Holy shit. It's so fucking cold.
I almost regretted cranking the heat in my Jeep on my ride home after practice. Yeah, it kept me warm for that fifteen minutes, but it just meant that the frigid air that slapped me in the face when I opened my car door shocked my system all over again.
I shoved my hands deep into the pockets of my black sweatpants—still in too much denial to purchase, let alone wear—gloves, and sprinted to the entrance of my apartment complex.
And it wasn't even winter yet. That was the scary thing. What was "winter" back in Pasadena probably didn't even come close to Winnipeg's early days of October. One of the first things I did when I got here was delete Pasadena's weather app. Not knowing that it was precisely thirty degrees Celsius made me miss home a little less.
Funny how I still considered it home even though I can't remember the last time I spent two consecutive months there. When people think of NHL players and where they come from, there's a lot of Canada and Russia. For the longest time, those were probably the biggest ones. But now there's a lot of Americans from you know, American cities that actually get cold, like Boston and Detroit and Lake Placid. Pasadena had to be the least hockey-centric city in the entire country, and no one could have predicted that it would cultivate any talent on skates, let alone a future first-overall draft pick. That was something I was reminded of over and over again. And again. Every single pre- and post-draft interview mentioned my non-traditional background. It was a part of me and I didn't mind the questions, even if I sounded like a broken record answering them.
California was in my blood, and I didn't know if there was a saying that you can take the boy out of California but you can't take the California out of the boy, but there should be. Because I never got used to the cold. Not even when I went to Ann Arbor, Michigan when I was fifteen for the United States National Development Program. Leaving the warmth wasn't my choice but there were literally no other opportunities for a player of my caliber at home. I wasn't being cocky. That was just the truth.
The tension in my hunched shoulders loosened as I stepped inside the apartment complex and was bombarded with a gush of heat. Unfortunately, that tension was replaced by the burn in my calves from practice. With the season about to start, the priority was conditioning and getting our feet under us. Those drills still kick your ass even when you've spent the summer training. I was surrounded by NHL players, though, and that certainly provided a push to give it my all. I wanted to impress. What I did before, what got me here, didn't count in my eyes. The second I knew I deserved to be there was the second my performance fell.
I took the steps two at a time up to the third floor. Taking the elevator was just a way to cheat myself out of a workout.
The door to my apartment wasn't locked, but that fact was a comfort more than a scare. I could hear the familiar sounds of the video game, Landslide, coming from the living room.
"Lawson?" I called out, tossing my unnecessary keys on the small table in the entrance and kicking off my Adidas.
"In here!" he replied, distracted by the army-themed graphics on the screen.
I couldn't help but roll my eyes and smirk as I passed by him on the couch—my couch—and gave him a light tap to the back of his head. Why had Ted, our head sports psychologist, think giving Lawson keys to our apartments was a good idea? Lawson was a student at the local university and was working with Ted as an apprentice of sort, to learn the ropes of sports psychology. Both the Storm and the Wind—Winnipeg's major and minor hockey league teams—were supposed to allow "all-access" so that Lawson could see all the behind-the-scenes work and not just the on ice glory. The intention probably wasn't to give Lawson ample opportunity to play our video games and eat our food, but that's what it had come to. Actually, it was really only myself that Lawson bothered, even though most of the other minor leaguers lived in this apartment. It was close to the arenas, cheap, and allowed team management to keep a close eye on us.
What I said wasn't completely true, on second thought. Lawson didn't bother me. I liked his company and having a friend, for once, whose life didn't revolve around hockey.
Someone unlike me.
"You eat?" I asked, throwing my large body onto the other couch that was not currently occupied by Lawson.
"Yeah, I grabbed something at the caf." He paused. "No, I had him!" he shouted at the screen.
The way I was into hockey, some people were into video games.
Him not being hungry was a relief. Since I moved into this apartment mid-August I've been on the Storm's schedule, so I typically ate meals with the team. I rarely have anything to offer Lawson, but that doesn't deter him from visiting. He must have learned that if he wants to eat, he better do it before stepping foot into my place.
I pulled the brim of my cap down farther onto my head, shielding my eyes. My life was a constant balance of pushing my body to the limits and giving it rest when I could. And rest it needed, with the beginning of the season coming in a few days. I winced as I shifted my body and brushed my shoulder against the couch. It was a nagging injury from my junior days, and although Winnipeg's training staff knew about it, I didn't want to bring it up again in case that made them not want to put me in the opening day's line-up. Rest should help it.
