“Come here a minute, J.J.” Coach waved me over from rinkside. Instead of directing practice this morning, his concentration was busied with a cell phone that hadn’t left his ear for more than maybe five minutes since we’d hit the ice. Getting called to the bench? Rarely a good thing, and I wondered what I’d done to call down his scrutiny on me.

            My skate blades sliced through the ice, roughened by an hour of hard warm-ups and drills. Behind me, my teammates set up for a short scrimmage to wrap things up for the day. I angled my skates and chipped to a stop, hoping that whatever Coach Gil had to say, he’d keep it short so I could get back out there and join my line—and on a more practical note, fix whatever aspect of my playing had presumably gone wrong.

            I leaned against the arena wall, fingers tapping along my carbon stick shaft. “What’s up, Coach?”

            His gaze traveled out onto the ice where our top line, Ensley-Krupp-Casper, set up against line two, Cooper-Mattheis-Bordeleau. My line, ordinarily, but Mattheis skated at my center spot for now. I looked back toward Coach and saw his eyes on me again. He didn’t seem angry or upset, like he usually did when chastising a player. No, he looked…uncomfortable, and not in way that made me think happy thoughts about the coming conversation either.

            “Just got off the phone with Allan,” he named our organization’s General Manager and my world shifted horribly. I knew what today was. “We’ve traded you to Phoenix. They want you skating against Dallas tonight, so call up their GM and get yourself a ticket to Texas. Sorry, Jake. You’re a tough forward and I hate to see you go.”

            Every pro hockey player understands the ever-present possibility of a trade, especially in the weeks between January and March. Our whole sport’s a business, after all, and the teams own the players. They can do whatever the hell they want with us. So yeah, I knew like I did every season that there was a chance I’d have to make a sudden transition elsewhere. That didn’t make the reality of it any easier. Today was the deadline, and I’d thought I was safe.

            I hadn’t even packed.

            I sucked air deep inside my lungs, then blew it out just as slowly. “At least Phoenix has a good shot at the Playoffs. Who’d you get for me?” I tried not to sound bitter.

            “Hastings and Marleau,” he named a decent enough defenseman and goaltender prospect who’d pulled off a number of impressive saves for Phoenix’s AHL affiliate this season. I was worth two guys, at any rate, and both of them solid players. That helped.

            Not much, but enough.

            “Well.” I stared out at the team, fighting for the puck on the rink’s far side. The team, not my team anymore. That distinction felt like a blow to my gut. But this was how hockey worked, and I’d act like a professional if it killed me to do it. “You have the number for the Phoenix GM?”

            “Right here.” He held out a folded slip of paper.

            Slipping the bulky glove from my right hand, I took it and pushed through the half door and off ice, headed for the locker room. “I’ll get on the phone.”

***

            I showered quickly, changed into jeans and a black Easton tee, and made the call. My new GM seemed thrilled to have me on roster. He actually apologized for the short notice and had already arranged for my flight—he’d given me two and a half hours to get myself to the airport. Someone would meet me in Dallas and drive to the arena.

            The guys were trickling in from practice by the time I hung up. Tim Ensley, the assistant captain and a friend I hoped to keep, came straight over and slung an arm around my shoulders.

            “Gillie just told us. Bummer of a trade, J.J. Don’t know what management’s thinking, letting you go.”

            “They’re thinking they want that prospect goalie,” I forced a half-hearted smile. “It’s okay. They could have traded me to Edmonton, or some other god-forsaken place.”

            Ensley’s from Edmonton, and he whapped me hard on the shoulder. “I’d call you out on that one, but I think instead I’ll make you eat ice at the game Saturday.”

            My brow furrowed with confusion. The game?

            “Forgot about it, eh? Puckhead. We play Phoenix tomorrow night. You can’t get away from us that easy.”

