Silent Defender: Boardwalk Breakers, #1

By Nikki Worrell

He’s the hockey league’s first deaf defenseman.

Magnus Eriksson has been dubbed the Silent Defender by the reporters he will only speak to through a sign language interpreter.

She’s a reporter he’s slow to trust.

Jennie Fields caught Magnus’ eye the first time he saw her standing in the back of the locker room. Physically, she’s just his type—long legs, voluptuous curves and an ass he’d gladly worship. Her only downfall is her job.

Unless it’s a slap shot from the blue line, taking chances isn’t Magnus’ strong suit. He’s comfortable with his life, even being deaf, but the more he gets to know Jennie, the more he wonders if he’s been wrong all this time.

Could he have his career, his right to remain silent and the girl? If so, he’d have the perfect hat trick.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nikki Worrell
• Release date: May 7, 2017
• ISBN: 9781540184900

Book preview

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 by Nikki Worrell

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

Cover design by Pink Ink Designs

Editing by Finishing Touch Editing

Proofreading by Amy Jackson

Formatting by CP Smith

Dedication

For each and every one of my readers. Thanks for sticking with me!

I hope you enjoy the new team.

Note to My Readers

I am aware that there are several types of sign language (ASL, SEE, Pidgin). For the purposes of creating a flowing dialogue that will be easier for most to follow, I will use words and grammar as the hearing population would use, even though they may not be the literal translation of signing.

To my hearing-impaired readers, I apologize if I get some things wrong.

Glossary of Hockey Terms

Five hole: The area right between the goalie’s legs.

Back-checking: Checking in the defensive zone when the opposing team is attacking.

Blue Line: Line midway between the center of the rink and each goal. Defenders take many slap shots here—especially during power plays.

Boarding: Checking a defenseless player against the boards, usually causing their face/head to hit the boards first.

Checking: Using the hip or body to knock an opponent against the boards or to the ice.

Deke: When a player handles the puck in a way that makes the opponent move out of position, allowing that player to get past.

Faceoff: The method used to begin play. One player from each team fights for the puck as the official drops it to the ice between them.

Fore-checking: Checking in the offensive zone in order to get the puck.

Game Misconduct: Penalty which results in being ejected from the game.

Gordie Howe Hat Trick: Getting a goal, an assist, and having a fight all in one game.

Hat Trick: Three goals in one game. Fans traditionally throw their hats on the ice.

Major Penalty: Five-minute penalty.

Minor Penalty: Two-minute penalty.

Misconduct Penalty: Ten-minute penalty that does not leave the team short-handed.

Offsides: When a player crosses the blue line in the offensive zone before the puck.

Penalty Kill (PK): The period from which a team becomes short-handed due to one or more penalties until they are at full or even strength with the opposing team.

Poke Check: Poking the puck away with the stick.

Power Play (PP): Results in one team losing a player for two minutes or more, giving the other team an advantage to score.

Slew Foot: Sweeping or kicking out a player’s skate, causing them to fall backward. Usually results in a match penalty (removed from the game and assessed a five-minute penalty for statistical purposes).

Trapezoid (Trap): Area behind the goalie’s net (behind goal line) where the goalie can play the puck. This is the only area behind the goal line that the goalie can play the puck without receiving a penalty.

War Room: Office in Toronto where video is sent to review a questionable goal.

Chapter 1

Magnus Eriksson–age fifteen

Hot. I was so hot! Why was I in bed? What was that noise? I was so confused. Everything sounded muffled, as if I were under water. And my skin—Jesus, my skin was on fire! Ah finally, a cool hand on my forehead.

Magnus!

My mother was shouting at me, pulling me away from the comforting feel of that soothing hand on my face. I was once more in a state of confusion. Why was she screaming? I couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t have the strength to even try. Darkness called and I let it claim me. That was the last time I heard my mother’s voice.

Something as innocent as the flu took my hearing. It was one hell of a flu, with an extended high fever, but all in all, it was just the flu. It happened more often than you’d think, though I didn’t care about the statistics. All I cared about was the fact that I was now deaf.

I couldn’t be deaf. It wasn’t fair! I was a hockey player. Hockey players weren’t deaf! I was going to play in the big league someday. There was never a doubt. I was that good.

What was I supposed to do now? Study harder, get good grades, and go to some brick-and-mortar four-year college? For what? Hockey was the only thing I’d ever wanted. The goddamn flu. What bullshit!

My life had changed forever because of a simple sickness. One ordinary, everyday sickness that half the world got. Not so fucking simple for me though, was it? Not simple at all.

***

I met many challenges over the next few years. Years when I still hadn’t accepted my new life—not completely.