It was too bad then that I learned two minutes later that sleep just wasn't going to happen.
Grumbling, I pushed myself up into a sitting position.
"Sorry, man. Am I too loud?" Lawson asked.
I shook my head. "No, you're good. I just can't wind down."
Nodding my head in the direction of my bedroom, I excused myself. As soon as I got to my room I pulled my black hoodie over my head, knocking my Dodgers cap off in the process. The soft fabric still held on to that outside chill and I wanted it off. Wouldn't hurt to change the t-shirt either. When I turned to pick my hat off the floor, I caught sight of my body in the full-length mirror on the wall opposite my bed. Being a hockey player meant that I was probably more aware of my height and weight than most people. All six-foot-two and 220 pounds of person stared back at me. I was shirtless, except for the gold chain I always wore—even during games—hanging between my pecs. Some hockey players, and athletes more generally, were vain. I didn't see the point in that. I treasured my body for what it could do more than how it looked, but if I had to evaluate my appearance, I'd say I'm okay-looking.
I slipped on a pullover and sat on the edge of my bed, then pulled my phone out of my pant pocket. My thumb connected with the first number on speed dial.
"Hello?" The accent that I knew inside and out greeted me on the other end of the line.
Because if being from Pasadena didn't make me enough of an anomaly in the hockey world, you could add in the fact that my mother was a Spanish immigrant. What happened back in June made me the highest drafted Hispanic player of, well, ever.
"Hey, mom," I sighed.
I didn't consider myself to be a prickly person, but not everyone saw my soft side like my mom did. She was a university student on an exchange semester when she met my dad at UCLA. As soon as she graduated, my parents got married. She left her whole life back home for my dad, and because of me and my demanding hockey schedule, couldn't visit often.
"Did you just get back from practice? I was waiting for you to call," she teased.
I could hear the smile in her voice. Because I had moved out at such a young age, she had always made me call at soon as I got home from wherever it was I was coming from. Now, it had become our thing.
"I thought I wanted to nap, but I couldn't."
"Oh, yeah, I'm sure you must be just exhausted. Pushing a puck on the ice must be pretty tiring."
I laughed. When my mom met my dad, she knew absolutely nothing about hockey. Even after being married to a hockey fan and having a hockey-obsessed brother-in-law and a son who loved the game, her knowledge was pretty scant.
"I'm just teasing you. How was practice? Which group were you with?"
By group she meant team: either the Storm or the Wind.
"I was with the Storm, but the head coach told me I'm still not a guarantee to play on Wednesday."
Did that bother me? Fuck yeah. I wanted to play. Was I about to show displeasure with my coach's decisions? Fuck no. I wasn't stupid.
"I already don't like that man!" my mom declared.
"No, he's a good coach," I defended Dave Dale.
I had a lot of coaches throughout my lifetime. Being a good coach didn't necessarily equate to being a good guy, I unfortunately learned.
"I'm just going to keep being patient. How are dad and Uncle Mark?" I changed the subject, knowing that my mom wouldn't be offended by it. We only talked about hockey so long as I wanted to.
"They're good. They miss you. They went fishing this morning."
For a strong second, I wished I was there with them. Mark is my father's younger brother, and the person I owed my hockey career to. He had been a lifelong LA Kings fan and had season's tickets. He never married or had kids, so more often than not, I would tag along to the games with him. I remember being five years old and loving everything about the game: the Zamboni, the crowd, and the arena personnel throwing t-shirts to the eager fans. When my parents signed me up for lessons at the encouragement of my uncle, I eventually fell in love with the sport itself as well.
"Tell them I say hi," I said.
"Of course. You keep us updated with how the season's going okay?"
"I will."
We talked for another ten minutes, both about hockey and random things, and my mom ended the call the way she usually does, with a wish of good luck and a reminder to be careful.
I plugged my phone in to charge on my nightstand and rejoined Lawson in the living room.
"Move over," I smiled, pushing Lawson's shoulder back slightly and plopping onto the couch.
"Twenty bucks says you can't beat me," Lawson laughed.
He handed me a remote control. I didn't respond. I was already in the zone.