Page 32 of Offside Attraction

The defenseman I’m matched with is bigger than me, maybe two inches shorter, with broad shoulders and solid on his skates. I don’t bother learning his name. My job is simple—get around him and score. His job is to stop me.

He’s fast. Skilled. Just not fast enough.

With the puck under my control, I read every shift of his weight, every twitch of his stick. I fake left, cut right, accelerate past him, and fire the puck into the net before he can recover.

Clean. Efficient.

Coach Rivera nods at me, pride clear in his expression.

I catch Hayes watching from the side, his jaw tight, irritation written all over his face. I don’t laugh. I don’t need to.

I smirk.

Coach Rivera splits us into two teams for the scrimmage—six players per side, five lines total. Each team has three forwards, two defensemen, and a goalie. Zach slots in as center on my line.

We use all three zones, goalies posted at both ends.

I take my position on the right wing. Another forward lines up on the left. The defensemen hang back, ready.

Zach squares up for the face-off against the opposing center.

Hayes drops the puck.

Zach wins it clean, sending it back into our zone.

We move as one—tight passes, quick transitions, skating hard into the offensive zone. A defenseman feeds the puck to me just as I cross the blue line. I cut around my defender, keeping control, drawing pressure.

I dish it back to Zach near the crease.

He snaps the shot.

Goal.

My team erupts, grins wide, sticks tapping the ice.

By the time the scrimmage ends, we win 5–3.

I score three of those goals.

Thelockerroomisquiet now. Empty.

At the end of tryouts, Coach Rivera pulled me aside. Told me he was impressed. Said he couldn’t wait to see what else I’d bring before final cuts.

Hayes stood beside him, arms crossed, frowning as the coach talked. Then Rivera mentioned my dad—laughing softly, reminiscing about the old days they shared.

Days I don’t talk about.

Every day, I miss my father. But pretending his death didn’t carve something out of me is how I’ve survived all these years.

By the time I make it back to the locker room to strip out of my gear, everyone else is gone.

Just me.

I decide against showering, knowing I’m heading straight home. I strip out of my gear and pull on black sweatpants, white Nike sneakers, then reach for my black long-sleeved T-shirt.

I’m halfway through pulling it over my head when the locker room door opens.

I freeze.