School was particularly trying. I had a couple of friends left, but even those weren’t what they used to be. I took full responsibility for that, although not at the time. They’d done their best to acclimate to my new way of life, and I’d pushed them away in anger.

Anger became a constant in my life. The only being I seemed to be at ease with was a stray cat I’d adopted on my way home from school the year I’d lost my hearing.

Shockingly enough, the thing I’d most feared I lost was the thing that began my journey back to the land of the living. Hockey.

I’d never stopped playing. It was difficult in the beginning, with no way to communicate, but hockey was hockey. I knew where I needed to be, and I knew where the puck needed to be. Some things didn’t change. And I got better. I’d also become proficient at lipreading. And then on one cool end-of-summer day, at the age of eighteen, I was drafted into the minors and I went on from there.

Chapter 2

Magnus–current day

Sometimes I was still amazed that I’d actually made it to the big league. I may have lost my hearing, but I was still vocal when I needed to be. O’Dell! Standing at the blue line, thirty feet from the goal, I banged my stick on the ice in a quick staccato. I couldn’t hear it, but I knew he could. He slid the puck my way, and it was nearly intercepted by Keith Lambert, the captain of the San Diego Scorpions. With no time left to spare, I brought my raised stick down hard to slap that six-ounce piece of frozen rubber and sent it sailing waist-high toward the goal at a reckless speed.

The puck hit the back of the net with less than a second left on the clock to end the game. I did my customary swooping fist pump to celebrate. Hell yeah, boys! My four teammates on the ice rushed over to me and we hugged it out, slapping helmets all around. One more for the Breakers! We’d just won our fourth game in a row.

Lots of teams got a winning streak going at some point during the season, but this was special for us. We were a new team—the Atlantic City Boardwalk Breakers. Not even halfway through our very first season and we were in the top half of the pack in the standings. We had a long way to go, but it was a great start for a new team.

Back in the locker room, I took a moment to respect our logo painted on the back wall before the madness began. A dark purple wave provided the backdrop for black, crossed sticks and a 3D-looking fist breaking out of the middle. Our name and outline was done in orange. The bright colors sure did stand out. Even our helmets were purple. My quiet moment was up too fast, and then it was time for interviews.

I didn’t enjoy doing interviews, but scoring the winning goal so close to the end of the game made me the hot ticket of the day. When I saw Jackson, my interpreter, I knew I wasn’t getting out of it. He wasn’t there for every game, but when he was, I knew the coach wanted me in the spotlight. Tim Spade from the Courier-Post got to me first. How’s it feel to score the winning goal with so little time left?

I couldn’t stand the press. I especially didn’t like Tim. Interviews sucked the life out of me. It wasn’t as if they ever asked anything different from the game before. How many ways were there to answer the same questions game after game after game? Aside from that, those leeches had a pool going to see who could get my voice on a recorder first. I could have told them when. Never. I wasn’t going to be the poster child for deaf hockey players. I didn’t want anyone’s pity.

I signed my answer and Jackson voiced it. It was a great win for all of us. We play as a team, we lose as a team, and we win as a team. I just happened to put the puck in the right place at the right time.

You’ve been proclaimed as one of the best defensemen in the league. What do you think makes you better than so many of the others?

Ah, this question again. There’s a ton of talent all over the NHL and the AHL as well. I work hard, like we all do, and yeah, I’m having a really good year.

I felt like a politician during these things. I couldn’t really answer the question honestly without sounding like an ass, but the truth of the matter was that not all the guys had the same work ethic I did. But then they didn’t have to fight as hard as I had for their spot either. Getting scouts, team managers, and owners to overlook my hearing deficiency wasn’t easy. There had only been one other deaf man to ever play in the NHL. In the end it was the coach, whose wife was deaf, who convinced them to take a chance on me. I’d had the same coach for almost my entire career. There were a few years when I was on a different team from his, but then we came together again when the Breakers formed.

I stood waiting for his next inane question while he leafed through a small notebook. Impatiently, I crossed my arms as he continued to look through his notes. I was a lot older than most of the guys I played with. There was a huge difference between thirty-three and twenty in the hockey world, and I wanted nothing more than to get a quick shower, head home, and stretch out on my couch for a while.

Okay. Last question, then I have to move on. If he thought that would upset me, he was dead wrong. Is there any truth to the rumor that you might retire when your contract’s up next year?

First I’d heard of it. I was nowhere near ready to retire. No. Short and sweet.

No? That’s it?

Yeah. That’s it. I didn’t know there was a rumor about me retiring. I have no intention of retiring until my body tells me I have to. I’ve never said anything about it.

