Summer Skin

I’d never been particularly fond of Septembers.

When I was younger, September meant the start of another school year. Summer was over by then, freedom had to be forfeited, and I was in for nine months of term papers, due dates and stress. By the time I got drafted to the Ottawa 67s, September meant reporting for practices and training camps and wishing my friends well as they disappeared to different parts of the world to become real academic scholars. Now, September meant redemption. We’d been waiting for this day for five months.

“Cooch! How was your summer, man?”

A smile made it’s way onto my face as Ryane Clowe clapped me on the back. He was drunk on adrenaline, although it wouldn’t have surprised me if he’d slipped a little something in his water bottle before practice. August was usually our detox period, the month we all spent stone-cold sober because our livers were threatening to jump ship. Clowe always said the best way to get rid of a hangover was to just keep drinking.

“It was…” I paused, trying to find the right word. Interesting was too bland and not suggestive enough. One of a kind was a lie—the best summer of my life came right after my rookie year with the Sharks. I finally shrugged, leaving Ryane to fill in my blanks.

The locker room was deafeningly loud. Ginner had been put in charge of the music but then he got traded, leaving us to carry on his work. Today’s theme song was “California Love” by Tupac and I didn’t have to ask to know who’d done it. Still, I made my way to my stall and began unloading my gear. I’d just gotten my shoulder pads on when the season’s prospects sauntered in, looking so nervous and sick to their stomachs they practically matched the teal of our jerseys. I tried to think up some words of reassurance but came up short. That was more the captain’s tune.

“How much ass did you get?”

“So much ass, dude,” I answered sarcastically.

Ryane grinned. “That’s my boy.”

As carefree as we all seemed, there was a layer of bitterness there. Getting ousted in the first round the playoffs had left us all with a bad taste in our mouths—especially since we lost to the Blues, who wound up getting swept in the second round by the Kings. Our rivals making easy work of the team that made us look like amateurs was painful to watch. We should’ve done better by our city; we weren’t going to make the same mistake this year.

“I hope you got the bullshit out of your systems during your nice, long summer,” Jumbo said loudly as he surveyed his potential teammates. The heart of last season’s roster was still there. “This is our year, boys. We got laughed out of the playoffs—let’s get the last laugh this time around, eh?”

The locker room went nuts over Thornton’s speech but I just rolled my eyes. We were a hockey team, not some byproduct of 300. We knew what we had to do just as well as we knew what was on the line if we didn’t perform. For those of us who knew our roster positions were safe, it was about redemption. For everyone else, it was about performing well enough to keep their job.

“What’s the matter, Cooch? Not impressed with King Leonidas’s speech?” I rolled my eyes again at Brent Burns, who stood in front of me with a shit-eating grin on his face. “Someone’s grumpy.”

“It’s the first day of practice. Lay off, bud.”

His grin widened. “Hungover already?”

“No,” I fired, “just already dreading spending the next seven months with you.”

“You’ll have to excuse Logan,” Ryane said as he interrupted our conversation. “I think he had a bad summer.”

“Did you have a bad summer, Cooch?” Brent asked.

“You two are the absolute worst.”

Brent dug in the pockets of his jeans for his wallet. “Wanna make a bet?”

“Twenty bucks says his girlfriend dumped him.”

“Hundred bucks says some girl from back home broke his widdle heart.”

I finished lacing my skates and stood, finding myself sandwiched between them. However much I claimed to miss my teammates during the offseason was a passing thought now. It never failed to humor me that they could get so far under my skin in such a short amount of time.

“I’m still here, you know.”

Ryane laughed. “Feel free to chime in at any time.”

“Humor us,” Brent said.

“How I spend my summers is none of your business.”

“What a diva,” TJ Galiardi joked as he passed.

I rolled my eyes. Indulging in Brent and Ryane’s stupid games would only encourage them and that’s the last thing I needed. Still, some part of me wanted to empty their wallets. They were already halfway there: my girlfriend had dumped me and a girl from back home had nearly broken my heart. The real story probably wasn’t as interesting as watching them drain one another’s bank accounts, but it was worth a shot.

“Fine,” I finally conceded. “I hope you two are ready to go home broke.”


Sometimes I let my friends talk me into things I shouldn’t have let them talk me into. I had never been good at saying no, and that fault amplified while I was home during the offseason. That, or everyone I knew had just gotten better at guilt-tripping me.

They said it’d be a good idea for me to come out to a bonfire. It was a Friday night and I was still nursing my surgically-repaired shoulder so there wasn’t much else for me to do except stay cooped up in the house and watch movies by myself. Besides, it wasn’t like I had anyone to hang out with except for them. My girlfriend had dumped me like old news not even a month after the season ended, so I agreed, figuring there wasn’t any harm in just hanging out with some old buddies.