***

            The plane ride Denver to Dallas/Fort Worth sucked majorly. I sat crammed in between the window and a platinum blonde Texas miss, who leaned way across her first class seat and drawled at me for the entire flight. It was my mistake, really. Telling anyone, especially a busty blonde, that you play sports professionally is a terrific error. Hockey players tend to understand this concept, football players do not—which is why they get all of the nasty headlines.

            After a quick escape down the concourse as fast as my long stride could carry me, I scanned the arrival waiting area for my contact, and their supposedly obvious sign.

            There was no supposedly about it. A three foot square of red poster board carried the words “Phoenix Jackalopes” in gigantic black-ringed, white letters. The team logo—a rabid-looking rabbit with a rack of sharply pointed antlers protruding from its head—took up the entire bottom left-hand corner. Attached to the sign was a tall brunette, college-aged, maybe a handful of years younger than me.

            “That,” I pointed to the sign with distaste, “can go away.”

            She folded it in half, relief obvious. “Thanks; I feel ridiculous waving it around. I’m Mara Holt, one of the publicity interns. You must be Mr. Johnston?”

            “Yeah, but it’s Jake, or J.J. I’ve got a couple of bags to pick up, then we can go.”

            “Awesome. Baggage claim’s this way.” She led off and I followed a step behind.

            “You travel with the team?” I asked, curious about an intern’s presence at an away game.

            “Sometimes,” her shoulders shrugged up a fraction. “The P.R. director drags one or two of us along on occasion to help with interview setup and other odds and ends. Usually it’s just the bigger games, but with the trade deadline today, he wanted some extra hands on deck.”

            “Sounds…fun,” I acknowledged politely.

            She flashed me a wry grin. “Not really. Bruski’s a bear. The other interns are having a blast back in Phoenix right now.”

            “How’s the rest of management?”

            “The insider’s opinion? They seem pretty savvy across the board. The GM’s blunt, but accessible. Coach Miller gets excellent results. Oh, he also has a bit of a temper, so wear your hardhat. I can’t speak on Assistant Coach Holt. He’s my older brother, and my view of him has been known to change sporadically.”

            “So you’re, what, a journalism major?”

            “Double: journalism/poli-sci. My internship in D.C. doesn’t start ’til the summer, so I thought I’d pick up another one this spring and finish up those graduation requirements.”

            I’d left Dartmouth in my third year to join the NHL. Meeting graduation requirements had never been a priority.

            “So they call you up and hours later, here you are, packed off and moving on.”

            Now I shrugged. “That’s hockey.”

            “Still, must be hard. Were you even packed?”

            “No.”

            “Shit.”

            My thoughts exactly.

***

            I met the rest of the team an hour and a half before game time, when they bussed in from the local Marriott. I’d arrived maybe another twenty minutes before and made a beeline for the locker room, where a stubby assistant with one of those complicated French names that I’d have to ask for again gave me the pick of the team’s extra equipment. I’m fairly particular about my sticks, and predictably, the bag containing that important aspect of my gear hadn’t joined me in Texas. Ensley might ship my collection to Phoenix for me with all of the other crap I’d neglected to bring, or I could buy new ones. It wasn’t like I didn’t order new sticks all the time anyway—most seasons, I can’t make it two weeks without snapping at least one. Needless to say, I don’t get all that attached to them.

            I taped up a couple of one-piece carbon models that felt like they’d suit me okay: toe curves, with shaft flex around 85 lbs, supple enough to get power and accuracy on my favorite wrist shots. I like a little bit of loft to the stick blade and a lie around 6; at 6’2”, I’m tall enough to merit a higher lie, but I skate in a bit of a crouch.

            By the time I finished waxing the second tape wrapped blade, boisterous banter echoed from the outer hall as my new teammates began filing into the locker room, black equipment bags slung over shoulders.

            I swallowed, wondering if I should be the first one to speak.

            Miller came to my rescue, a burly version of Sean Penn who’d coached at Boston University for a few years before taking a job in the big leagues. This was his second season as head coach for the Jackalopes, and he’d done a hell of a job whipping the team into shape, if numbers on paper meant anything.