His brows shot up in disbelief. Wherever he’d heard the rumor, he’d obviously thought he was onto something. Sad day for him. Okay. Thanks, Mags.

Sure thing. I turned to Jackson. Who’s next?

Jennie Fields. He pointed to my right, where she stood waiting for me.

My gaze drifted over her, and I couldn’t quite look away. Even though she was of a class of people I abhorred, it was impossible not to notice what a cute little thing she was, although she really wasn’t that little.

Jennie was about five foot nine, and she definitely carried some junk in her trunk. Just my type. Long legs, a bit thicker in the torso, and an ass I’d gladly pay tribute to if only she wasn’t a reporter. Her shoulder-length, blond hair was a shade too dark to be store bought, and I’d love to say I had no idea what color her eyes were, but I knew they were a particular shade of green resembling the tint of the Atlantic. I’d noticed them the first time I saw her, when she’d interviewed me in the pre-season, and every time after that. Much to my chagrin, I was so attracted to this woman I dreamed of her. Often.

She walked toward me and stood in the same spot Tom had just vacated. Her hand stretched toward me, and I gripped it briefly in mine. Hello, Magnus.

Hello, Ms. Fields.

Great game. Those last couple of minutes I was on the edge of my seat. God, that winning goal was beautiful!

All on its own, my chest thrust out and my chin came up with pride. Such simple words to cause so immediate a reaction. I was pathetic. Thank you. I’m glad you enjoyed it.

Jennie’s serviceable, navy blue blouse gaped as she turned on her recorder and moved it closer to me. I smiled and shook my head, signing all the while Jackson spoke my words to her. No recorders, Ms. Fields. Jackson will give you what you need. Well, that certainly didn’t sound right. Not right at all.

Right. Yes, of course. Sorry. She fumbled around in her oversized bag while I did my best to not peek down the opening in her blouse. I was not entirely successful, nor was I truthfully trying my best.

Producing a notebook from her bag of tricks, with pen in hand, Jennie began her interview. So, Magnus, you were being double covered in those last minutes of the power play before you scored. What did you see that we didn’t? As soon as you called for the puck, I thought the Scorpions would take it, clear it out of the zone, and we’d be in overtime.

Now that was a worthy question. She had a way with her words. I don’t have a good answer for that. It’s more of a feeling than concrete knowledge that Lambert wouldn’t be able to intercept the puck before I slapped it to the net. We don’t have time out there to think over each move. We make up our minds on the fly. I will say that I don’t have any distraction from noises around me, though. I flashed her a smile. Maybe being deaf is an advantage.

I watched Jennie’s face as she seemed to involuntarily reach out to me and lay her hand on my arm. She glanced down and quickly pulled her arm back, her face tinting with a soft shade of pink. Maybe it is in that instance. I would imagine your other senses are heightened. She scribbled something in her notebook before gifting me with a sweet smile. Okay, next question. Ah, a fun one. I’ve done some research— She had looked down to write in her notebook again, and I couldn’t see her lips, so I placed a finger under her chin, raising it, and spoke to her.

I read lips, Jennie. You have to look at me. Immediately a half-dozen recorders were pointed my way. The silent defender spoke—it was ridiculous. I’d obviously forgotten myself.

Jennie slipped me a slight grin and apologized before she continued. Sorry. She tucked her hair behind her ear, appearing slightly flustered. I’d never seen her act so with any of the other guys. Interesting. I’ve done some research, but I couldn’t find anything about any superstitions you have or rituals you complete before games. Care to share?

These were the questions I liked. I remembered when I was a kid, wondering about what my favorite athletes were like on a personal level. Sure. You know, no one has ever asked me about that, but yes, I have superstitions. Maybe habits is a better word for it. I eat a grilled cheese sandwich dipped in ketchup before every game. No exceptions. I sleep on white sheets when we have a home game and purple when we’re away.

You travel with your own sheets? Her eyes twinkled with mischief, but she didn’t outright laugh at me.

I do. Is that so strange?

Her smile grew wider. Yeah, it kind of is. But it’s a little endearing too. Anything else?

No. Not today. I don’t think I should give away all my secrets at once. You know, you’ve brightened up this interview process. Thank you for that.

My pleasure. She looked reluctant to go, but had other players to talk to. Thanks for your time, Magnus.

You’re most welcome, Jennie.

The rest of the reporters bored me to tears, as was to be expected. After twenty minutes of that tedium, I was released to shower and head home.

***

Thirty minutes after I left the rink, I arrived at my house. The wind lifted my jacket as I stepped out of my truck, making me wonder how it could be so cold in Ocean City, New Jersey. It was a beach town, for crying out loud. Granted, it was November, but damn, I was freezing. You’d think a guy who grew up in Sitka, Alaska—of Viking descent, no less—would be used to the cold, but not me. I hated it. I’d always hated it. The chill got down deep in my bones and just sat there, taking up real estate.