My first mistake.

I’d only just arrived when a beer was being thrust into my hand. It was a little after nine—the dark of the night being illuminated by the large, healthy fire in the center of Noah’s backyard. Fucking Noah, I thought to myself, remembering all the stupid things we’d done as kids. It felt good to be home.

Faces I barely recognized came up and congratulated me on another good year, spewing genuine condolences for how the season ended. At least the Kings got ‘em, eh? No, not at all. As gold as their intentions were, they didn’t understand. My life was more than 30-goal seasons and playoff berths. There was loyalty and rivalries and pride. Us players were all in the game together and I’d never wish ill on another player, but in my opinion, if anyone should’ve lost, it was Los Angeles.

“Logan!” Noah called, waving me over to where he stood, surrounded by girls. “My man! Sorry about the playoffs, dude. We were all rooting for you.”

Uncomfortable, I scratched the back of my neck. “So I’ve heard.”

This was home, Noah was my best friend. They were supposed to serve as a distraction between the real world and the world I submerged myself in during the season. I wasn’t supposed to be reminded of that season being cut short. But what did they know? To them it was a game. It was as simple as black and white: someone had to win and someone had to lose, and if you were unlucky enough to be the latter, there was always next year. I wasn’t sure if those sentiments ever truly mattered. When you try your best but you don’t succeed…

The girls tucked under Noah’s arm gave me what I could only describe as ‘the look’. As my best friend he felt entitled to claim some sort of ownership over me—I gave him an official title. No more would he have to introduce himself simply as Noah Brenner. Now he was, “Hey, you know Logan Couture? Yeah, that’s my best friend. I’m Noah by the way.” The trouble with staking claims is that you don’t have anything of your own to hold onto. What would he have, who would he be, if I was just another minor-leaguer with no possible future in the NHL?

“What happened to your shoulder?” one of them asked. She was typical San Jose WAG material—someone Clowe or Ginner would’ve gone after without a second thought. Tonight, she wasn’t my type.

“I’m a hockey player,” I replied. “You tend to get a little beat up when a 200-pound man is checking you into the boards.”

From the other side of Noah’s backyard, someone was calling for a beer pong partner. Someone else switched off the electro song that was playing and replaced it with Watch The Throne. Girls immediately went into a tizzy and grabbed the hand of any guy willing to dance with them, and there was no shortage of willing participants. When you’re a few beers deep, there’s nothing better than having some devastatingly beautiful girl grind her ass all over the front of you. I’d just purchased a one-way ticket to Bonertown when the unthinkable happened.

It was like the rest of the party faded away as soon as I spotted her. She was sitting in the hammock with an old girlfriend of hers, laughing over something Noah said. The summer heat had coated my skin with a thin layer of sweat but my body temperature raised a few dozen degrees when our eyes locked: brown on gray.

“Doth my eyes deceive me? Could that really be Logan Couture?”

Her voice was still as sweet as the day we last spoke, only then it’d been tainted by a fraction of bitterness. Still, I couldn’t believe she was standing in front of me, face bright with happiness and eyes warm and welcoming.

“Kaylie,” I acknowledged, taking a sip from my beer bottle to calm my nerves. The last thing I needed was her knowing just how shook up I was.

She misinterpreted my acknowledgement as an invitation and she sauntered over, closer to me than I would’ve liked her to be. No one noticed. Everyone was too busy doing other things, other people, to pay attention to something as minuscule as our exchange.

“Sorry about—” When I moved to protest her fruitless apology she merely smirked. “—your shoulder. I’m sure spending your summer with a bum arm is a real downer.”

“Could be worse,” I shrugged.

“Logan.”

She felt it. I know she did, because I felt it too. Anyone within a six-foot radius of us could feel the tension and it was aggravating because things were never supposed to be that way. I’d known Kaylie my whole life, our mothers being old friends from college or something I never thought to question, and had come to accept the role she played in my life.

Until I got drafted, anyway.

“Can we at least go somewhere quieter? I’d like to talk to you without…” The opening seconds of “Ni**as In Paris” blared through the speakers and she didn’t have to finish her thought. With a weak smile, she suggested, “Kitchen?”

I’d been in Noah’s house more times than I could count but I couldn’t help the way my feet dragged this time. It felt like I was walking to my death, that whatever Kaylie wanted to talk to me about couldn’t possibly end well. Whatever the case may have been, I very audibly cursed the very empty kitchen.

“Drink?” I asked, surveying the available liquor that occupied the counter. Kaylie shook her head. “How’ve you been, Miss Dylan?”

