Page 16

Rafael

The Vipers were indeed down a man. Hank spoke to the coach for over an hour, convincing him to let me participate in their tryouts for a replacement player. I’d technically missed the signup deadline, but apparently, Hank worked his magic. While I avoided conversations with Hank like the plague, I had to admit he was doing some heavy lifting in other areas. I acknowledged it and moved on because, well, fuck him.

I knew I had a good shot at making the team; they were looking for a left winger, which was my position back in Connecticut, but I had started as a right winger. I felt more at home there, but after three years of playing left in high school, I was ready for either position.

I closed my eyes, breathing in the glorious, fresh scent of the ice. The crisp air of the rink filled my lungs, and my body started tingling. Hockey heightened my senses and freed me from the world around me simultaneously. I was never more alert than in a game, yet never more unaware of the world outside. Everything faded away, and my body turned into a machine. Some guys got a buzz from the crowd’s roar, but I never cared about that. The ice was my sanctuary—nothing existed beyond the boards, and nobody could stop me. I blew through opponents like a tidal wave, demolishing anyone who crossed my path. The rush I felt on the ice surpassed any drug.

Twelve guys were there to show their skills, and the entire Vipers team was there to watch.

We’d been skating around the rink for a solid fifteen minutes when the head coach, flanked by two assistant coaches holding clipboards, called us over.

“All right. We’ve got one spot and twelve of you. We’re going to skip the passing exercise and dive into speed skating. But it’s not just about speed; I want to see endurance. During a back-check, you need to turn on the jets and give everything you’ve got for your defensemen. Speed and consistency—that’s what I’m looking for. The three fastest players will compete against my top three. Got it?”

A cacophony of overeager grunts and “Yes, Sirs!” filled the arena. I couldn’t help but snicker. I knew who’d get cut just by the way a player responded. The louder they were, the more likely they were to suck on the ice—hoping their enthusiasm would overshadow their mediocrity. Real players didn’t need to put on a dog-and-pony show. Our skills spoke for us.

“All right! Eight! Seventeen! Forty-one-orange! Line up!”

The coach started calling players by their jersey numbers, adding a color if multiple players had the same number. Nobody else wore twenty-two because that was my number.

“Wind sprints to the goal line!” He blew his whistle, and the first group took off. The assistant coaches stood at the goal line opposite us; one held a stopwatch while the other jotted down our times.

“Sixteen! Eighty-eight! Four! Line up.” The minute they reached the line, the coach blew his whistle. He wasn’t giving anyone a moment to prepare themselves. I liked the intensity. You had to be ready the whole time. You never knew when he’d call your number or when he’d blow the whistle.

“Three! Twenty-two! Forty-one-blue! Line up!”

Here we go, baby. Blood rushed to my ears as I approached the line. My pulse quickened, and the muscles in my quads tightened. I caught Cody’s face out of the corner of my eye, sitting with the rest of the team on the bench. I could see in his eyes that he was still pissed at me. Well, he was about to get a hell of a lot more pissed when he had to face me in the three-on-three match.

The whistle screeched, and I pushed off my right skate, the power propelling me forward, then pushed again with my left. My skates hit the ice with a force that sent shockwaves through my feet, up my calves, then exploded in my quads. My teeth clenched tighter with each push, and my arms pumped as if I could grab the air and pull myself forward . Go faster. Push harder. The boards became a blur, and the players on the sides were a streak of black and red in their jersey colors. The cool air met the heat of my skin, practically sizzling upon contact. The goons to my left and right were a distant memory.

I stopped, my legs spinning as my skates halted my momentum. The assistant coach stopped his watch, his eyes widening as he turned to share a look with his counterpart. Smoked it.

I didn’t bask in the glory for long. I went right back to the line and readied myself for another lap.

The sprints continued, and the coach called out a new combination of players each time. As players slowed, I accelerated. I wanted to beat my times and show everyone in that arena, especially Cody, that this was my house now. Each player must have raced at least half a dozen times.

Finally, we stopped, and the head coach huddled with his assistant coaches. Together, they looked at the clipboard. I strained to listen but couldn’t hear anything over the heaving recruits around me. Some of these guys were in no shape for what the coach had just put us through, and looked like they would be puking their guts out in another minute.

Cut loose the dead weight, Coach.

An assistant coach wrote on the pad as the head coach spoke in his ear. Together, the three coaches stared at the paper, assessing the final results before the head coach nodded and grabbed the pad. He approached us and said, “All right. Eighteen, five, and twenty-two. Get some water. The rest of you, thank you for your time.”

One step closer.