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Nicko, Senior year, September 25th

“ G otcha!”

My heart leaps into my throat as a body slams into me from behind. The impact isn’t anything close to what I’m used to on the ice, but it’s taken me off-guard. Not to mention that my knees feel like jelly right now. And not in the way that your secret crush makes them, but rather in the way that your Bulgarian coach turns them after having you run drills for almost two hours.

I’m not proud of the gasp that leaves me—or the way my arms flail to regain my balance, earning me some amused snickers from my teammates.

I flip them off before putting my gloved hands over the small arms that have wrapped tightly around my middle. For a moment I hold my breath, trying to feel inside my body. There’s an uncomfortable pinch in my right thigh, exhausted muscles complaining about the false posture I adopted after last year’s injury. Only when I’m absolutely sure that my stance is steady do I manage a soft chuckle.

“Tackle from behind? Kind of a coward move,” I inform the kid as I chance a look over my shoulder to confirm my suspicion.

“But taking on a bigger player is courageous, yes?” Milo grins up at me, still plastered to my back.

“Depends. Your father would probably call it dumb. Just like not wearing your helmet,” I reply, my gloved hand ruffling through his hair to underline my point. Milo scrunches up his nose but doesn’t complain. He’s pretty small for a twelve year old, still more concerned with games and hockey—especially hockey—than his appearance. I grimace when I imagine other middle schoolers going up against him.

“Milo! What did I tell you? Homework before hockey!”

Both of us jump at the loud voice then duck under the stern glare from Coach Kovachev.

“But tatko! I was not playing hockey,” Milo points out as he lets go of me to hurry off the ice, already suspecting his flimsy argument won’t convince his father. A grin tugs on my lips as Milo imitates the coach’s accented way of speaking.

Coach just huffs at that, waiting until his son has stalked off the ice before sending him down the tunnel with a gentle slap of his hockey stick against his bum. “Go wait in my office. I have to talk to Nicholas.”

This makes me perk up. Glancing around, I realize that I’m the last one out here. The rest of the team must have already hit the showers while I was busy horsing around with Milo.

“Talk to me?” I ask unnecessarily, suddenly feeling very aware of how sweaty I am. My pads and hockey uniform are clinging to my overworked body. A year ago I wouldn’t have batted an eye at this, but now my mind immediately starts picking the training session apart. In hindsight, I probably could have created better scoring chances in the scrimmage, and it had taken a moment for me to get into the drills.

Coach just raises a brow at me. “Know another Nicholas here?” he asks as he takes a seat on the bench, prompting me to sit down beside him. “How is your knee?”

My hand, which has started subconsciously massaging my right knee, freezes as if I’ve been caught jerking off in the showers.

“Uhm...better, sir,” I tell him after a moment’s pause, not sounding very convincing to my own ears, even though it’s not a lie. My knee has gotten a lot better since that UMass defenseman sent me crashing into the boards.

One moment I was pivoting to set our Captain, Linus Zollweg, up for a hat trick; the next I was screaming from the hot pain that seared through my right side. I knew right then and there that I was fucked. The tearing sensation had nothing to do with the hits and shoves every hockey player is used to, and the shocked faces of my teammates confirmed my worst fears. Even our opponents looked at me with pity when I was carried off the ice. The team doctor didn’t waste much time on me and waved me off to the hospital at first glance. There they diagnosed me with the shittiest Christmas present ever: an ACL rupture that lasted me from the end of last year up until recently. It’s taken months for me just to be able to put skates back on my feet.

So yeah, I might not be fully up to speed again, and I know it. Especially when the coaches have us running a lot of skill drills. It still feels wobbly when getting down on one knee or jumping from the inside to the outside edge of the skate and back again. But I’ve also come a long way from taking my first steps with crutches back in January. I don’t say any of that, though, because it sounds like an excuse.

Or does it? I don’t know. I thought the first few training sessions went okay, especially since we’re still in the pre-season. But when I see Coach tilt his head, I reconsider.

“Good.” His eyes focus on my knee as if he’s trying to x-ray it personally. “Because the team will need you this year. But you better take things slow, yes? Don’t do too much too soon.”

I find myself nodding along to his words before I feel the blood freeze in my veins. I did nothing but take it slow these past months! I hobbled forward using the tiniest of steps, stretched my ligaments inch by inch, trained without weight like an absolute beginner…I’m tired of it.

“I was thinking Aldridge, Dunn and you on a line. Just for a while. Will be good for them, too.”

I’m sure there is a compliment somewhere in those words, but my brain is still stuck on the fact that I have just gotten relegated from first to fourth line.

Fucking fourth line with the sophomores, which means that I’m not going to see a lot of ice time in our first game.

My mouth opens as if to protest, but I quickly bite my lower lip. Hard. Arguing with Coach is bad form, even when I want to fight—and plead—for a chance to change his mind. I also can’t escape the flicker of doubt I feel.