            “Glad to see you, Johnston,” he held out a hand, fingers clenching around mine in an iron-clad grip. “I’ve heard a lot of good things about you. Seen ’em too. You’ll skate right wing tonight on the second line with Pax and Jonesy, and we’ll see where we go from there.”

            “Sounds good.” My eyes rambled around the room, wondering which curious faces belonged to my new linemates. While I’d never actually played with any of these guys, I recognized a few from previous games and the familiarity that comes from just being around the league. One of the defenseman, Brady, we’d studied hard in video preparation for a match-up earlier in the season. He’d scored something like fifteen goals so far this season, very impressive for a D-man, and was wicked fast to boot.

            Coach Miller looked me up and down. Self-conscious, I straightened under his scrutiny. “We’ll chat for a bit later. Everyone on the ice by quarter after!” He barked that last bit loud for the rest of the team, then headed out the door with what I guessed was the rest of the management staff.

            A thickly built man about my height approached next and clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Alec LeBlanc. Let me introduce you around.”

            Like the good captain he was, “Lucks” pointed out every player in that locker room, checking to make sure I had every piece of necessary equipment primed and ready for our imminent game. He also gave me a rundown of how our opponents, the Dallas Shooters, had played lately and the strategies our team hoped to use against them. As the team dispersed to climb into our individual arsenals of padding, he left me with Devin Jones and Anton Paski for a little linemate bonding time. We talked over the game some, and a couple of the defenseman wandered over to join us.

            I remembered guys being traded onto my own team, and wished I’d made more of an effort during their first night beyond the cursory “Hi my name is J.J., nice to meet you” formula. The instant familiarity these guys treated me with made a world of difference, and my psyche appreciated the support.

            Shrugging my new white-and-red sweater over the pads, I heard a throat clear behind me and turned. Mara stood nearby, a look of discomfort warring with journalistic professionalism at the locker room activity surrounding her.

            “Our television correspondent would like a quick interview before you go out, if you wouldn’t mind.”

            No easy out immediately presented itself, so I followed her into the tunnel, towing my stick in one hand, skates and helmet in the other. I tucked them against a wall and stood where she pointed, a headset planted firmly atop my head and a camera locked on my face. Mara watched from beside the cameraman as I fielded a relatively easy set of questions from the network’s pair of sports commentators.

            How did I hear about the trade and what were my first thoughts?

            Coach called me over in practice, and I was pleased to go to a team with an almost guaranteed playoff spot. Oh, except my old team held a playoff berth too.

            Was I excited about playing with Phoenix tonight?

            Yes, definitely. Nice to get straight to playing with the boys. Gives us a chance to get to know each other right off the bat. A whole half-hour warm-up for prep time—yes, anyone could see how very excited that might make me.

            How did I feel about playing my old team tomorrow night?

            Glad to get it out of the way so soon. It’ll be strange seeing old teammates on the other side of the line, but Phoenix’s my team now and I’m gonna come out raring to go, ready to help us win. How the hell did they think I felt?!

            “Sorry about that,” Mara ducked her head almost sympathetically once I’d finished thanking the invisible commentators for their offered welcomes.

            “No problem.” I grabbed my equipment and headed for the much safer rink, where I belonged.

***

            Coach chose to start our second line out. Silently, I thanked him for that. Waiting on the bench for a shift change would only frazz up my nerves more. Opposite me on the far side of centerline, Mikey Summers, a guy I’d played with back in juniors, grinned his greeting. A gap marked his missing left incisor.

            “Hey there, J.J. Looks like I get to cream your ass twice this week.”

            We’d played the Shooters four days ago and lost 5-3, the last goal an empty-netter. Deliberately, I winked and returned my focus to the puck. When the ref let it drop approximately four seconds later and Jonesy sent a pass my way, I shoved my right shoulder into Mikey’s side and neatly skated by.

            I’d never liked him much.

