Page 7 of Rookie Attraction

“Sel, this might take time. I don’t know if they’ll even make you an offer. If they’re smart they will, but there’s no guarantee.”

“Do what you do best, Mik. Make it happen. I have faith in you,” I sigh. “And if I haven’t said it already, thank you. You’ve had my back in all this.”

“Always. But I’ll ask again, are you sure you want to do this?”

It’s the same question he asked me last month. I knew coming out wouldn’t be easy, but I didn’t think it would be this hard either. I’ve been so fucking naïve, and while I’m devastated by my team’s response—and the public’s— maybe I should just stick it out. Who’s to say it’ll be any better elsewhere? Only, a new city means I won’t know anyone, and the rejection won’t hurt as bad as it does now. Nothing could be worse than it is now.

Then I remember my jersey.

That’s a threat, and maybe the beginning of something much worse. Something more than disgusted looks, whispered insults, and shunned silence…

“I’m sure. It’s the reason I called you. Someone on the team left me a warning. They wrote ‘queers don’t ever belong here’ on one of my jerseys, and they added a graphic image of what they meant. It’s also covered in red paint spatters that look like blood. I’m sending you pictures now. Ignoring me is one thing, but this? This is a step too far.” I pause, my voice cracking. “Mik, I don’t feel safe.”

So much for being courageous.

“Fucking assholes!” Mik shouts. “That’s it, I’m calling team management.”

“Fine. Do it.”

“We need an investigation and⁠—”

“No, not that, please. I can’t deal with it. I’m already at a breaking point. Just get me out.”

Three days later, Mik’s gone and done it, and with the paperwork in order, I sign a new contract.

Big Apple, here I come.

Chapter Two

FINN

SEPTEMBER TRAINING CAMP, NY RUSH

Stepping inside the Rush’s training arena is both awe inspiring and terrifying. I’ve worked and wished for this hockey moment for years and now that it’s here, I’m pinching myself. I still can’t believe I received an invitation for a tryout at their training camp. Reality hasn’t sunk in until this moment; I’m about to start my NHL career as New York’s newest defenseman. That is, if all goes well. Still, nothing can beat this feeling. I’m an NHL rookie and proud of it. All the years of early morning practices and sacrifices have led me here. I’ve hoped and dreamed and even shed a few tears when it comes to my hockey aspirations, and to see them come true is surreal.

Of course, everything is bigger and brighter in New York—the lights, the seating, the jumbotron. I thought college hockey rinks were a rush, but the NHL is a whole other level of awesomeness. And I’m ready for it.

I stalk down the hallway toward the locker room, and I stare in wonder at the signed jerseys that line the walls. So many players have come through here and now it’s my turn.

My joy, however, is tempered with a good dose of homesickness and anxiety. I’m missing my teammates at Sutton U, the guys who are my closest friends. Silas most of all. He and I became hockey besties. I miss the big grump. Then I wonder how the team here will welcome me and if I’ll fit in. I usually make friends wherever I go, but I’m also a self-admitted dork. I chatter—a lot—and I like to joke around and be silly, even more so when I’m nervous. I’ve been told that I’m quirky and charming, and sometimes, when I don’t stop talking, that I’m annoying as fuck. What if the guys here in New York can’t stand me? Then again, I’m the rookie. I know that I’m going to get razzed no matter what. Or at least until the next newbie comes along…

With my bag slung over my shoulder I head for the locker room entrance, and as soon as I hear the players’ voices I start to sweat. This is real, so fucking real. The closer I get to the door, the louder my heart pounds, until it drowns out everything else.

This is it. Holy shit, this is it.

Here goes nothing.

I expect unfamiliar faces. Well, as a fan and a player, I know all the guys on the team by name and stats, but seeing someone on TV is a lot different than being in a locker room with them. Or playing with them.

Holy mother of hockey gods, I’m really doing this.

I step into the room and stop short. It’s the biggest, cleanest locker room I’ve ever seen. It’s not dark and dank and it doesn’t smell like mold and rank jocks. Instead, it’s bright and modern, and I catch a whiff of lemon cleaner. The space is huge, built for fifty people, never mind twenty. The stalls are made of gleaming wood and every player’s jersey is hanging neatly. The floor is the usual rubber tiles, but these ones look new, with the Rush logo in the center in blue, silver, and white.

Most of the guys sit on benches in front of their stalls, in their sweats, talking and laughing. I clear my throat and pray that when I open my mouth to speak, my voice doesn’t crack.

“Hey.”

Wow, way to start off strong, Finn.