I know that I haven’t been able to keep up with my former linemates the way I did before my injury, but I can’t put my finger on the exact issue. It’s not that I’m more winded or slower per se. It’s just…like I’m always lagging a second behind. Loudly denying that would be a lie.

I let out a careful breath and force myself to nod. “Yeah, makes sense.”

Coach narrows his eyes at me, fine lines forming around their corners as he regards me with obvious suspicion. “Makes sense?” he repeats before leaning the slightest bit forward, as if he has trouble seeing me. “No talking back? You are Nicholas, yes? No secret SBU spy?”

I snort at that despite the lump in my throat. “You think I would allow my brother to spy on us?” I manage to keep my words light and mock-offended as I try to prevent my voice from shaking.

I’ve been demoted to fourth line. I’ve been demoted to fourth line. I’ve been demoted to–

“Hm. Maybe not allow it. Maybe you kidnapped Nicholas.” He winks at me while getting up. “It’s not forever,” he adds with a much more serious expression as he passes me on the way to the tunnel, briefly patting my shoulder. “Just until you get your skates back under yourself and the injury out of your head.”

Blinking down at my feet I nod, not really knowing what to make of that. I don’t have any more time to waste. This is my last year of college before entering the NHL. My draft spot should guarantee me a contract with the New York Rebels, but my injury suddenly turned me into a wild card. Doctors told me I’m good to play again, but there’s a glaring mark on my health record now. I know the Rebels will be watching me like hawks this season, and sitting on the bench is not the advertisement I need right now.

***

I’ve just been demoted to fourth line.

The thought is still present in my head as I drag my duffel and gear from the driveway to the porch of the small house I’m renting with a few other students.

I had actually looked forward to the full college experience, roommate and dorms and all, but the harsh reality presented itself differently. Instead of becoming my new best friend, my roommate turned out to be the biggest pain in the ass I could have ever imagined. There is nothing wrong with taking college seriously, but I wasn’t impressed with his snitching, complaining and lecturing—not to mention him taking out my light bulbs to try and enforce a ten PM curfew.

By the time freshman year was over, I was done with the dorms. Thankfully, I wasn’t the only student with a shitty experience. Hence, the Nook— as we call our tiny home with its sloped roof—was created.

Up until a few weeks ago there were five of us: my best friend Linden, Oliver, Sasha, Marisol, and me. But with prices climbing through the roof, we decided to rent out the attic as well, so Micah moved in.

The smell of something healthy but also delicious greets me as soon as I unlock the front door. It causes my stomach to rumble happily. However, the sound drowns in the singing that fills the whole ground level, a rich voice asking the well-known country roads to take us home, to a place where we belong, a place that is younger than the mountains but older than the trees ...or something like that.

“Aren’t you from South Carolina?” I ask loudly as I toe out of my sneakers, scrunching my nose at the sight of the yellow leaves sticking to their soles.

Temperatures still climb into the seventies during the day, but the evenings have started to turn awfully cool. Fall is catching up to us, much to the joy of my roommates, who long ago started to decorate our creaky porch and dried front lawn with pumpkins and fake spider webs. It also means that hockey season is about to start. And I’ll stand in fourth line for it—like a fucking rookie.

Micah hasn’t answered my question but I’m sure he heard it—he seamlessly switched to another tune a few beats ago. I massage my temple as I step into our living room, which opens up to the big kitchen.

As usual, it’s a mess. Clean laundry is piled on the couch with a bunch of different colored socks waiting to be sorted. Sports gear is hanging over the backs of the chairs, and our dining table is overflowing with a pile of books. The beat-up copy of one of Oliver’s trashy romance novels sits on top of the stack. The title reads Keeping Noah , and the cover is decorated with a shirtless guy rocking an impressive set of abs.

For a moment I’m tempted to lift my shirt and compare them to my own, then think better of it, rolling my eyes as I reach to flip the book over.

“Hey Nicko, are you eating with us?” Linden asks as I make another stop on my way to the kitchen. Inspecting the hockey stick that leans against the wall, I finally conclude that it’s one of Sasha’s and not mine. She’s a forward for the B-Tech’s women’s team. All of us are involved in some sort of college sports, which means the washing machine is always working overtime and the fridge is habitually empty.

“If there’s enough,” I mutter, my stomach protesting at my hesitancy. I could probably clean out a whole all-you-can-eat buffet by myself, but I also feel like I can’t stomach social interaction at the moment. “But I also need to finish an essay first…”

“Oh, there’s enough,” Micah assures me from behind the stove. He is wearing Marisol’s pink apron over his BTU football hoodie, wiping his fingers on the front.

“Hot outfit,” I tell him in passing as I head for our freezer, digging around until I find a bag of peas to put on my knee.

“I know!” Micah grins, then starts to pile a generous amount of rice and veggies onto a plate, topping it off with a piece of salmon. “There you go. Just take it upstairs with you.”

