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JACK

S O GLAD WE’RE finally getting back on the ice, I tell Mats as we make our way to the arena. We’ve been doing dry land training, since college hockey has rules limiting practices and games. It feels like I’ve been waiting forever to skate again.

Those rules are put in place so we have time to study, Mats explains. It’s not like junior hockey anymore.

I nod. The schedule at Monarch is actually pretty sweet.

There are so many Division III teams in the Minnesota/Wisconsin area that all our road games are close by .

We only have a couple of overnight trips all season.

Honestly, it’s even easier than our junior hockey schedule, which took us all over British Columbia.

And our first game is this weekend, even if it’s only exhibition, I say. I hope I get to play a lot.

Coach Norman will spread the minutes evenly so he can assess everyone. These exhibition games are your chance to impress him. Once the games count, the best players will get the most time.

What’s the coach really like? I ask.

So far, I like him. Arnie Norman is the most knowledgeable coach I’ve ever had. He played pro hockey for a few years, then went back to school to finish his sports psychology degree. He seems calm and reasonable, but a coach’s true nature doesn’t come out until there’s a long losing stretch.

I really like him—he’s smart, fair, and honest. Always well prepared. And he used to play defence, so you can learn a lot from him. Mats yanks open the heavy arena door and we walk in.

Members of the women’s team are leaving as we head towards our dressing room. Most of them know Mats from last year, so they greet him by name and nod at me. All except one tall woman with blonde braids, who walks by and says, Hey, Jack. But she ignores Mats completely.

Who’s that? I crane my neck to watch her go. I know my teammates, but I’ve hardly met anyone else yet.

Cleo Nelson. She’s captain of the women’s team. His voice is oddly flat.

Does she have a beef with you? I ask.

Apparently.

Then in true Mats fashion, he doesn’t explain any further. Once he spent an entire six-hour bus trip sitting next to me without a word. He wasn’t mad or anything, just deep in his own head. I can’t even stay quiet for fifteen minutes.

At practice, the drills are familiar but the pace is fast. I feel good. I did a ton of summer training since I was nervous about playing for a new team, and it’s all paying off now. A few of the players are gasping, and one guy even pukes on the bench.

Unacceptable, ladies. You should get here in game shape. Do we need a bag skate? hollers Greg Greene, one of the assistant coaches. He’s an in-your-face type, and I’m glad that he works with the offence. Our defensive coach, Frank Ferris, is on the quieter side, which I prefer.

Luckily, instead of skating until we puke, we do a lines drill.

And, best of all, we finish up with a scrimmage, which is as close to a game as practice gets.

I’ve got to get used to new teammates and new systems, but my passes are clicking and I’m seeing the ice well.

Coach Norman gives me an approving tap after a rush up the ice that leads to a goal.

Next shift, I’m battling Bergy for the puck when someone absolutely drills me into the boards. He adds a cross-check to the kidneys, and I collapse to the ice.

What the fuck? I choke out. There’s a searing pain in my lower back. Who hits that hard in practice?

Keep your head up, rook, snarls O.D. as he skates away. Tom O’Donnell is a senior, and a defenceman like me.

I scramble up and get back into the play, but I’m going to be sore later. O.D. checked me right where there’s no protection. Asshole.

After practice, I’m unlacing my skates when someone stands in front of me and blocks all the light.

I look up to see O.D. again. He’s half-naked and his arms are crossed over his broad, hairy chest. I briefly wonder if he’s going to apologize for hitting me so hard, but instead he spits on the floor in front of me.

See you later, rook. Don’t forget, tonight your ass is mine. He gives me a feral snarl before walking away.

Well, that sounded vaguely homoerotic, jokes Coty from his spot next to me on the bench.

I chuckle. Antoine C?té is a junior who plays left side D. I really like partnering with him, but he’s going to be a top-four defenceman, while I’m just hoping to get regular shifts.

Um, is there something I should know about the rookie party? I swallow.

Coty shrugs. As far as I know, it’s just drinking. The seniors will make you serve them drinks or shit like that. He watches O.D. disappear into the showers. The normal seniors anyway.

I nod. It’s clear that O.D. is not normal. He’s extra-aggressive, which is good, as long as it’s aimed at opposing teams.

I finish getting ready and head for home with Mats.

I thought that hazing shit was out these days, I grumble as we trudge along. In junior hockey, bad publicity and lawsuits against the league caused a serious crackdown on initiation rites.

