Black Baddie for the Hockey Hottie

Chapter 1

Cal 

“Fellas, let’s wrap up this practice session with some crossovers. Fast as you possibly can. Understood?” Head Coach Adam Baxter’s signature black ‘Blizzard Kings’ cap is pulled down over his eyes as he yells it out with a grin.

My lips move in tandem with the team’s deep voices. “Yes, sir.”

Twenty men, myself included, skate up to the coach by the blue line. We get into formation, facing the direction we'll be going as we practice moving tightly around the curves of the boards.

“You know the drill.” He licks his upper lip. “Switch legs at the blue line and then return. Only one hand on the stick at all times.”

He looks around at us. My heart quickens as the adrenaline begins to pump in anticipation of my favorite drill. I grip my stick tighter. Then he blows harshly into his finger grip whistle.

One eye twitches as the shrill sound reverberates in my ears, but only for a split second. At the sudden movement all around me from the rest of the team, my feet join in and begin to cross over each other. 

I skate as fast as I can, pushing from heel to toe, heel to toe, Patrick McGill right behind me, Dennis Weston up ahead, and Jason Heller neck-and-neck with me. The rhythmic sound of quick blades against hard ice drowns out everything else. 

Coach blows his whistle again. “Switch!” 

We turn around, switch legs, and return. Miraculously, none of the players plow into any others. Once we’re all back to the beginning, he pats us on the back individually.

“Alright, good stuff. We can call it a day. Except you, Saunders.”

A momentary pause falls on us. Heads turn to look at me, then Coach, then back at me. I skate over to Baxter, and the chatter around us picks up again as the guys exit the rink.

My eyes gauge his face. Is it serious? Am I in trouble?

As usual, his Midwest-nice face gives away nothing behind. “What's up, Coach?”

 “GM wants to see you. You’re not in trouble, don’t worry. But he wants to talk soon, so don’t stall.”

“You know me, I never would. Thanks, Coach. I’ll see him once I get out of this uniform.” I leave Baxter, make a quick stopover in the changing room, and get myself up to the attached office tower to the door of Paul Westfield, general manager. 

It’s been a breath of fresh air to have him for these eight months after the ‘Reign of Terry’ came to an end. Our previous general manager, Reginald Terry, was a snake of the highest order. Now, he’s disgraced, and not a moment too soon.

Paul, on the other hand, is a straight shooter who brooks neither bullshit nor bullying. The door is slightly ajar as usual, and Paul senses my presence before I even knock.

“Come in, Cal.”

I push the door open with my palm. Every piece of furniture matches the light oak office desk in front of him. His folded arms rest against a slightly protruding midriff as the overhead lighting bounces off his shiny bald head. 

“Coach said you wanted to see me, Mr. Westfield?” I ask him, pulling out the black chair across his desk and sitting.

He lifts a finger to push the spectacles hanging off the edge of his nose. “Great practice out there today. I think it’s a good sign that your hair always looks like you’ve just taken off your helmet. Shows your commitment.”

I run a hand through the dark, unruly waves on my head. “It has a mind of its own. I’ve pretty much given up on it now.”

The GM’s body shakes with laughter, and he taps the top of his head. “If all else fails, you can take some notes from me. Anyway, I don’t want to take up much of your time.”

“It’s always a pleasure, believe me.”

“Thanks. So, you have a young fan who could use a little boost. Someone from the Dreams-Come-True Foundation called about him. You’re familiar with them, right?”

“The organization that helps kids with terminal illnesses live out their dreams, right? They’re great. I always try to do that sort of stuff when I get a request. Takes a lot out of me. But it’s worth it.” 

“Well, good to hear, because there’s a kid who’d love your help making his dream come true. His name’s Cooper Thompson. He’s nine. He wanted to spend a day with you and maybe have a game session. What do you say?”

“I say absolutely. No question.” I take a deep breath. “It’s personal to me. May I ask what he has?”

Westfield looks down and shakes his head, a marked change from his usual happy-go-lucky demeanor. “Leukemia.”

“That’s too bad.” I pause for a moment, clearing my throat. “My dad died of lymphoma when I was a kid. So, it’s close to my heart. Any cancer-related charity, or one related to kids, and I’m in. You don’t even have to ask.”

“Jeez, I’m sorry, Cal. I had no idea.”

Even though it’s been almost twenty years, it still hits me remembering how he went from a vibrant hockey coach dad to half-conscious on a morphine drip. 

