1
Etienne Brideau was ugly. He knew this fact, and most of the time he didn’t think about it. He tried not to look in the mirror, to not catch a glimpse of his reflection in windows. He was good at what he did and that was what counted. He could out-skate anyone on his team and had the best plus/minus average in his minor league hockey team. The men he picked up in furtive encounters, safely away from the prying eyes of those who wouldn’t approve, didn’t seem to mind that his nose was too big and bony, his mouth was oddly shaped, and his smile showed too much gum, or maybe it was just that he never gave them the chance to see him in the light.
It didn’t matter, he told himself. He’d helped his team win the Kelly Cup last year, for Christ’s sakes. Who cared what he looked like? He was destined for the NHL, and nothing was going to get in the way of him getting there.
When he was traded to Toronto’s minor league team, he knew in his heart he was on his way. He hugged his teammates, wished them well, and packed his bags for Ontario.
“Cape Breton, huh?” Malcolm Kendricks was a big man, with a wide smile and booming voice. He’d introduced himself as the owner and general manager of the Thunder, his handshake hearty. “Good team. Defense a bit weak this year.”
Etienne said nothing.
Malcolm glanced up, grin a flash of white against dark skin. “Relax, son. I’ve been watching tapes of you. You’re a good left winger—potential to be great, I’d say. But you need to learn to play well with others. Your team is there to support you.”
Etienne swallowed the retort. “Yes sir.”
“You’re not a puck hog, I’ll give you that,” Malcolm mused, looking through papers on his messy desk. “Rudy Wells is your team captain and first line center. He’ll decide where he wants you.”
“Isn’t that usually the coach’s decision, sir?”
“Ah well, you’ll see,” Malcolm said cryptically. “The team’s on the ice, come meet them.”
Etienne followed him down the hall and up the ramp to the rink. He could hear blades on ice, cheerful voices and the occasional thwack of sticks against pucks. His spirits rose, along with his nerves, as they emerged into the brightly lit space. Some fifteen players were milling around one end of the ice, a few others on the bench.
“Shootouts,” Malcolm said unnecessarily. “Rudy! Over here!”
A figure split off the group and made for them. Rudy was small, barely five foot nine, and lean, with dark skin and darker eyes. His smile was friendly, welcoming as he skidded to a stop beside them.
“Rudy, this is Etienne Brideau,” Malcolm said. “He’s all yours.”
Rudy pulled off a glove and held out a hand. “Good to meet you, Etienne. Looking forward to seeing what you bring to the team. Got your gear?”
Etienne hefted his bag.
“Great. Let’s get you a stall and on the ice.” He led Etienne down the hall to the locker room, showing him the stall cleaned out and waiting. Etienne unpacked his gear as Rudy leaned against the stall next to him.
“Jackdaws have good things to say about you.”
Etienne glanced up, halfway through stripping his clothes off. “They’re a good team.”
“Got family there?”
“No, actually.” Etienne bent to pick up his chest guard. “My dad’s in Brampton.”
“Nice. I’m guessing we’re a pit stop for you, am I right? Or is your dream to play for the ECHL until you retire?”
Etienne couldn’t help the snort. “I want to play for the Seabirds, but I’ll go to any NHL team that’ll take me, to start.”
“Fair enough. Well, I’ll use you while I have you. I talked to Malcolm about your contract. Coach Hannity—the Freeze’ head coach—may call you up occasionally, if they have a break in their line needing to be filled. Have you played in the AHL before?”
“Once or twice, with the Jackdaws,” Etienne said, reaching for his skates.
“The Freeze are a good team. I’m friends with a few of them, like Adam Caron and Li; I can give you some tips on how they operate.”
“You know Adam Caron?”
Rudy shrugged. “Sure. Good guy.”
“I’ve seen him skate in a call up for the Wolverines,” Etienne said, trying not to sound starstruck. “His puck handling is ridiculous.” And he’s hot as fuck. Probably best not to say that part out loud.
“Taught him everything he knows,” Rudy said with a wink.
“So where’s our coach?”
“In his office, probably,” Rudy said. “He spends most of his time there. You have a problem, bring it to me first.” Something in Rudy’s expression warned Etienne not to pry.
He finished lacing his skates and stood, towering over the much shorter center.
“Let’s go meet the team,” Rudy said, smiling up at him.
Everyone crowded around when he and Rudy came back up the tunnel, shaking Etienne’s hand and slapping him on the back in friendly greeting. Most of the names Rudy tossed at him didn’t stick, but a few stood out. Liam Thibault was a huge blond defenseman with a sunny smile. His shadow was a right winger named Johnny Girard, six inches shorter and fifty pounds lighter, as dark as Liam was bright. They never seemed far from each other and Etienne watched them curiously out of the corner of his eye as Rudy continued to introduce people. Were they together? Were they out? Did that mean he might have a chance to be out too?
“Logan Martel,” Rudy said. “First line goalie. He doesn’t speak, but he’ll make himself understood.”
Logan was tall and lanky, with olive skin and intense brown eyes. He had the goalie stare down cold, but his smile was friendly when he offered his hand.
“Theo Yoong and Robert Broussard,” Rudy continued. “Theo’s a D-man and Brewski’s a left wing like you.”
Theo was average height, spiky black hair standing up in sweaty clumps and golden skin gleaming from exertion. Beside him, Broussard scowled and didn’t put out a hand. He was rangy and lean, with light brown hair and mistrustful green eyes that measured Etienne and found him wanting.
Etienne didn’t offer to shake his hand, giving him a nod instead.
“Jax and Wyatt,” Rudy said, pointing to two young men standing together a few feet away. “Wingers, fourth line. Let’s do some shootouts!” he added, clapping his hands to draw attention. “Tenny, how about you go first?”
Tenny. His old teammates had called him Bridey, but Etienne found himself liking the way Tenny sounded. He nodded and gripped his stick as Logan skated for his crease.
He opted for an easy slalom toward the net, getting a feel for the ice—firmer than he was used to, sweet and clean beneath his blades—and watching Logan’s reactions. He was going to be tough to get past, Etienne could already tell, keeping his movements to a minimum and not expending too much energy as he waited for Etienne to make his move.
Etienne sent a slapshot at Logan’s left shoulder. Logan caught the puck and smacked it to the ice, and Etienne grinned, giving him a quick salute and circling back to the others. He watched as the rest of the team took their turns, cataloging Logan’s reactions. When it was his turn again, he scooped up a puck and barreled straight for the goal.