I need to concentrate on the game and keeping my spot on the team, deserving Coach’s trust in me. Without the scholarship that comes with my place on the roster, I can’t afford to attend UCR to get my degree. My royalties from book sales are growing by the month, sure. But that doesn’t mean much when you’re just starting out and have a never ending list of things to pay for to make sure every book you put out into the world is the best it can be.
Who knew how expensive it could be to pay someone to make sure you spelled your own name right in your book?
Not me, that’s for sure.
And while I have an excellent grasp of the English language, I’m not too arrogant to think I don’t need someone to check my work. My readers deserve my very best—even if it’s expensive, even if they occasionally have to wait longer than they’d like. I have faith in my process, I do. Even if sometimes it feels like the method might bankrupt me.
With a sigh, I smooth out my shorts. Some days my dream of being a bestselling author seems pretty far away. Like today. I know I need to be patient and ride the waves, but it’s hard. Some days it’s really fucking hard to believe in myself, especially when a piece of my past shows up and reminds me just how much of a loser everyone back home still thinks I am.
Stepping out onto the ice, I’m resolved to leave my issues in the locker room. I’m going to kick this practice in the nuts, have a protein shake, and get back to playing catch-up on my school work and my outline. There’s so much to do, and I usually thrive under pressure, but right now I feel like a stick on the ice being flexed, waiting for the puck to arrive.
One more hard hit, and I’m pretty sure I might snap. Or shatter.
Practice starts with some low intensity skating, a warm up to get the blood flowing to all parts of the body after a night of attempted sleeping and stillness. It feels good to move my joints. My knees and ankles have cracked since I was a kid and the familiar snap, crackle, and pop give me comfort as I roll out my shoulders and glide across the ice.
“You good, Cap?” Raffi Shaw must have been nominated to come check up on me. He’s frowning, poised like he’s ready to dart out of my personal space if he needs to. It’s almost funny. Maybe my resting bitch face is as strong as my fuck-all-the-way-off attitude today.
I nod. “I’m fine. Didn’t get much sleep.” Tiredness is a great scapegoat for damn near everything. Because damn near everyone on the planet can relate.
Quiet? Tired.
Moody? Tired.
Forgetful? Tired.
He doesn’t need to know that I stayed awake staring at the ceiling as I replayed the conversation I overheard between Savannah and Athena. Or that I can recall, in meticulous detail, the lecture my dad gave me on the day Steve-fucking-Dobbs came by the house—tone, inflections, subtext and disappointed eyes included. All Raffi—all any of them—needs to know is that I’m tired.
He elbows me with a knowing grin splitting his face. “Hot date? You finally water that dry spell of yours?”
If only. “Nah, man. Just busy as fuck, y’know?”
He pats my chest. “Too tired to sleep. I get it.”
Coach blows the whistle and callsChase the Rabbit—my favorite puck handling and skating warm-up for honing my on-ice awareness—as our first drill.
We line up and get assigned our roles and partners. Reds and blues, rabbits and chasers—or, as I like to call them, hunters. But unlike Elmer Fudd chasing Bugs Bunny, we’re on skates at high speed, holding sticks and controlling pucks, not hunting our wabbits with a double-barreled shotgun, tiptoeing through the forest.
It’s a messy drill, and if we don’t keep our wits about us, we could end up crashing into any one of the other moving targets on the ice.
The players tagged red are rabbits, and all the blue players—including me—are hunters. The aim of the drill is for the hunters to chase the rabbits, following as close to them as possible, without losing control of the puck, or falling on your face. After about thirty second bursts, we switch roles and the hunters become the hunted.
I’m paired with Apollo de la Peña. He’s faster than his twin brother, Artemis, and not as broad so he’ll be tricky to stay close to. It’s good though. I fucking love rising to a challenge.
When the first whistle blows, Apollo darts off at speed with me close to his heels. Thirty seconds later, we switch and start over. By the time the drill is over—with only one minor collision between Scott and Tate—and we move onto a five-on-two keep-away drill, sweat stings my eyes, and my muscles burn.
It’s knock out time.
The first batch of ten skaters—including me—slides onto the huge Raccoons logo at center ice. For this drill, every player starts with a puck, and the goal of the game is to keep control of your puck while you knock other players’ pucks out of the designated boundary—namely the logo painted under the ice.
Last player standing with a puck wins.
The whistle blows, and I push off into movement, cradling my puck with the blade of my stick like the basket of eggs those kids protected from their sensei in season five ofCobra Kai. None of these fuckers are crushing my egg.
Does Savannah like hockey? Or does she hate it like Athena? Does she likeCobra Kai? Will she be at the game tomorr—?
I hit the deck hard, and my head smacks back, helmet bouncing off the ice. My chest constricts, burns at the sudden loss of air from impact with the hard surface underneath me. I don’t want to open my eyes to see the bemused gazes of my teammates, but if I keep them closed, they might think I’m really hurt and not just lying here with wounded pride.
Salty sweat streams into my eyes the second I crack them open. I nod that I’m okay, and my teammates burst into collective laughter. Great. They didn’t even wait for me to get up on my skates first.