Miss Dylan shrugged as she hoisted herself onto a stool at the island, twisting the necklace she wore between her fingers as she watched me pour myself another drink. “They teach you how to drink in San Jose?”

I chuckled. “They taught me a lot of things in San Jose.”

“Is it really like they say it is?”

“Who?” I asked, taking a sip of the honey-brown concoction in my cup.

“Y’know…Katy Perry, all those rappers. Is it that great there?”

“It’s nice, yeah.”

Her dark curls fell into her face as she nodded. “I miss you, Lo.”

I leaned in the doorway, resisting the temptation to scoff. She’d been the one to stop contacting me—how much can you possibly miss someone when you choose to exclude them from your life? I understood that it hurt being apart. After spending all of our lives right across the street from one another, it was a shock neither of us was prepared for, but I’d lived all those years thinking I held an important place in her life. What harm could a little distance do to a friendship like ours?

A lot, apparently.

“How was college?”

She tensed. I figured discussing four years’ worth of Banking and Financial Economics courses would be dull, but I didn’t expect her to get so uptight at the mere mention of them.

“Logan…”

“That boyfriend of yours treat you good?”

A scowl quickly replaced her smile. If you asked Kaylie why we stopped speaking, she’d probably tell you it was because we simply had a falling out. Shit happens. But the truth of it was she went off to the University of North Dakota and filled my void with the future captain of the Chicago Blackhawks. She one-upped me by dating someone I had yet to be. I didn’t have a Stanley Cup. Jumbo Joe was still the captain of the San Jose Sharks. I was betrayed, bitter and angry.

“He was never my boyfriend.”

“Yeah? He always makes sure to ask how you are whenever I see him.”

“Is that what this is about? This no-talking thing?”

“You tell me, Kaylie.”

In twenty-three years I’d never seen my best friend cry. Noah had shed a few tears when he fell out of a tree and broke his arm in three places, but he never did that disgusting, uncontrollable sobbing thing that involved a lot of snot and short, gasping breaths. Kaylie made quick work of changing that, however, as she burst into tears right in the middle of the vacant kitchen. I didn’t know what to do. The only time I’d seen Kaylie so upset was the time she got a C+ on her report card in the ninth grade.

Familiarity could’ve solved it. Her knowing I felt the same stinging loss she felt would’ve eased her pain. But I couldn’t bring myself to tell her I missed her, too; that I spent most of the season wondering if she still watched me play. I didn’t bother telling her I wasn’t all that upset when my girlfriend broke up with me because I always assumed it’d be me and Kaylie in the end. I was still kind of miffed about her dating Jonathan Toews, but his Blackhawks had been escorted out of the playoffs in the first round, too.

“I’m sorry, Logan.”

Without thinking, I said, “You broke my heart, Kay.”

She sniffed, not bothering to wipe away the tears that lined her cheeks. “Do you remember that movie I always made you watch with me?”

“Message in a Bottle?” She nodded. “What about it?”

“‘Someday you’ll find someone special again,’” she quoted. “‘People who’ve been in love once usually do.’” She sighed, dropping off the stool onto her feet. Her hands quickly cupped my face. “I’m sorry I couldn’t be that person for you, Logan.”

A jolt of electricity ran through me as she pressed her lips to mine. The sounds of the party were muted in the background as she kissed me, trying to make up for lost time. Only she wouldn’t be able to. Too much had happened, too much time gone by, for things to ever go back to the way they were. When she pulled away, fresh tears glistened in her eyes. She didn’t look back as she turned and walked away, out of my life for the second—and last—time.

I didn’t bother telling her she had been that person for me.


“Shit, man,” Burns said, “you just left her like that?”

Clowe nodded. “Seriously, bro, that was cold.”

I rolled my eyes. “You guys are idiots.”

They laughed as I pulled my jersey over my head, waiting for my teammates to do the same. Coach McLellan had written the practice lines on the whiteboard and added a very obvious threat to the bottom, telling us that if we ignored the information we better have packed an overnight bag because we’d be there for a while. Jumbo made sure the prospects and rookies took very detailed notes.

“Does this mean I actually owe you a hundred dollars?”

I grinned. “Pay up, losers.”

Clowe dug two fifties from his wallet; Burns handed me twenty dollars in fives. I just had enough time to shove my small fortune in the pocket of my jeans before we were being ushered onto the ice. Ryane and Brent were scowling, mumbling to one another that I was probably lying, that they weren’t making anymore bets with me because Kaylie was probably a figment of my imagination created simply to steal their money.

I didn’t bother to tell them she was sitting in the stands, a knowing smile on her face as I winked at her from below.