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A sock with questionable stains clings to my arm, and I grimace as I peel it off, half expecting it to remove a layer of skin with it.

Yeesh, this thing’s crustier than week-old bread.How did I let my room get this bad?

Dodging the rogue socks reminds me of weaving through enforcers on the ice. Every move I make is calculated to avoid a career-ending hit—or, in this case, a career-ending infection from Sock Ebola.

I make it to Mount Clothesmore, which is no ordinary pile of clothes. It’s an Everest of forgotten laundry because my procrastination skills are top-notch.

As I study it the way I study a Jenga tower, I notice a pair of eyes staring back at me. “Holy mother of Gretzky!”

My hand shoots to my chest as my heart leaps into my throat. But upon closer inspection, I realize it’s not a monster but a homemade sock bunny.

Don’t ask me why I have a sock bunny; I do strange things when bored.

I grab it out of the pile of clothes and chuck it toward the laundry pile. It somersaults through the air and lands with a soft thud.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand, and I dive for it, thinking it’s the Hockey Gods calling to tell me my stick’s whereabouts. Instead, it’s a reminder: GAME DAY!!!

As if I could forget. This isn’t just any game; it’s the seasonopener. The one where scouts from all over will be watching. The one where I’m supposed to debut my new curve—and I don’t even have my stick.

I belly-flop onto the bed and peer between Wall Jeans and the Fortress of Solitude.Could it have fallen into the crack?I stretch an arm down, fingers groping in the darkness like a blind man searching for his cane. But all I come up with are enough dust bunnies to form a dust bunny hockey league.

God, I’m so screwed.

Still lying on my belly, I thump my bare feet on the floor like a toddler throwing a tantrum. The sound echoes through my cavernous room, mixing with the early morning bird chirps outside.

This is it. This is how I go down—defeated by my own disorganization.

Think, Gerard, think!

The last time I remember having my hockey stick was after practice. I playfully jabbed Oliver in the butt with it as we headed to a nearby burger joint with the team.

Post burgers? It gets fuzzy there.

A sudden urge to scream rips through me, but I bite my tongue. I don’t want to wake up the entire house. The last time I did that, it was an absolute circus.

It all started innocently enough. I was studying for an important test and had the genius idea to brew coffee—loads of it—to stay awake.

I tiptoed like a thief in the night into the kitchen, and everything was going swell until I dropped the can of coffee grounds.

The sound of metal clanging against tile might as well have been an air-raid siren. Lights instantly flicked on, followed by a parade of confused and irritated hockey players thundering down the stairs.

Imagine it: nearly thirty sleep-deprived giants in various states of undress, hair standing in every direction possible, and faces creased not only from sleep but also from emerging anger.

Drew, our team’s center, was the first to reach me, rubbing his eyes with his massive hands while trying to make sense of what lay before him—a sea of coffee grounds and one incredibly guilty teammate.

“Gerard,” he had sighed, half exasperated, half amused. “What on earth?—”

Before he could finish, Oliver appeared at the top of the stairs, looking more like a mythological beast than a college student and my best friend. You could hear a pin drop—or, in this case, a bead of sweat from my forehead hitting the ground—that’s how quiet the house got.

Oliver wasn’t the type of person who got mad often. So, I knew I was dead meat.

My punishment? A week’s worth of cleaning duties around the Hockey House, including scrubbing bathrooms and the kitchen, until they shined as brightly as the championship trophies we all coveted.

And let me tell you, cleaning up after a bunch of college athletes is no joke. It’s like trying to erase evidence at a crime scene where everyone constantly commits new crimes.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. It’s physically impossible for a house on Fraternity Row to fit an entire hockey team inside. But I’m here to tell you that it’s entirely possible when the house is four stories tall and as wide as the Titanic.

The only downside to living in a house that probably belongs in Whoville is the bathroom situation. The fourth floor, where the seniors are tucked away, is a slice of heaven. Each room has a bathroom—complete privacy, no queues for showers, and no arguments over who left the sink looking like a swamp creature’s habitat.