Page 23

ALEXEI

M y head’s all over the place as we go into our game against Cornell. The pressure rising now as we get closer to qualifiers. Cornell is still way above us in the standings and have outclassed us nine times out of ten when we’ve met in the past.

Being at our own rink might help, but the home crowd can only give us so much of an advantage. Everything else we have to make for ourselves.

I know my dad’s out there in the crowd, and when we skate out for the ceremonial puck drop, I spot him right away.

He’s laser-focused. Eyes on me the whole time. He makes no gesture to say hi when our eyes meet. It’s like he doesn’t wanna do anything to distract me. But just seeing him there is distracting enough.

His voice is louder when he’s there. Not his real voice. But the voice I hear in my head that sounds like him. Pointing out my mistakes so I can do better next time.

I don’t want it in there right now. I don’t want to know what it’ll say about what I did with Stef. Or how I’ve been feeling about him since he moved in.

When it was just talking to horror boy online, it was different. But Stef’s real. Very fucking real. And that makes what I’ve been trying to ignore, or at least put off, real too.

Once the game starts, we manage to keep our shit together in the opening minutes and I use the pressure as fire to push me forward. Weaving through the neutral zone, I manage to fire the puck through the screen and over the goalie’s glove to put us on the board in the first five minutes.

Cornell doesn’t let us keep the lead for long though, and two minutes later, they level the score when we get sloppy in the defensive zone.

I rally the team, letting that first goal drive me forward and hoping my enthusiasm and optimism rubs off on them.

“We’ve got this Cap.” Pawlowski says, slapping my shoulder as I skate into position for the next face-off.

Come on, you can do this, you have to do this, you need this, you cannot fuck this up, don’t be a fuck up.

I push the voice out as I get into position for the face-off. Cornell’s captain is chirping at me, but I ignore him, push out his face behind the cage, goading me.

As soon as the puck’s dropped, he rams into me and steals the puck.

I’m screaming at myself in my head as he charges down the ice with the puck – my puck. But it’s too late. By the time I chase him down, he’s already passed to a player in an ideal position to score, and he does.

We end the first period 2 goals to 1 down, but it’s far from over yet.

When we go into the second period, I’m rearing to go. I’m pushing everything out save the feel of the ice on my skates and the roar of the crowd. I’m letting that drive me on. Ignoring the fact my dad’s out there.

I win the first face-off of the second period and manage a breakaway down the ice.

Pawlowski’s waiting for me and I pass to him, just like we’ve practiced hundreds of times since our freshman year.

It falls exactly where I wanted it. He takes a shot just before one of Cornell’s big, mean-looking D-men come crashing into him.

Pawlowski goes down, but it doesn’t matter.

The puck’s already in the back of the net.

A little pushing match has broke out around the net between Brown and Cornell’s D-man. I manage to break it up before the ref gets involved and check on Pawlowski. He’s already getting up, looking up into the crowd for someone.

The band is playing We Are The Champions, but it’s not as loud as usual because Alice’s trumpet is nowhere near her mouth. She’s too busy watching to see if Pawlowski got up okay.

“I’m okay baby!” he shouts, waving like a lunatic.

“She can’t hear you idiot.”

He just gives me a dopey grin as he skates back to his spot. I can’t help myself from looking up to see if Stef’s here. He isn’t in his usual spot by the band and my heart sinks.

Of course he isn’t. Why would he come to my hockey game when I kissed him, then told him to forget it ever happened?

The rest of the second period is a scramble just to keep Cornell from levelling the score again. The magic of the first five minutes is fading, fast, and I don’t know how to get it back. It’s starting to feel the way it usually feels with these guys. Like we’re just constantly running to catch up.

I can sense my mood infecting the locker room, so I rally the team, infusing an optimism that’s quickly fading from my own mind.

Pawlowski helps me get them all worked up, and we go back out there, rearing to go.

Cornell’s captain must be better at giving speeches than me, because when they come back out in the final period, they’re like a new team. Themselves, but at their best. Their very best.

The captain – who was drafted by the Rangers by the way – scores a goal in the first minute. After that, the floodgates open.

We start making mistakes. Stupid mistakes we never make. We’re giving away penalties for hooking, high-sticking, you fucking name it. When we do win the puck, we’re panicking and hurling it down the ice. My throat is hoarse by the time Cornell scores their fifth goal of the game.

My legs are like lead. My shoulder screaming after another hit from one of Cornell’s monster D-men.

It’s easy to forget the pain and fatigue when you still have a chance of winning.

But when you’re five goals to two down with five minutes left on the clock, you can’t think about anything save getting off the ice, hanging your head in shame and standing under a hot shower until someone forces you to go home.

When we let in another goal, I lose it.

It’s either bawl my eyes out right now or get angry. I choose the latter, because I’ll be fucked if I ever let my dad see me cry.

I snap my stick over my knee. Screaming like a fucking lunatic while I do it. I know it’s immature as fuck. I know it’s a bad look for a captain. But something takes over and I do it.

The second I’m done, I look up and see all those eyes on me. Not just the crowd, but my teammates. The freshmen are looking at me like they’ve just done something wrong. And my older teammates, like Pawlowski and Brown, are just looking at me like they’re fucking disappointed.

I have to do the skate of shame back to the bench to get another stick. Coach asking if I’m done with my little temper tantrum yet.

“Sorry Coach.”

He pulls me in by the jersey. “Get back out there and hold your head high Simakov, your teammates are looking to you to set an example.”

Cornell’s captain grins at me as I skate back to center ice for the face-off.

I can hear my breath in my ear. Ragged and hard, like I’m trying not to scream. How could this have turned into such a fucking shit show so fast?

I used to love that about hockey. The unpredictability. The chance for high scoring in a matter of minutes. But when it’s you on the losing side. It’s hell.

Cornell’s captain is busy chirping away as we wait for the puck to drop, but I ignore him, listen to the roar in my ears and watch out for the puck. The second it drops, I’m on him, ramming him back so hard I take him off his skates.

He’s up, on me, but I’ve won the puck, and I’m off, until something rams into my side and the next minute I’m on the ice. Everything going black.

When I wake up, I’m still on the ice. A lot of faces way too close. I’m already disoriented enough, but from this angle, everyone’s eyes look funny. I let the ref and one of my teammates pull me up, but my legs are too wobbly to walk.

They manage to get me off the ice, and instead of sitting me on the bench, I’m being carried off the ice.

“Where are you taking me? I have to play the rest of the game.”

A vaguely familiar voice says. “No you don’t. Game’s over for you Captain.”