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I run a hand through my hair while tracing back my steps to the gym. Having the C on my jersey would certainly look good on my resume, but at the end of the day, what matters is winning. I can score with or without it.
And I’m sure Coach Green will make a smart decision and not put someone like Frankie Boucher as our captain. As a defenseman, he’s top notch, but as a human being, I don’t wish him on my worst enemies. He’s the author of the worst heckling the Bolts have thrown to the Strikes this week. Not quite the example a team captain should put out.
It’s precisely his buzz cut that I fixate on as I walk back into the gym. His back is turned to me, and there’s a bunch of girls from the Strikes glaring up at him.
“What the…” The question dies in my throat as I take a look around. No one’s working out anymore. Instead, they’re locked in yet another standoff. I sigh.
“Or what?” Boucher asks. “What are you gonna do if we don’t give you any of the foam rollers?”
“I’m sure you’re not wearing a cup right now, so you do the math.”
At this point, I would recognize that voice in my sleep. It’s none other than Tinker Bell herself.
I’m torn between telling Boucher to get lost and the inexplicable need to give Tinker Bell crap every time I see her. Except siding with Boucher in any way is a definite dick move.
“We’re using them right now. Can’t you see that?” Nate says with a scowl.
A different girl retorts. “Do they have your names written on them? All we’re saying is that you should share them.”
“We should do jack shit.” Boucher looks around. “Am I right, guys?”
A chorus of grunts and mumbles agree with him.
I walk closer to the group of people, spotting rollers under the arms of Bolts and only one in possession of a Strike. The sparks of World War III are in everyone’s faces. One more smart-ass quip could make it explode.
“Well, how many of the damn rollers do we have?” I jam my hands into the pockets of my joggers.
“Ten.” Nate gives me a look as if the word tastes like vomit. “But that’s not even enough for all of us.”
By us, he obviously means the Bolts. Forget the Strikes.
St. Cloud spent millions of dollars on all new facilities, a whole hockey arena—complete with state-of-the-art screens and a concession stand taken out of a professional stadium—scholarships for all of us, and even an in-house PT. But they couldn’t buy more than ten rollers?
Bro, I need a freaking nap.
“It can’t be ten for you and none for us, meathead,” Tinker Bell says. And that effectively unleashes the battle.
One of the Strikes rams into a Bolt, sending his roller tumbling to the floor. Three other people scramble to get it. You’d think this is an official game and the rollers are pucks. Although it looks more like we switched to rugby.
“Catch!”
By reflex, I lift my hands and catch a flying roller.
Immediately, four girls zero in on me.
I will never admit how my pulse spikes. While one-on-one, none of them would be able to even tickle me, but together, they may do some damage.
No wonder someone else tossed the problem my way. I glance around, trying to find the sucker who should be dealing with this instead of me. Everyone is in the middle of their own tug-of-war, though.
“Get back. I got him.”
I look forward again as Tinker Bell pushes her teammates aside. Her big dark eyes train on me, and she blows a strand of hair away from her face.
“Wait—”
She doesn’t.
She charges like a bull.