            The rest of the first period went okay. One of our defenseman tipped the puck up the boards toward me and I skated it into Shooter territory, punching a solid pass across ice to Pax, who hammered it in. It sounds stupid, but the assist relieved a lot of the pressure I’d felt up until then. An official point meant I’d made a tangible contribution to the team, always a plus when you’re the new guy on the rink. It also showed my seriousness about playing for my new team.

            Though up by two goals, we couldn’t meet the desperate intensity of our opponents in the first ten minutes of Period Two. One of their guys went sprawling with a little help from our third line winger, and the Shooters went on power play. I wasn’t too surprised Coach kept me benched for the penalty kill. He didn’t know my skills well enough to put me in that kind of position.

            Dallas scored ten seconds from the end of their one man advantage, and then again not a minute and a half later. The goals riled, of course, but a part of me was secretly glad I hadn’t been on ice for either of them.

            My shining moment came right at the end of that period, when Coach sent me in with the third shift of our own power play unit. Pax blasted a slapshot on goal from the left point. When it ricocheted off their goalie’s chest, I backhanded it over his outstretched leg pads and into the net. An awkward shot and I nailed it.

            Skating back to our bench amidst a ring of friendly slaps to my shoulders and helmet from the rest of the unit, I winked at Mikey again.

            He got his revenge though. Four minutes into our final period, he tripped me hard toward the boards, where my right knee ground against white panel siding. It hurt like hell, but no penalty was called. The other Jacks laid a couple of brutal, marginally legal hits on Mikey after that.

            And we kept our lead for the rest of the game.

            Energy pulsed through the locker room as we stripped off our sweaters and pads, laughing and joking like we’d all played together forever. I didn’t even mind the interviews, and it seemed like every reporter in there had a set of questions (mostly the same set of questions) for me. I hit the showers at first opportunity and packed up my gear. We were headed straight to the airport for our chartered flight—right back the way I had come a handful of hours before.

***

            From the plane to the shuttle to the hotel, Lucks kept me involved and occupied. Not in an insulting way; more as a kind of friendly support system. I worked to simplify all of my thoughts down on hockey—our team vs. their team—like the veteran players always seemed to when they found themselves ricocheted around the country. Trades happened all the damn time. I just hoped it got easier after the first go round.

            No one on the team was stupid enough to ask if it felt weird prepping for play against a city that had been my home for the last three years, the length of my career in the NHL. They didn’t need to. Of course it felt weird. Those sorts of obvious questions were better left to reporters, or fans that didn’t have a clue what else to say.

            No one mentioned the trade either, or their former teammate, Hastings, who they would see again in a smattering of tense hours. Our teams were set, the line in the sand drawn, and while I faced a new direction now, I’d play for these guys with everything I had. That was my job.

            Plus I really wanted to bear down hard on Denver.

            I hadn’t asked for a trade. It was part of the business of hockey, yes, and I understood all of the reasoning, how each organization wanted to make their team stronger on the whole. Getting the shove hurt all the same.

            Whatever happened next wouldn’t turn back time. But if I had my way tonight, I’d make it look like Phoenix got off with the more desirable end of the deal.

***

            It didn’t really hit me until we swarmed down the back corridor of Shaun Drake Arena and my feet made a right turn instead of a left, and into the Away Team locker room. Across the hall, I could hear music blasting and the muffled shouts of conversation as my friends geared up for our coming match. I’d ducked into that room before morning skate to retrieve the gear Ensley had left stacked in a corner for me. While I’m not a superstitious player on the whole, I held more confidence in my own sticks. Sure I’d played alright last night, but each time the puck connected with that borrowed blade, it hadn’t felt quite right.

            I stayed quiet in the foreign locker room, and the other guys let me be for the most part. I appreciated the space since truthfully, what could they say? Every ounce of my focus centered on the game and a roster of players whose moves I knew well, as they knew mine. Paulie Weir provided top notch netminding, but he tended to go down low in his blocks. I’d need elevation and precision to get anything by.

