Page 5

Nicko, October 16th

I ’m so angry, my hands are still shaking when I pull my car keys out of the ignition a few hours later. I have no idea how I managed to make it through my afternoon classes and now to the rink. My thoughts are endlessly circling around the argument with Nate, analyzing every word he said. Obviously, I’ve come up with all the right answers in the meantime. It’s always like that when we fight—him talking and me stewing over it, because I missed all the chances to make my point.

My frustration follows me into the arena like a dark cloud. Even the wall paintings—which show off previous Frozen Four Winners—seem to mock me today. They’ve been installed as a source of motivation for younger generations, but as my gaze finds Kip McCoy’s bright blue eyes, all I want is to ram my bare fist into his painted nose. The trophy in his hands has never seemed farther away from my own grip.

The locker room is already buzzing with the laughter and conversation of two dozen college hockey players as I enter. There are a few nods in my direction, some stretched out fists to bump, but I’ve missed out on so many hours of training last season that some of my teammates still seem surprised to see me back at the rink.

I retreat to my locker in the far corner, putting my duffel on the bench and plopping down beside it to start changing. I’m aware of the glances in my direction, but I consciously try to not pay them any attention. They’ve been there from the day I reported back to training, a mixture of pity and curiosity.

The bench shrieks under the added weight of another player sitting down, drawing my attention from where I’ve been tying my skates. Next to me, Eric de Andre waves his phone in front of my face.

“What do you think of the news?” he asks. There’s a frown etched into his forehead, but for a second, I think I can see the corners of his mouth twitch.

“What news?” I ask as I adjust my socks. I’ve purposefully avoided De Andre over the past few weeks, so having him approach me feels awkward. I know this whole situation isn’t his fault, but it still hurts every time I see him line up in my spot.

“About the trade?” he prompts, his head tilted. His lips twitch again, and this time I’m sure I didn’t imagine it. There’s a hint of smugness to it that causes my stomach to churn with unease.

“Trade?” I echo. My palms feel clammy, so I wipe them on my pants before getting up.

“Oh, you haven’t heard yet? Fuck, Hoff, I didn’t mean to be the one to ruin your day.”

I’m suddenly aware of the silence that has fallen over the locker room, all of our teammates’ attention on us.

“C’mon man, don’t be a fucking asshole,” Kristiansson mumbles, but I can barely hear him over the pounding of my heart. I’m trying not to let my nerves show as I reopen my locker, reaching for my cell with nothing but absolute desperation. It takes me two swipes to open my favorite hockey news app. The article is right on top of the news’ alert: Devils’ left wing, Jacques Autin, expected to join Rebels in two-for-one trade.

Closing my eyes for a moment, I take a deep breath, but it’s no use—the words are dancing behind my lids. The Rebels are currently working on a deal with a new winger. A new left winger.

“It doesn’t have to mean anything,” Zollweg’s hushed voice consoles when he stops by my locker, the rest of the team passing us on their way outside. There are a few pitying glances, but most of them keep their eyes straight ahead as they awkwardly shuffle along.

“No, it doesn’t,” I agree hoarsely. My fingers shake when I put my cell back inside the locker. I don’t even bother with the combination lock, just shoving it shut.

Of course it doesn’t have to mean anything. Trades happen all the time, and I still have a whole season ahead of me before I’m expected to fulfill my draft. But I can’t help but see the glaring connection to my injury and recent demotion.

I may have a whole season left, but the Rebels are already working on my replacement.

***

“Nooo! Hoff! What the fuck kind of pass was that?!”

I do a double take to my linemate as I circle behind the net. Aldridge has just missed out on my third pass in a row, and yet he seems to blame me for his lack of scoring. For a sophomore the guy has a lot of attitude, which doesn’t make it easy to cater good assists to him.

“You know you have to make some effort yourself, yes? Standing around and looking pretty isn’t going to get the puck into the net,” I grouse as I skate back toward him, then come to an abrupt stop. I take the weight off of my injured leg as I stand. It’s been hard to figure out if it’s hurting— specifically hurting—ever since I’ve gone back to training. During the season, a hockey player’s body feels like one giant bruise. Everything hurts to some degree.

“Well, you can’t just play your own game! You have to fit in with Jacob and me, and you’re never where I need you!” Aldridge berates me, his gloved hand gesturing between our right wing and him. Dunn, who hasn’t done anything other than skate up and down the right side throughout the scrimmage, holds up both of his hands in defense.

“You’re never where I need you, either,” I counter lamely. There’s not a lot of conviction behind my words, just the lingering feeling that maybe Aldridge is right—I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Skating down the left side feels like chasing the ghost of my past seasons: always a second or two too slow, my legs not pumping hard enough.

Not to mention that my mind is still in the locker room, circling around that fucking article. Over the past ninety minutes I’ve analyzed that short headline to death, trying to tell myself that it doesn’t mean the deal is closed yet, that maybe it’s just speculation. I’ve rummaged my brain for Autin’s stats, trying to estimate if I could measure up. It’s a stupid game that gets me nothing but missed scoring opportunities and sloppy passes. And whenever that happens, I feel De Andre’s gaze lingering on me.

It happens again when I line up for the next face off, which Miller wins with so much ease, he actually throws me a confused look before passing the puck along. My cheeks burn with shame as I mentally tally this loss on my long list of today’s shortcomings.

