his towel at him, then came over and wrapped his arm around my neck. “It’s Friday, first game of the season is tomorrow. We need to celebrate!”

  “After,” I wheezed, slapping at Duncan’s beefy arm. “We celebrate after we win.”

  “A toast to our impending victory!” Duncan crowed.

  “Graves,” I pleaded. “Make them stop.”

  Graves finished tying his shoes. “Naw. It’s tradition. One beer and a pile of nachos before the first game. Just like all the Thunderheads before us.”

  “You weren’t here for the first of last year. You don’t know tradition.”

  “I know when I’m about to start one.”

  Watts gave him a high five. “Word, Grave Digger.”

  Joelle “Josky” Thorn, our goalie, strolled into the locker room. She had already showered and changed in the women’s showers.

  “What’s up, boyos? Are we drinking or what?”

  “See,” Duncan said. “Even Josky wants to go out.”

  “Hell, yes. Josky wants to dance.” She gave a little hip shimmy.

  Half the team moaned and I heard several “not again” and “this year too?” and “kill me.”

  Tomas Endler ducked his head, but kept his eyes on Josky. Yeah, the backup goalie had it bad for her.

  “Yes, again.” She swung a finger at the entire room. “Each and every year. You don’t want to bring a season of bad luck on me. You get your asses the hell to Downpour and be prepared to drink cheap beer and dance right outta your cheap shoes. All of you. With me.”

  She zipped up her hoodie and gave us one more glare. “Downpour. Last one buys the nachos.”

  There was a mad scramble of hockey players shoving feet into shoes, grabbing duffels, and hauling to get out of the locker room. I would have just left them to it, but Duncan still had his arm around my neck. He hustled me out the door in front of him.

  “Go, go, go!” He pushed us into a jog through the rain, the hoots and shouts of our teammates echoing around the parking lot.

  I ducked into the passenger seat and Duncan shoved both of our duffels into the back before landing behind the wheel.

  “She’s got weird superstitions,” I grumbled

  “She’s a goalie.” Duncan said that like it explained everything.

  And it did.

  “C’mon, baby,” he coaxed the car. “Start up. Start up for me. Daddy wants some free nachos.”

  “We’re never gonna beat them there.”

  “Oh, we’ll beat them.” He turned the key again and the Vega wheezed to life.

  I think it might have even topped twenty-five as we raced to the bar.

  Eleven

  Downpour was a roadhouse-meets-garage sale kind of place. This being Portland, they carried some amazing local craft beers and put one on sale each day. They stocked a line of cheaper beer too.

  For a dive, it was comfortable, and served decent sandwiches and live music.

  We were not the last ones to get there, a fact that shocked me. Nachos were on Graves, who sauntered in long after the last of us had arrived, and held up his credit card to a rousing cheer.

  He’d done it on purpose. We all knew that. He was tied as the oldest member on the team, but unlike our other senior, Bucky, there was something about Graves that made most of us look to him as a mentor of sorts.

  That might have been because he was the most experienced in the league out of all of us. He’d played in the Eastern Hybrid Hockey League where there’d been one death a year, done a stint in the Southern Hybrid Hockey League where the injuries were legendary, before finally ending up here out west, where it was a bone-breaking blood sport.

  He hadn’t shied from the fights and physicality of the sport, but still, there were very few clips of him actually shifting. The two Duncan and I had been able to find were blurry and grainy. You couldn’t even make out quite what he’d shifted into.

  He was better known as someone who could keep his cool even while he was pounding a rival into the boards or unconsciousness.

  He’d taken the role of old experienced guy pretty handily, and answered all our questions about teams and people he’d played with. I’d seen our captain, Laakkonen, go to him a couple times for advice on plays.

  Hell, even Coach asked his opinion now and then.

  So while Graves was a nice guy who seemed easy to get to know, he was also the only person who hadn’t admitted what kind of marked he was. Watts had snuck a look at the records to find out.

  “He’s a wolf,” Watson said as he elbowed down at the table next to me. “That’s what they have him down as anyhow.”

  Duncan and Josky sat across from us. There wasn’t a table big enough for the whole team—all of whom had come despite their grumbling. Josky kept a headcount as they dragged through the door, ticking off each person with an approving lift of her chin. We’d had to split up into three groups at smaller tables.

>   “Who? Graves?” Duncan asked.

  “Saw it listed. Canis lupus et al. So why doesn’t he talk about it? Are all you wolves secretive about that stuff?”

  Duncan snorted. “All us wolves aren’t the same person, you dolt.”

  “Just thought it might be behavior specific to you cute widdle puppies.”

  “Bite me, Stripes.”

  Watson grinned and took a drink of beer. He wiped the foam off his lips with his middle finger. “It’s not like he’s the only wolf on the team,” he went on. “So why hide it? I thought y’all were pack animals. Or maybe it’s just that he doesn’t want to be associated with you, puppy-butt.”

  Duncan punched him in the shoulder. Hard.

  “Keep it up, cat-ass. I’ll tell Coach the only reason you start so many fights is you’re winded and can’t skate end to end without heaving.”

  Watson laughed and leaned back in his chair to tell one of the other guys that Duncan was a puppy narc.

  From there the conversation turned to hockey, like it always did.

  “Tell us about the Tacoma Tide.” Duncan pointed a tortilla chip at Josky and Watson. “I’ve seen the tapes, but you’ve played them. What should we know?”

  Josky scooped a hunk of pepper off the pile and crunched down on a chip. “Their coach is a real ass. Hates our team. I think he’s got history with Coach Clay.”

  “Like nobody else in this league got history with Clay.” Watson reached across the table to steal her chips, which she handily blocked by slapping his hand.

  Goalie.

  “What kind of history?” I hadn’t told Coach Clay or anyone else about Coach Nowak catching up with us the other day. It didn’t seem like anything more than talk to try and get into my head. It would be nice to know why he thought he had a chance at that.

  “Coach played a lot of teams back in the day, like Graves,” Josky said. “He knows a lot of people. He was up for the coaching job in Tacoma before Nowak swooped in and pushed him out of the running. They used to be teammates. Some say they were pretty tight.”