            Already my thoughts were counterproductive. The moment this became about me, about my performance, I let down my team. However much individual efforts had their place, my first goal had to be support. Because you won as a team or not at all.

            Early fans dotted the stadium as my skate blades hit ice for our pre-game skate. A few wore red-and-gold Jackalope sweaters, and I realized with a start that those were my fans, and the ones decked out in green-and-white belonged to my past.

            I nodded at Cooper and Bordeleau when we passed each other at center ice, only a tad surprised to see rookie Scott Pulaski skating up behind them to join their line for shooting drills. Coop grinned in response and Bordie flexed his arm mockingly.

            Great guys, the both of them, and they were going down tonight.

            I completed each warm-up maneuver with more fervor than usual, a huge part of me keenly aware of the number of eyes that watched from both sides of the professional equation, waiting for me to either make a mistake or pull off something brilliant. Coach Miller called me over partway through.

            “Save it for the game, J.J.,” he growled and then leaned closer. “Feeling okay?”

            “Sure,” I replied, feigning a carefree attitude we both knew was a total lie.

            He moved to the point. “You know these guys, they know you. But they’re not gonna change up their game or they’ll run each other off the ice. So you stay unpredictable. And for damn’s sake, shoot the puck. Don’t you dare get soft out there and pass it on when you’ve got yourself an opportunity.”

            “Got it,” I accented my agreement with a solid nod.

            “Good. Now head on into the tunnel. The press wants a word.”

            Of course they did.

            Fighting back a grimace, I headed off ice. If any reporter asked a single new question, I would be very, very surprised.

            They didn’t.

***

            Our first line held the ice for opening face-off. From the bench tucked beside Pax and Jonesy, I relaxed my grip on the white-taped stick shaft, mind tallying through a list of self-instructions: shoot high, skate strides short and quick, head up, and for shit’s sake stop squeezing the stick.

            I glanced out over the ice toward where Phillip Hastings waited for play to begin, his first shift in a Dragon’s uniform. His face was a mask of apparent calm, and I wondered if he felt the same pressure I did of having to perform especially well tonight with minimal screw-ups.

            The puck dropped into play and bodies scrambled. When Hastings slammed our left wing into the boards less than twenty seconds later in a tussle for the puck, I figured he felt exactly the same pressure.

            Coach tapped my shoulder and called a name. One light vault over the side later, I was on ice and racing down our offensive end. As right wing, that meant I had to cross a heck of a lot of rink before I got into position when we skated right to left like this. Part of me was aware of Pax moving into position near the far post while Jonesy swept behind the cage. I had some space and he passed the puck back. Instantly I sent a one-timer on net. It bounced off Weir’s skate and straight for Pax, who slapped at the rebound with his stick-blade. Weir’s glove shot out and he pocketed the save.

            Ensley skated past as our teams set up for face-off.

            “Guess you found your stick.”

            “Hey, I always know where my stick is,” I returned with a smirk.

            “That’s not what she said.”

            The whistle blew. Pax won the scuffle and sent the puck straight to me, where it skidded awkwardly off my stick and toward Denver defenseman Iain Flynn. Stick extended out before me, I dove over the ice, catching the puck with the tip of my blade as I swept it toward the crease. Pax tapped it to Jonesy, who tipped it in.

            First shift of the evening and I had an assist. Unfortunately, my bruised knee from last night’s game now stung like hell. But not enough to wipe the grin from my face as I slammed into Jonesy for a round of shoulder claps and helmet taps. We skated to the bench feeling pretty damn pleased with ourselves.

            A few more shifts into the period, and I knew my knee was going to be a problem. I missed a chance at an almost open net when I couldn’t beat the defenseman to the puck, and went crashing into the boards a few minutes later when a light check in the corner got me tripped up over my own skates. The crowd booed like I was trying to draw a penalty or something, but that wasn’t it. Any pressure in the wrong place had my knee smarting hard beneath me. I skated to the bench and had one of the trainers take a look at it. For the rest of that period, I sat in the locker room with a mound of ice taped over my stupid joint and watched the score shift to 2-1 in our favor.

