Up and Coming
Chapter 22
I headed into the dressing room, and sat down in my stall, taking off my dress clothes, and getting dressed for the upcoming practice.
"Hey Mike!" I called across the room, tossing my soccer ball at him. "Heads!"
He looked up at the last second, and somehow managed to catch the ball, sending it flying back in my direction.
I laughed as the ball bounced, and missed my stall.
"Hey! At least I caught it!" Mike protested, standing up to make sure his skates felt OK.
"I didn't say anything." I called back, trying hard to keep a straight face.
"Boys!" Called Darryl, coming into the room with his clipboard in hand. "We're gonna be working on our offense today! Be prepared to score!"
"Fuckin right boys!" I called, and some of the team chimed in as well.
T.Walker's I Don't Give Up started to play in the room, and I got up, heading to the mirror to check my hair.
"Jakie, get your fuckin head in the game!" Called Mike, to a chorus of laughter from the boys.
I grinned, and headed back to my stall, sitting down and pulling on my shoulder pads.
I glanced to my left, and jumped.
"Shit! I still have to tape!" I yelled, running for the stick racks by the door.
I picked one of my sticks off of the practice rack and brought it back to my stall, grabbing two different kids of tape from my locker, and a puck from one of the tables in the middle of the room.
I sat down, and began to tape my blade, heel to toe, with white stick tape. I finished the blade, and began to grind the pucks edge along the blade of the stick, from heel to toe again. The rubber came off on the tape, and I tossed the puck a few stalls to my right, where Dustin was motioning for it.
"Hey, bud! Where's the jerseys?" I called to a young equipment manager outside the door to the room.
"Coming!" He called back. "We're just getting them now!"
"Alright, thanks bud!" I replied.
"Jake, you forgetting something?" Called Jarret.
I did a pat down of myself, trying to feel for everything. I wasn't wearing a helmet, and it wasn't in my stall.
"What the fuck did you guys do to my practice helmet?" I laughed, heading into the hallway, and turning in the opposite direction of the rope holding back fans and media.
"Jake!" Someone called, and I turned to see a young boy in an LA Kings jersey with my name on it.
"Sup buddy?" I asked, holding out my glove for a fist bump.
"Wow." The boy gasped, bumping my fist.
I grinned, and waved goodbye to him, running down the hall toward the equipment room.
"Hey, do you guys have a practice helmet for me?" I asked, leaning in the door.
One of the equipment managers handed me one with my number on it, and I thanked him, heading back into the dressing room.
"You guys aren't guilty of something that goes wrong for a change!" I called, heading into the room.
The practice jerseys were on the hooks in every stall now, and the entire room was almost black and white and purple, with the equipment in every stall.
I grinned, and took my black practice jersey off of the hook, turning it around to see the back. It read BELANGER, and underneath the name was my number 19.
I pulled the jersey over my head, tucking it in the back of my hockey pants, and headed out to the ice, fist bumping various members of the staff on the way.
"Hey Mike!" I called across the room, tossing my soccer ball at him. "Heads!"
He looked up at the last second, and somehow managed to catch the ball, sending it flying back in my direction.
I laughed as the ball bounced, and missed my stall.
"Hey! At least I caught it!" Mike protested, standing up to make sure his skates felt OK.
"I didn't say anything." I called back, trying hard to keep a straight face.
"Boys!" Called Darryl, coming into the room with his clipboard in hand. "We're gonna be working on our offense today! Be prepared to score!"
"Fuckin right boys!" I called, and some of the team chimed in as well.
T.Walker's I Don't Give Up started to play in the room, and I got up, heading to the mirror to check my hair.
"Jakie, get your fuckin head in the game!" Called Mike, to a chorus of laughter from the boys.
I grinned, and headed back to my stall, sitting down and pulling on my shoulder pads.
I glanced to my left, and jumped.
"Shit! I still have to tape!" I yelled, running for the stick racks by the door.
I picked one of my sticks off of the practice rack and brought it back to my stall, grabbing two different kids of tape from my locker, and a puck from one of the tables in the middle of the room.
I sat down, and began to tape my blade, heel to toe, with white stick tape. I finished the blade, and began to grind the pucks edge along the blade of the stick, from heel to toe again. The rubber came off on the tape, and I tossed the puck a few stalls to my right, where Dustin was motioning for it.
"Hey, bud! Where's the jerseys?" I called to a young equipment manager outside the door to the room.
"Coming!" He called back. "We're just getting them now!"
"Alright, thanks bud!" I replied.
"Jake, you forgetting something?" Called Jarret.
I did a pat down of myself, trying to feel for everything. I wasn't wearing a helmet, and it wasn't in my stall.
"What the fuck did you guys do to my practice helmet?" I laughed, heading into the hallway, and turning in the opposite direction of the rope holding back fans and media.
"Jake!" Someone called, and I turned to see a young boy in an LA Kings jersey with my name on it.
"Sup buddy?" I asked, holding out my glove for a fist bump.
"Wow." The boy gasped, bumping my fist.
I grinned, and waved goodbye to him, running down the hall toward the equipment room.
"Hey, do you guys have a practice helmet for me?" I asked, leaning in the door.
One of the equipment managers handed me one with my number on it, and I thanked him, heading back into the dressing room.
"You guys aren't guilty of something that goes wrong for a change!" I called, heading into the room.
The practice jerseys were on the hooks in every stall now, and the entire room was almost black and white and purple, with the equipment in every stall.
I grinned, and took my black practice jersey off of the hook, turning it around to see the back. It read BELANGER, and underneath the name was my number 19.
I pulled the jersey over my head, tucking it in the back of my hockey pants, and headed out to the ice, fist bumping various members of the staff on the way.