Yeah, they should get rid of that crap altogether, but a few dinosaurs still want it. Mats shrugs.

Like O.D.? I ask.

His eyes meet mine.

What is it? I rub my back, where one helluva bruise is probably forming. Good thing I can’t see it.

You get what his real issue is, don’t you? he asks.

Not really. Although O.D. has been unfriendly from the beginning, I figured that was just his personality. He doesn’t even know me yet.

Mats’s tone is patient. What position does he play?

Right D, like me, I answer. Then something occurs to me. Oh, wait. Does he think we’re in competition or something? We’re teammates, we should be supporting each other.

That’s the way I like to play. On the bench, the defence talks and shares stuff about the opposition’s tendencies. In the dressing room, we boost each other and joke about how much harder we work than the forwards.

Mats snorts. Jesus, Sinc. Get out of dreamland. Of course he sees you as a threat. O.D. had to work his way up to the top four. Now you show up. You’re a little raw, but you’re faster and more skilled. And you soak up the coaching advice.

I want to repeat how stupid this is, but Mats must be right. After all, O.D. is a senior, so this is his last chance to extend his hockey career—not only in playing time this season, but any chance to play pro hockey afterwards.

What can I do to get him on side? I ask.

Mats laughs. You’re never going to be besties exchanging friendship bracelets. I’m telling you this so you’ll watch your back. Like at the party tonight.

What happened at your rookie party?

It was pretty harmless. But there was a lot of drinking. Last year one of the rookies got alcohol poisoning and missed the first exhibition game. Coach was not impressed.

I sigh. Rookie parties are a way for the new guys to feel like they’re becoming part of the team, so of course I want that. But it sounds like some guys are more old school and want the rookies to suffer. Especially ones they already dislike.

How did you avoid that? The pressure? I ask.

I left early, he says.

Fuck. I wish I were more like Mats. He’s got so much self-confidence and truly doesn’t care whether people like him or not. On the other hand, I’m driven to get along with everyone. People-pleasing is my strength when it comes to being coached, but it can be a weakness too.

You were a rookie but you still got to leave? I question.

Of course I got hassled, but I wasn’t some teenaged freshman. And neither are you. He pins me with a level stare, then shakes his head. If I were going tonight, I could keep an eye out for you, but Lana has some sorority event I promised to go to.

Mats’s girlfriend, Lana Hillier, creates video content for the college’s social media sites. They met when she interviewed him for a hockey story. I love parties, but now I’m getting nervous about tonight. I wish I had a girlfriend to use as an excuse to leave early.

We walk up the porch steps, and after Mats unlocks the door, he puts a hand on my shoulder. Sinc, just do whatever you’re comfortable doing. You can always say no. You can leave if you want.

My stomach twists. I know, but team unity is important too.

Sure, but you don’t have to sacrifice yourself for the team, he cautions. It’s impossible for everyone to like you.

Yeah, but I have to at least try. Maybe I can win over O.D. somehow.

L ATER, I HEAD over to the party alone, since the rookies have to be there on time.

It’s taking place at some address on the other side of St. Viola, instead of at one of the hockey houses.

On the way, I run into a couple of the other rookies, Sean Burlington and Logan Pederson.

They don’t seem nervous at all, so that’s reassuring.

Burly yawns. Why is this starting so early? Good parties don’t start until midnight.

To give our livers time to recover before Saturday’s game, I reply.

It’s only exhibition, he scoffs.

I frown, but keep quiet. Every game is important when you’re still proving yourself.

Jesus, whose house is this? It’s a dump, Peddy says when we arrive.

It’s an older place and it looks pretty run down.

There’s a ripped and sagging couch dumped in the front yard.

The patchy lawn is strewn with random bits of garbage.

But the windows are lit up, and we can hear music blasting inside.

We walk in and are immediately met with cries of Fresh meat! The first thing I notice is a pyramid of beer bottles. There’s more beer than I’ve ever seen in one place, other than the liquor store.

The second thing I notice is that the rookies who are already here look ridiculous, dressed in tiny black skirts and frilly aprons.

Not women’s clothes, for fuck’s sake, Burly curses. We’re hustled off to a back bedroom where someone has acquired every XXL sexy maid costume in St. Viola.

I hesitate and hear O.D.’s voice from the doorway behind me.