Page 9

Greyson

Exhausted, that’s the only word to describe how I am feeling right now. Completely and utterly exhausted. It’s Wednesday, and usually that’s our day off from practice. But when Coach told us a couple of days ago we were expected at the rink at exactly nine sharp, we had no other choice but to obey.

He wanted us to be prepared for our game against Brightstone Boars on Friday, which I don’t understand why because it’s going to be the easiest game we’ve played since the season began.

And I'm not just saying that because we're a better team, I'm saying it because it's the truth. Their Coach suddenly left the team without an explanation at the end of last season, which meant they had to get a new one in ASAP, and either their new Coach hasn't got a fucking clue what he's doing, or the team is just slacking. Either way, it was going to be an easy game, so I wasn't worried.

“Again!” Coach shouts from the side.

My gloved hand reaches up and ru bs at my helmet, loosening it slightly from my head as I groan frustratedly. Again, again, fucking again! How many times do we have to do this?

Hunter charges toward me, the puck close to his stick. Crouching lower, my eyes lock on the puck as he fakes right, then left, trying to throw me off. But I stay focused, tracking his every move. Dropping to my knees as the puck leaves his stick, my gloved hand reaches out to catch the puck with a satisfying thud.

“Nice save, Montgomery!” Coach praises, clapping hands together. “Now, that’s a move number fourteen likes to do, fake it both sides, thinks he’s got a chance, and boom! You catch the puck, and he goes crying to mommy and daddy because he couldn’t get a goal.”

Chase and Theo take their turn next, each trying to outsmart me with their shots. Theo’s shot is powerful but predictable, and I manage to block it with my pads. But Chase? That’s a different story. He winds up sending the puck flying toward the top corner of the net, not usually his go to move. Leaping, my gloved hand reaches out, and I just manage to deflect it with the tip of my glove before it reaches the net.

“Now what Kingston just did, that’s what number two does. His go to is always in the corner of the net, so keep an eye out for him, okay?” Coach sends me a look.

“Yes, Coach.” I nod, but I knew this already.

Most nights before I go to sleep, I pull up the opposing team's gameplay, and have their playbook beside me so I could go through their strategies and memorize them. As a goalie I need to understand the way they play so I can protect our goal better. Obviously sometimes goals slip in here and there, but for the most part, I like to think I’m a decent goalie. I mean, come on, I’m literally one of the top ten goalies in college hockey—number three, but who’s counting?—so, if that doesn’t say something, then I don’t know what does.

“Right, speed shots and then we’ll be done for the day,” he announces. “Montgomery, you ready for this?”

“Yes, coach.” I nod, even though in reality, I wanna be done, like hours ago.

Everyone gets into place before me, each of them eager to get off the ice as I am. Tightening my grip on the stick, my eyes lock on the puck as it moves around the ice from teammate to teammate, waiting impatiently until one of them decides to take a shot.

“Alright, Montgomery, here they come.” Coach shouts, like I haven’t got eyes and can see for myself.

The first shot comes like a bullet that completely takes me off guard. Sinking into my stance with my knees bent, I slide to the right, feeling the puck slam into my pads.

The next one is high and fast, snapping my glove up, I manage to catch the puck cleanly. The satisfying smack of the puck hitting leather was like music to my ears. The shots keep coming, each one faster than the last. Moving with precision, my body reacted instinctively as they seemed to fly at me faster than I moved around homes, which was pretty damn fast.

A low shot to the left, pad save.

A high shot to the right, glove save.

A shot to the five-hole, I dropped into a butterfly, sealing off the bottom of the net.

I could feel the sweat dripping down my face, neck, back…even in places I’m not going to say. My muscles were bur ning, and I'm sure I have a nasty bruise forming on my inner thigh from when one of the freshman slapshotted too hard when I wasn't ready. But bruising comes along with the position, and I'm used to it.

The sound of Coaches whistle piercing through the air has me letting out a satisfied sigh.

Fucking finally.

Removing my gloves and unclasping my helmet, I shake my head and beads of sweat fall off, making me groan as I swipe a hand through my hair, getting it out of my eyes.

Skating across the ice, the guys and I groggily exited the rink, walking slow paced toward the locker room so we could wind down and relax after that grueling practice. And once I hit my cubby, I take off every other piece of gear, and sink back into the bench, giving myself a five minute breather before heading to the shower.