            The ice stayed on while Coach preached the rights and wrongs of our play in the first twenty minutes, and highlighted areas that needed more push come period number two. There was nothing wrong with my knee except for a bruise in an awkward place, so I had the trainer wrap it tight and assured Coach I was ready for play. If it came down to a choice between sitting the rest of the game out and playing through the pain, I’d take the pain. It would hurt less in the long run.

            Turned out, the knee actually helped me score.

            Coach Miller’s theory on unpredictability during warm-up was much easier to apply when my freaking knee wouldn’t bend and twist the way it normally did, so tightly had the trainer wrapped that bandage. But the elastic also gave my joint a stiff sort of stability. With their top line on ice, the Dragons charged through the neutral zone, passing between their right wing and center. Pax planted himself in front of the center, who slipped the puck toward Ensley on left wing.

            I got there first. Pirouetting around my rigid right leg, I scooped the puck off Ensley’s blade tip and sprinted up the ice. Flynn appeared in front of me and I shifted my weight hard right while elevating my stick, like I was going to fire off a shot. I didn’t. At least, not for another half second, after Flynn had skidded out of the picture in what would otherwise have been a spectacular block. My wrister sailed straight over Weir’s outstretched pad. And then white sweatered bodies pummeled me from behind.

            I sat on the bench for most of the rest of the game, an ice pad cupped against my knee where defenseman Rolf Wiles had accidentally clipped it with his stick in the post-goal crush. In between periods, the dratted thing had actually started to swell and with our team up by two goals, Coach saw little reason to risk aggravating it more until I could get it properly checked out.

            The final buzzer sealed our win at 3-1. When the media named me first star of the game, to their very great credit only a handful of Denver fans booed while I skated my little “gee thanks” circle on the scuffed up ice.

            After slews of interviews and a warp-speed shower, I waited outside the Home locker room for my old teammates to file out. I didn’t know when I’d be back this way—probably not until summer or whenever our playoff season wrapped up, assuming we kept a spot—and I wanted to see the guys one last time. This game marked the end of our teams’ regular season series, and we wouldn’t face each other again until fall unless we met in the playoffs. And who knew where we’d all be in the fall.

            Ensley came out first and stuck out a hand, which I shook firmly. “Thought you’d be out here. By the way, Michelle says to tell you she’s royally pissed you won’t be here for the charity auction next week. She doesn’t have a player to auction off anymore.”

            Biggest perk of the trade, in my opinion. “Have her give Kingsey a shot. He looks enough like that Old Spice guy to bring a big check. You know; the one on the horse?”

            He cracked a grin. “He’ll kill me if I pop the question. I’ll get our fearless captain to do it; serve him right for missing that open net earlier. You guys headed out?”

            “Yeah. A game in New Jersey day after next, then I get to pick out an apartment or something in the big AZ.”

            “Well play like you mean it, J.J. And try not to sweat to death in the desert.”

            Coop and Bordie came out next, Paulie Weir not far behind. We joked about my big fake out—and Flynn sneaked up and smacked my head partway through. Just after I’d finished a last few goodbyes before collecting my gear for the airport shuttle, Phillip Hastings ducked into the corridor.

            “Hey,” I offered my hand. “Nice game tonight. Wanted to say hi, and well, good luck.”

            He nodded back, a small smile tugging across his lips. “Yeah, you too.”

            I’d turned toward the locker room where most of the Jacks had already shuffled out, gear bags slumped over matching black shirts, when a throat cleared behind me and I looked back.

            Hastings moved a step closer. He whispered something in my ear and I grinned in reply.

            On the bus, I caught up with Lucks and plopped down in the seat behind him. “Let’s hear about this ‘Tracy incident’.”

            Lucks groaned as every head within hearing distance honed in like sharks on a scent. New team, new style of play, and a thousand new ways to rib at each other. I owed Hastings one. This story promised to be good.