I blink when he holds out the plate to me, the lie sitting heavy in my stomach. I don’t have any essays due until next week, but I can’t spend the evening with them and pretend everything is fine. Not when I want to bury my face in my pillow and scream.

Fourth. Fucking. Line.

“Thank you,” I say.

I wish I could at least manage a smile.

The food tastes amazing, but I only pick at it. Now that I’ve replayed the conversation with Coach several times over in my head, my hunger has disappeared. I feel like a sulky teenager while listening to the front door open and close. My other roommates are returning from their respective training sessions and classes, flooding the house with their loud chatter.

I’m sitting at my window, pea bag on my bare knee, watching Olli and Marisol unload a bunch of groceries from Olli’s old Chevy, when my phone rings with the obnoxious Dutch rap song Nate assigned to himself.

I changed it back about a billion times before I finally gave up and let him have his way. He gets a ridiculous amount of joy out of small pranks like that.

“Hi, little brother,” he greets me with a broad grin as I accept his video call.

“By seven minutes,” I point out as I cross my room and flop onto my bed, taking in his still wet hair. Nate plays right wing for St. Bernard’s, which is the older—and arguably more prestigious—of the two colleges in Bonham. Located directly at the lakeshore, the campus is a couple of miles away from the city’s center. We don’t see each other every day, but we usually make time for a short conversation, and most often Nate is the one to initiate.

“How was training?”

I groan at the question. It’s all Nate has been asking me over the past few months: How was rehab? How was physio? How was training? Is your knee still giving you trouble? Are you in pain?

“It was fine, mom . How about yours?” I ask in return, only realizing my mistake when Nate narrows his green eyes at me. I generally prefer listening rather than talking, but hockey draws me in every time. I should have indulged him and kept my mouth shut. Nate doesn’t need more than two short sentences to figure out something is wrong.

“What happened?”

“Ugh. Nothing!” I counter, knowing very well that he won’t let this go now, clinging to it like a dog with a bone. I also know that in the end I will cave and tell him anyway. It’s how this always goes: Nate hounding me, because he thinks he’s entitled to every detail of my life and a part of my brain. And me spilling the beans to him, then maybe feeling a tiny bit better—but probably not today. I’ve never been on fourth line, not even as a freshman.

Ironically, I benefited from a teammate’s injury myself, quickly claiming the left wing starting position despite the additional experience other players had on me. I dug my claws into it and never gave it back. Which is probably what De Andre is trying to do to my spot right now.

Fucking fourth line. The thought alone makes my cheeks burn in shame and belated anger, just like when they carried me off the ice over half a year ago. In my brain the Rebels’ management is already preparing to let me know I won’t be signed. Can’t be signed. Not when I don’t get the ice time to prove that I've healed.

“But as he said—it’s only until you’re fully up to speed again,” Nate tries to cheer me up once I’ve finished. The peas have thawed on my knee, and I watch as little droplets run down the side of my leg, seeping into my duvet.

What if I won’t? I want to ask but settle on “Hmpf” instead. I have played out that thought countless times. I know that nothing good comes from it.

“Does your knee hurt after training?” my brother inquires, and I’m about to ask him if he plans to drop his American Literature Major in favor of a medical degree when I hear the door to his dorm room open and close in the background.

It only takes a few seconds until a familiar but obnoxious voice pipes up: “Is that your brother whining about his knee again?”

“Is that your roommate asking stupid questions again?” I hiss back. Hart and I haven’t been on good terms since our interview. I’ve never been good with words, and it definitely wasn’t my brightest moment, but he took my words and twisted them into this ugly thing. Something I never meant—which I had to try and explain to the dean when he called me into his office only a day after the interview was aired. His message to me basically underlined why I distrust all of social media’s activism, especially when it comes from big franchises around Pride Month. Because while he made it clear to me that he had a personal dislike for Hart, he expected me to shut my mouth and not endanger the school’s reputation. That is the kind of “support” I can gladly go without. I don’t need people to shake hands with me for likes and clicks on social media just so they can wipe it on their pant legs when the cameras aren’t there to capture the disgusted look on their faces.

But Hart will never get that. In fact, nothing has changed about the arrogant air with which he presents himself—no matter if we cross paths in Nate’s dorm room or on the ice, he still acts like I’m nothing more than a jealous hater. I bet he wishes the Rebels would have dropped me three years ago.

“Someone is testy today,” Hart retorts, despite Nate reprimanding both of us with a half-hearted, “Guys, come on.”

“Someone is a dick—as usual,” I mutter, but I’ve already lost interest in the verbal sparring match. We can butt heads about anything and everything, but I’m not about to discuss my injury with him.

“I need to study,” I tell Nate, even though I know I won’t open a book tonight. And he knows it too—but he lets me get away with it as he says his goodbyes. Hart’s “Do you even know how to do that?” sneaks into our conversation before I get the chance to hang up.