Sasquatch to the Moon

4: First Day Scaries

ROCKET

Nico does turn out to be pretty scary, or at least while hustling a group of around 40 of us into one big auditorium area in the practice rink. It's everyone here for tryouts and preseason. They'll cut ten tonight, another 5 throughout the preseason, or seven and eight, I don't really know how that works at this organization, I just know how it works in Boston.

I'm not betting on safety, but looking around and seeing only two guys that I know are goaltenders, Paxton and a terrifyingly tall Finn who goes by the name Gregor Paikkala and hasn't played a game since halfway through the season before last due to something mental that nobody knows, I'd pretty much say I'm alright.

Nico, in a terrifying manner, goes through introductions, embarrasses everyone, and then divides us up into offense and defense.

Goalies go with defense and I'm allowed to stay close to Steph who cracks continuous jokes through changing into gear, warming up to one of the second liners, Ukko Hokkanen, very kindly nicknamed Sushi for some reason.

I wrestle with my gear, getting my jersey stuck on the back of my pads like squirt level hockey players do when they've just learned how to dress themselves.

It's awkward, waving my arms around and trying to grab onto the back of the fabric above my shoulder blades. The locker room is buzzing, everyone is loud and excited and getting to know each other. I'm quiet and turning redder by the seconds, hair flopping out of the head hole of my jersey, the rest of my head still under the fabric.

"Steph-" I call to my side, trying to get his attention by kicking out my skate to hit him with it.

"Here," instead, I hear a gruff, worn out Swedish accent. A hand pulls down the back of my jersey, unhooking it from my pads.

I look over to my other side, not realizing who was sitting there beforehand but now definitely realizing that the accent belongs to the second assistant captain of the Wolves, Håkon Rex.

"Thanks," I let out a small, mostly nervous laugh. "I'm Rocket. We haven't met yet."

"Håkon, they call me Yeti, though." It sounds more accurate coming out of his mouth than half the reporters trying to talk about him. Something minimal and small about the way he shapes the letters behind his lips that makes it his name and not anything else.

"Do you want me to call you Yeti?" I feel my lips kick up in the corners, unsure how to approach his complacent attitude toward his name.

He shrugs, broad shoulders rising just a slight bit under his gear, "they'd look at you weird if you didn't. Do you want me to call you Rocket?"

"I'd look at you weird if you didn't," I joke, tightening down the straps holding my shin pads to my legs. "Even my Mom calls me Rocket."

He squints at me, white blonde eyelashes coming down over his eyes. "I can't tell if that's sad or not."

"Eh," I shrug. "She'll call me my name when she's mad, then it's all-" I flip to Czech and give him the 'you better not make any dumb decisions you hear me, Miloš? Do I make myself clear?' in the best angry Mom tone I can.

Yeti lets out a small hesitant sort of laugh, not flashing any teeth but giving me at least something.

I decide to press a little harder to make him smile, "she's a wonderful lady, a witch with a wooden spoon, but a good person."

"Just a Slavic parenting style then, huh?"

"Half Greek, half Slav, but hey, I turned out alright."