I took the stairs to my top-floor condo two at a time. A welcome blast of warm air hit me as soon as I opened the door. Not wasting any time, I hung my keys on their peg, kicked off my shoes, and parked my body on the couch.

Want some more heat, Eight Ball? From my supine position on the couch, I lazily reached for the remote to my gas fireplace and turned it up to its highest setting. From the position she’d taken on my chest, Eight Ball snuggled her soft, black-and-white head into the side of my face. Yeah, I know, girl. You hate the cold as much as I do.

I’d taken some flak from my teammates about having a cat, but I didn’t care. Maybe a cat wasn’t the toughest pet a hockey player could have, but Eight Ball and I had been through some rocky times together. She’d been with me for almost seventeen years now. She helped me relax, and I her, I liked to think. Giving her one last pat, I fell asleep.

I woke a short time later to dark skies and my cell phone vibrating in my pocket. Without checking the text, my best guess was that one of the guys from the Breakers was trying to get ahold of me. The boys wanted me to celebrate our win with them, since we had a rare day off tomorrow. Problem was, I didn’t feel like it. Call me an old man, but already at thirty-three, I was tired of the bar scene. Shooting pool with a couple of the guys while drinking a few beers? Sure, count me in. Hanging out in a crowded bar, deflecting the multitude of drunk women trying to score a night with a hockey player? I’d take a pass.

As anyone could imagine, there were times in the not-so-distant past when I’d done the one-night thing. Even then I would have preferred a steady girl. Some of the guys didn’t even know the name of the girl they’d just done the horizontal mambo with. I remembered the names of every woman I’d ever slept with. The list wasn’t that long.

When my phone vibrated again, I rubbed my hands over my face and slowly came fully awake. Waking up wasn’t something I did gracefully. Eight Ball jumped off of my chest, landing gracefully in the middle of the coffee table where she proceeded to lick her lady bits. Stop that. I poked her with one finger and she tipped over, giving me the evil eye. We had a love/hate relationship. Anyone who’d ever had a cat understood how that worked.

My phone was set to vibrate until I either ignored or answered the text. On its third attempt at bullying me into reading my text, I dug it out of my pocket and looked at the screen.

Cage: Come to Chelsea’s. We’ve got 2 tables going.

Me: Nah. I’m relaxing with Eight Ball.

Cage: Well, at least I know you’re finally getting some pussy.

Dalton Cage Booker was our goalie. I’d only been playing with him for a few months, but we’d gotten to be pretty good friends. And he’d never missed an opportunity to make a crude joke. He had a mouth on him that often got him in trouble with his wife. If she saw half of the texts he sent me he’d be in for it, but for whatever reason, Cage and I had bonded. Probably because he was learning sign language from his wife, who taught special needs kids. Only our coach could sign with decent accuracy at this point.

Me: You know I could forward your texts to Karen, right? I’ve got her number right here at my fingertips.

Cage: Don’t do it, man. I take back the pussy comment.

Me: You are so whipped. It’s embarrassing.

Cage: Whatever. Come play pool. It’s not a meat market tonight. Our women are here. They’ll keep you safe.

I sighed, knowing I was going to give in. Chelsea’s was in Atlantic City, so it wouldn’t take me more than thirty minutes to drive back over that way. And with the wives and girlfriends there, the puck bunnies wouldn’t be so brazen in their attempts to lure us singles away.

Me: All right. I’ll be there in about half an hour.

Cage: Cool. See you soon, bud. I’ll have your beer waiting.

***

Chelsea’s was just a block away from the beach, which was evident by the cold breeze blowing down the road off the cold waters of the Atlantic. I wrapped my jacket tighter around me as I double-timed it to reach the warmth of the bar.

With Thanksgiving just weeks away, pilgrims and turkeys decorated the walls of the pub, not to mention the rather large cornucopia displayed on the hostess stand.

Heads turned when I let in a gush of cold air upon my arrival. The bartender made eye contact with me and nodded his head in the direction of the billiards room. I raised my hand in thanks and made my way through the throng of people waiting for drinks.

I had almost made it to the relative safety of my teammates before the first girl approached me. A leggy brunette. It still amazed me that women would approach me when they knew damn well that I wouldn’t talk to them.

I rarely spoke in public. My friends and family assured me that I only had a small hitch in my speech. When I asked them if they could tell I was deaf from hearing me talk, their answer was always, Yes, but… It was the but that kept me mostly silent.

When I’d first