Page 28 of Almost Ravaged

Homelyis the first word that comes to mind. With any luck, given the hockey program’s distinction, the inside has been updated sometime since I was born.

“We’re looking at the back of the building,” Atty reminds me. “Holt has had thirteen players go on to play in the AHL or NHL in the last decade. Gripe about the décor all you want, but this place is my best shot.”

Hisbest shot.

Because Tytus has already been drafted by the Georgia Galaxy. His plan is to train and play at Holt for at least two years before pursuing the professional league. Selfishly, I hope he sticks around longer and actually graduates.

It’s a big deal, Ty already being drafted. It’s not unheard of for a defenseman, but it’s not super common either. The Galaxy’s interest in him is indicative of just how good he is on the ice.

Atty insists he’s fine, but the reality of the situation has to be weighing on him. He and Ty are both defensemen. They’ve trained and played together for years, and for the first time ever, there’s a distinction between them. A big one. Ty is here to hone his skills and prove his worth to his new team, whereas Atty is still chasing the dream.

My heart hurts for my brother.

It’s painful to be left behind, even temporarily. I know that kind of loneliness firsthand.

“Let’s go.” Tytus hoists his hockey bag higher on his shoulder and heads for the doors. “I don’t want to be late.”

Inside, we pass a garage-style door, likely housing the Zamboni, and take the ramp leading to the lobby.

The inimitable ice arena smell registers immediately, a mix of generic cleaner and concession stand food, with an underlying hint of sweat and exertion.

Honestly? It’s a gross cornucopia of scents layered on top of one another.

But I can’t resist inhaling deeply as we make our way toward the lobby.

At the top of the ramp, Ty stops. Atty and I flank him, and the three of us take in the facility.

The walls are wood-paneled, and across the space, floor-to-ceiling windows reveal two sheets of ice. According to the internet, the one on the left is the recreation rink where they offer skating lessons and open skate times. The hockey rink is on our right.

Behind a long counter that serves as both snack bar and skate rental booth, two staff members have their backs turned as they prepare food. At one end, a person with blue-streaked space buns gnaws on the end of a pencil and grimaces at a textbook in their lap.

The lobby is sunken, accessible by carpeted, tiered stairs, with a massive stone-faced fireplace at its center. The bench seats surrounding the fireplace are thickly padded and cushy.

Two more people wearing staff shirts sit together on the far side of the stairs, notebooks and textbooks scattered around them, heads down.

I take it back. This place isn’t homely.

It’s awesome.

Atty bumps my shoulder, one side of his lips tipping up. “Looks like we now know where we can find you for the next few years.”

I retaliate with a playful shove. He knows me too well. I’m already dreaming about setting up camp here while the guys practice each afternoon, envisioning long study sessions in front of that fireplace.

I arranged my fall schedule in a way that should allow me to attend most of their afternoon skates, though I may have to hang back for office hours a few times a week for my graduate assistantship.

A placement in the marketing and entrepreneurship department would not have been my first choice, but by the time the guys had received their acceptance letters from Holt, it was one of very few assistantship options still open. There was no interview required, so I simply applied online, answered several essay-style questions, and was accepted the following week.

“Earth to Sawyer,” Atty teases.

I turn to him, not bothering to hide the smile etched on my face.

He returns the expression, thumbing over his shoulder. “We’ve got to get in there. I assume you’ll be out here?”

“For a while. I may sneak in and watch some of your practice, too.”

He adjusts the strap of his bag on his shoulder. “This is an optional practice, but we plan to stay for the full three hours.” He glances at Tytus to confirm, but Ty’s busy taking in the details of the lobby. “If you want to leave before we’re done, just text so we know where to find you.”

I slip my arm between his back and his enormous hockey bag and squeeze his waist. “I brought plenty to do, so I don’t plan on going anyway. When you’re done, we can get dinner together.”