Just one step outside and I have to turn myself right back around again.

As I return inside to grab some darker shades and a water, I remind myself yet again that I now live in the Mojave Desert. An extra water could mean the difference between life and death at some point in my future. Best to always be prepared.

It’s crazy to think about going into an ice hockey rink when it’s easily pushing 100 degrees on this late September day. Of course, I haven’t really been in an ice hockey rink, apart from the two times I interviewed with the Las Vegas Crush. I guess I’d better get used to the odd juxtaposition between the Las Vegas desert climate and the seemingly endless winter of the hockey world.

My condo is situated in a totally vanilla suburb that’s about a fifteen-minute drive to the very non-vanilla Strip. The hockey arena sits on the edge of all of the insanity. I’ve learned that most Las Vegas natives barely ever see the Strip, unless they work there. Apart from all the lights and fountains and casinos, Las Vegas is a pretty normal place.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at that. Having grown up in Los Angeles, I know all about how to ignore the tourist traps.

As I make the quick commute—one of the best parts about this move, since LA traffic is just as bad as people say it is—I blast some music, dancing and singing my way into my assigned parking spot. Still humming, I gather my bag and pull on my suit jacket before heading into the arena to observe my first practice.

My uncle Troy is a scout for the Crush. He played hockey professionally until he was well into his thirties, then started scouting once a knee injury put him out of commission for play. He called me two months before I graduated UCLA’s Communication Studies program, asking me if I’d be interested in interviewing for a social media position with the Crush. He thought it might be a good fit, since I’m an athlete. At first, I balked—I’m a distance runner and I’ve never been to a single hockey game—but once I learned about the job, it sounded great. I interviewed, and much to my surprise, was hired. So here I am, a hockey neophyte, LA expatriate, heading to my first day of work with the Vegas Crush.

And there he is. Tall and broad-shouldered, my uncle is still a handsome guy. He shares my dad’s side of the family’s ginger hair, a little grey on the sides, and blue eyes. I, of course, got the brown hair and brown eyes of my mom’s side of the family.

He pulls me into a hug, patting me on the back with enough vigor that I pull away laughing. “Hey,” I say, “I’m not choking. No need for violence.”

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, grinning. “I’m just so excited that you’re here. And damn proud of you. Do you know how many people want to get their foot in the door in sports marketing? And you beat out people who know way more about hockey than you do. You must be pretty damn good with this social media business.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure that Social Media Manager is, like, the lowest on the totem pole, and I’m sure being related to their star scout probably didn’t hurt, but it’s a great start and I’m really excited to get going. I have lots of ideas for how we can engage fans and connect them to the players via the different platforms,” I say. “Thanks for thinking of me. Now you’re totally on the hook for making sure I know enough by opening day to not bomb.”

“Interns are actually lowest on the totem pole, not anyone with the title of manager,” he corrects, elbowing me. He points me in the direction of the arena and starts walking. “And I am more than happy to begin your hockey education. I know enough for the both of us.”

“Well, you should be out scouting so I can’t rely on all that knowledge if it’s locked up in your big brain. Spill it, uncle.” I love to joke around with him.

“Oh, Holly-dolly,” he says, using the name he’s called me since I was a little kid, “always so bossy.”

“Well,” I do have manager in my title, as you pointed out.”

Troy laughs at this. “So, the arena can also be called the barn. There are lots of slang terms that you’ll hear the guys say. Some are appropriate, and some are not, so talk to me if you’re not sure what something means before you use it publicly.”

“Wait, hockey players can say inappropriate things? I’m shocked, Uncle Troy.”

He chuckles and shakes his head. As we walk in, players are already on the ice.

“Shouldn’t I head to HR?” I ask.

“They’ll be ready for you whenever we’re finished down here. It’s a Sunday, so it’ll be a paperwork day. They’ll show you your cubicle, get you set up on a computer and whatnot, but not much else until tomorrow.”

“Ah,” I say. “Okay.”

We take seats in the third row from the glass. “It’s the end of rookie training week,” he explains. “It’s actually a really good day to be here, because now the other team members will come out and scrimmage the rookies. Should be fun to watch.”

We watch as the more seasoned players take the ice. As the action starts, I find myself fascinated by the quick pace of the game. But I understand very little about what’s going on. Troy explains as things occur, pointing out when someone smothers the puck, or when a call is made for icing. He talks about the power play as a rookie gets put into the penalty box.

It’s a lot, honestly, and I take notes, but decide I’m going to have to get some books, and maybe just watch like a thousand hockey games on YouTube before tomorrow morning.

At one point, two huge guys crash against the glass. I jump as it rattles, but Troy lets out a “Whoop!” that tells me this is quite normal and probably fun for the audience. The larger of the guys, from the veteran team, pushes the rookie. There’s a little tussle that causes both of their helmets to fall onto the ice.

The two players, red-faced and wet-haired, battle it out until finally, the coach blows his whistle and skates over. There’s a verbal argument. The rookie says the older player checked him on purpose. The non-rookie tells him to grow a pair and asks if he’s ever played hockey before.

I watch, rapt attention on the battle between two guys who are supposed to be teammates. The coach says what I’m thinking, “You two better kiss and make up. You’re on the same team, for fuck’s sake.”

The rookie shrugs and reaches down for his helmet, skating away. But the bigger one? He looks at Troy and me. Well, he looks at me, because our eyes meet, and I swear I feel it all the way down into places unmentionable. He’s frowning, which isn’t the expression I want to see when a hot guy checks me out, but still, there’s a weird charge between us. And it lasts all of twenty seconds before he spits on the ice—gross—grabs his helmet, and skates toward the penalty box.

“Phew…that was intense.”

“All part of the game,” Troy says. “These are good guys, hard workers, but they do get competitive. Even with each other. And the older players always feel like they need to toughen the younger players up. It’s a thing.”

“Who was the guy who stared a hole through us?”

“Evan Kazmeirowicz,” he says. “He came to us a year ago, played so well they gave him a multi-year, multi-million-dollar contract.”

“So, he’s barely out of rookie-hood, himself,” I comment.

“From an NHL sense, I guess, but not really.” Troy says. “He’s been bred to play hockey. Grew up in Ukraine. Played on the Ukraine Olympic hockey team for the first time when he was, like, eighteen. Played again at twenty-two, then came to the States to play minor league hockey. Got recruited here last year and just tore some shit up.”

“Did you scout him?”

“I did,” he says like a proud dad. “He was the team’s leading scorer last season. Plays left wing, or forward is another name for it. He’s born to score.”

Yes, he is. But I keep my mouth shut because I know it will only make it more obvious that my lady parts are on fire after that weird stare-down.

“C’mon,” Troy says. “Let’s get you upstairs so you’ll be all set for tomorrow,”

I stand and follow my uncle out of the arena. Just because I’m a glutton for punishment, I turn back and glance at the penalty box, only to find Evan Kazmeirowicz staring right back.

Yep. I am in trouble.