Chapter 5 5: More Than A Game
Baby walked into the locker room, rubbing his hands together to ward off the early morning cold. He couldn't wait to get into the rink and sweat it out.
He had left the apartment earlier than he did so he didn't get to see that annoying face first thing in the morning. He also loved the quiet time before the teammates arrived with their hypes.
It allowed him some time to channel his focus to the task ahead.
He walked over to his locker and opened it, reaching for his helmet.
He raised his hand above his head to fix the helmet, but he decided against it and slowly walked over to the bench to lower himself on it.
He leaned back on the wall and closed his eyes, trying to calm his nerves that were suddenly all over the place as he thought of how he was going to deal with Saint in a few minutes.
"An early bird?" Saint's voice broke through Baby's tranquil silence.
Baby stiffened for a split second, 'There goes my quiet moment.'
He thought he was an early bird, but Saint had beaten him to even that, too.
Slowly, he opened his eyes and turned his head to the side where he found Saint leaning against the bathroom door with a jersey over his shoulder, his loose white shirt hiding the perfect body Baby had seen last night in his living room.
Ignoring Saint, Baby got up, retrieved his jersey from his locker and headed toward the door.
"We have to work together, you know? You and I," Saint's voice paused Baby's steps halfway to the door.
Baby stared at the door, his fingers gripping his jersey tightly.
"I'm already letting rule beside me, never think you have the right to ask for more –"
"But we want the same thing, Baby," Saint's smooth timbre spoke directly behind Baby, startling him.
Baby gasped quietly and took a step forward, turning to face Saint.
'When did he get here?' Baby's eyes ran over Saint in a split second.
"I don't want anything you want, Saint. Don't be delusional," Baby stated, his eyes filled with their hatred tiwaed his co-captain.
"THC? You don't want to play professionally?" Saint asked, folding his arms across his chest.
"I'm done having this meaningless conversation with you," Baby said and turned away, resuming his trip to the door.
"You need me, Baby. We need each other, and I'm ready to help if you're willing to act mature and not like a... well, your name," Saint smirked, not missing the way Baby almost turned to reply with something witty but the door suddenly opened and in trooped the other guys, chatting and ready to start their day with a blood-pumping activity.
"Hey, man, ready to kick his ass?" Cam slipped his arm over Baby's shoulder as he sent a hateful glare to Saint behind them.
"You bet," Baby replied and walked out of the locker room.
"Everyone, on the ice!" Saint ordered, glancing around the room with cold, commanding eyes.
"Yes, Captain!" They had no choice but to answer, and respectfully too.
Saint stood behind and watched everyone jog out of the locker room, trode out of the locker room, until it was just one person left.
"You, come here," Saint walked over to the average height guy and narrowed his eyes at him.
"What's your name?" He questioned calmly.
"I'm Ricky," Ricky answered, holding his head high.
"Play forward, I'll be the goaltender," Saint said, petting Ricky's shoulder.
Ricky hesitated for a while and finally nodded, "Yes, Captain."
The cold air of the rink hit Baby's face, instantly clearing the residual fury from his encounter with Saint. He snapped his helmet on, the visor reflecting the cool, white glare of the arena lights.
The team was stretched across the ice, a reluctant sea of red. Saint, standing at the opposite end, looked impossibly huge in his goaltending gear. The pads, blocker, and catching glove—all a pristine, intimidating white with blue trim—made him look like a statue carved from the ice itself.
Coach Nickel blew his whistle.
"Alright, Captains! Saint, you've set the drill. Explain it."
Saint's voice, amplified by the acoustics of the empty arena, cut through the quiet: "We run three-on-three drills. Baby and his line attack; my defence focuses on the crease. We test the new passing lanes. Lapses in coverage, you run five suicide sprints."
He glanced directly at Baby, a clear shot across the bow. Saint was asserting discipline, making Baby's teammates pay for any failure.
Baby grabbed his stick, his eyes flashing with a predatory smirk. Two can play that game.
"Rode, Cam! With me! Ricky, you're with Kross's defence. I want quick passes, no unnecessary stickhandling. Let's show the new goalie how our attack works. Any missed shots, and you're buying breakfast for the whole team."
Baby was asserting dominance through confidence and financial pressure, challenging the team to uphold his elite standard of success.
The first line-change ended quickly, setting the stage. Baby, Rode, and Cam skated to the centre dot. The opposing line—two Defensemen and Ricky—waited. Saint was centred in the net, low, coiled, and utterly still.
Baby planted his feet opposite the opposing centre. The referee dropped the puck.
Baby was faster. His stick snapped forward, pulling the puck cleanly back to Cam, who immediately chipped it to Rode by the boards. The Westbridge attack was rapid, practised, and lethal.
Rode hammered a pass to Baby, who had already darted across the blue line. He was inside the attacking zone, the puck now riding his stick blade.
He was headed straight for the net, weaving around the defenseman. Baby's momentum was pure red force, the very picture of confidence. He looked up, intending to pull his signature toe-drag move, but Saint was ready.
Saint hadn't moved. He was playing deep in his net, a technique that forced the shooter to commit first. His steel-grey eyes, visible through the helmet visor, were locked onto the puck, not Baby's body—a clinical focus Baby rarely encountered.
Baby feigned a wrist shot, forcing Saint to shift his massive blocker. Baby pulled the puck back, the toe-drag ready—but a sudden, hard hit from a defenseman sent him off balance just slightly.
It was all the fraction Saint needed.