“It happened a long time ago.” I nod my head slowly, then smile, thinking about how I can make this kid happy just by showing up. “I’d love to meet him… Cooper, you said?” 

“Yep.”

“So, what do you need from me? Just tell me when and where, and I’m there.”

“The foundation will put it all together, so the first step is to connect with them. The people there seem pleasant enough.”

Paul continues talking while my brain races back in time to three years ago, to a similar meeting to help another kid’s wish come true. But back then the contact was Imani Bellamie, a philanthropy associate for the NHL, based out of the Midwest regional office in Chicago.

Imani and I first collaborated for a Christmas party at Milwaukee Children’s Hospital. Just on the phone, she was charming enough to convince me to dress up like Santa and give out gifts. 

I expected to put on a red velvet suit, play games, and take some pictures. What I didn't expect was to meet the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen. I definitely didn’t expect us to fall deeply in love and have an intense romance, but that’s what happened.

We communicated over the phone until the day of. She came outside the hospital to meet a bulky hockey dude in an ill-fitting red and white suit, raggedy fake white beard, and clunky black boots. 

She confessed later on, once we got together, that she didn't realize I was actually attractive. The ridiculous fake wooly beard covered up my entire face, and the padding in my suit gave me a major case of dad bod.

“I couldn’t believe you were really a hockey player. I should have realized the spare tire was just a costume,” I remember her saying. Then she squeezed my biceps after that, and we kissed.

I, on the other hand, couldn't keep my eyes off of her from the jump. She was so elegant and business-like in her pantsuit and mannerisms. So efficient with her clipboard, making sure everything was going according to plan. 

But I kept it cool, especially since she lived in Chicago. She traveled all over the Midwest for her job, so she was only in town every once in a while. With our touring schedule, it was a miracle whenever we happened to cross paths.

Then she organized another meetup for kids in foster care to visit the Blizzard Kings arena and get some time on the ice with us. The attraction was too strong not to act on. Turns out, she really liked me without a layer of artificial fat obscuring my muscles, which she said were big enough to be mistaken as protective gear. I felt her eyes on me throughout the whole afternoon.

We wound up spending a few extra days together – such a shame she came down with food poisoning that stopped her from going back to Chicago. And things progressed quickly from there. 

Long distance be damned. Any stretch of free time we had, we were on a plane to the other one’s city.

I spent more time on those short flights to Chicago than she did because she was finishing a graduate program. She could have been the love of my life. Maybe she was. But it ended before we had time to figure it out.

“Unless you want to read the email yourself, that's pretty much it,” Paul says. “I’m forwarding it to you… right… now.”

My brain scrambles to remember what he said. His head turns from the computer screen to face me. One dark gray eyebrow shoots up.

“The email from the Dream Come True people. We’re on the same page, right?”

“Yes, of course,” I say. Dammit, Imani. Distracting me yet again somehow, even after not seeing her for two years.

“So, unless you're in a hurry, we can call them back right now. I’d like to catch the Executive Director before she heads out of the office. She can be hard to pin down.”

“Mobile phones exist for this very reason,” I say with a chuckle.

“Just because someone has a cell doesn’t mean they’re able to talk. You of all people should know that, right Saunders?” Paul puts it on speaker and dials her number.

My thoughts go back to Imani.

I wonder what she’s doing with that Master’s in Nonprofit Management now. Whether she’s still working for the philanthropic arm of an athletics league or some other kind of charitable work. 

I wonder if she's still in Chicago. I wonder if I’d be living there now if I didn’t damage the relationship beyond repair.

Wherever she is, I have no doubt she’s a success. 

The ringing line fills Paul’s office, and I tap my foot waiting.

“Hi, Dreams-Come-True Foundation,” a professional-sounding voice chirps. “Julissa speaking.”

“Hi, Julissa, it’s Paul Westfield. Blizzard Kings General Manager. I've been communicating with your Executive Director and was hoping to speak with her.”

“Sure, let me see if she’s able to speak right now. I’ll transfer you when she is. Otherwise, I’ll let it go to voicemail and let her know you called.”

I pull out my phone to check the time and my messages. After what seems like forever, an even more professional-sounding someone comes back on the line.

“Mr. Westfield, so good to hear back from you so soon. This is Imani Bellamie.”

I look up from my phone and sit up straight as if a million tiny darts have pierced my spine at once. 

Well, this is unexpected.