I purposefully hang back after Coach blows the whistle on today’s session. Some of the guys stay behind for extra passing drills, but when I make an attempt to get in line with Dunn, Coach just waves me off.

“You do not need passing drills,” he tells me, which makes me grit my teeth. Because while I technically know I don’t need extra drills, I am still clueless about what I do need to get back to where I have been.

“Will you come to my game on Saturday?” Milo asks, hopping down from where he spent the past two hours pretending to do his homework in the stands. During the scrimmage I caught a glimpse of him holding his math book upside down, so he probably didn’t make a lot of progress.

“I don’t know if it’s a game day.” I pretend to think hard about this as I collect the pylons with the end of my stick, then hold them out to the boy, who eagerly takes them from me.

“Nooo, you play on Friday,” he corrects me promptly, causing me to bite back a grin.

“Is that so?” I tease, but the grin feels fake on my lips.

If I see any ice time at all , a mean voice promptly whispers inside my head.

“Yup,” Milo confirms happily, then pouts at me a mere second later. “I think it’s stupid that you don’t come to our training anymore.”

I snort at the quick change of emotions, shaking my head.

While my teammates were enjoying their summer break with their families, I had taken Coach up on the offer to assist him with the local hockey camp. It was mostly a chance to get some ice time alone in the evenings, but now that it’s over, I almost miss the kids. It’s easy to impress them with a few tricks at that age, and not one of them complained about my game. I wish I could go back a month or two, to those summer days that still held so much hope for me.

“I would, but your dad probably won’t like that idea if it means missing my own training,” I chuckle, then ruffle his blond hair as I finally make my way off the ice. “But you can save me a seat on Saturday.”

Parting ways with Milo, I stalk toward the locker room. Despite the news about the Rebels’ trading plans, the short exchange brought a small smile to my face. I could probably manage to convince Linden and Olli to visit the game with me and cheer Milo on. From what I’ve seen during camp, he doesn’t have a lot of friends and–

“Honestly, I think by now we would be better off without him.”

I come to an abrupt halt at the sound of Aldridge’s haughty voice. Even though I’ve just caught the end of the conversation, I instinctively know it’s about me. I draw up my shoulders as I stay rooted to my spot in the hallway, suddenly hyper aware of the sweat running down my back and forehead.

“I mean it’s not his fault what happened to his knee, but he’s just not playing the same anymore, you know? Why else would the Rebels have traded for Autin?” Aldridge continues. I’m only a few steps away from the entrance to the locker room, and the door is slightly ajar, so I get an eyeful of his pale ass as he towels off without a care in the world. My eyes are fixed on the pimples on his back as I try to control my breathing.

Nate would know what to say right now—he always does. He’d easily remind Aldridge of his own shortcomings, like how he’s refusing to help out the defense despite his center position, or about how whiny he is, contesting the ref’s every decision. My mouth, however, is dried up, my tongue in as many knots as my stomach as I stand there, motionless.

I wish I could just dissolve right on the spot and not hear one more word coming out of his mouth.

No, I wish I had it in me to lunge forward and push him up against the wall, getting right into his face for talking shit behind my back. I want to ask him what he’s done for this team in the one season he’s played so far, how many beatings he’s taken for it, how many games he’s attended with crutches just to watch helplessly from the stands. My blood is burning with rage, my jaw clenched so impossibly tight.

I’m waiting for the eyes of my teammates to find me. For one of them to stand up and fucking say something. But there’s nothing except for some quiet mumbles that could be agreement or disapproval, while lockers slam and showers run in the background. Aldridge continues talking, but I can’t hear him anymore. My ears are filled with white noise as I step away unnoticed.

My instincts tell me to go back on the ice—skate up and down until my lungs are burning and my eyes sting from the sweat—but I can’t possibly face the rest of my team. I can’t look at my former linemates, Zollweg and Kristiansson, and ask myself if they think the same: that they are better off without me, too.

I aimlessly wander the tunnel, then randomly push open the next door I pass. The storage room is completely dark, the stuffy smell of dusty shelves and damp mops greeting me as I get comfortable between forgotten pieces of equipment. I’m in excellent company here—broken and redundant.

I lean my head back against the wall, trying not to think about how this is actually the lowest I have ever been. Not in the hospital while numbly listening to the doctor explaining the MRI results. Not when watching from the stands as my team got chopped up on the ice while clutching my crutches tightly. Not when refreshing my inbox countless times in desperate hopes for a message from the Rebels. No, this is actually it—hiding in a stinky storage room while listening to my teammates pass outside, chatting about dinner plans and frat house parties.

My gear is soaked with cold sweat when I finally dare to return to the empty locker room. There is no time for a shower if I don’t want to risk a confrontation with Coach, so I strip out of my jersey and protectors with shaking hands.

My car is the last one in the parking lot, waiting for me under the dim glow of the street light. I’ve never been particularly close with any of my teammates, but my eyes sting when I unlock the screen of my cell phone and there’s not one single message waiting for me.

I let my forehead sink against the cool steering wheel, just concentrating on my breathing for a moment. Five seconds in, five second hold, then a long exhale, like I’m trying to work through a hard check on the ice.

It’s not working.

The pain isn’t sharp and fresh like a bruised rib. Instead, it’s a dull echo, starting in my stomach and spreading into my whole body.

When I reach for my phone a second time, I dial the only number I know by heart.

It takes Nate less than three seconds to answer, his voice soft as if he already knows what I’m about to say.

“Nicko?”

“I’ll do it.”