I narrow my eyes harder.
He goes back to humming.
I go back to my stick.
I don’t have time to figure out what Benson is sitting on. I have a kid I am about to spend two and a half hours hunting.
Cole Bauer.
UMass. Junior winger. Six-three, two-ten. Lefty. Has been on the all-conference list two years running and has not stopped reminding the local press about it once.
I’ve played him twice.
The first time was in October of my sophomore year. He chirped me through warmups, chirped me on the bench, chirped me on the ice. I said nothing. We won that game, and I went home and slept fine.
The second time was last December. He slashed my wrist on a faceoff in the second period when the ref was looking at the bench. He skated past me afterward and said gloves clean, eight? and grinned. I said nothing. The ref didn’t see it. The wrist swelled up overnight.
He thinks he has me figured out. He thinks I’m the kid he can run his mouth at and slash on the boards because the kid stays quiet and the kid does not retaliate.
Tonight, he’s going to find out he has me wrong.
Coach Fuller does the pre-game speech at sixty.
He stands in the middle of the room with his clipboard tucked under his arm and his hat pulled low. He goes through what he always goes through. Defense first. Win the neutral zone. Don’t take dumb penalties. He stops at the end of my row. He points the clipboard at me.
“Golding.”
“Coach.”
“No fights tonight.”
“Coach.”
“I mean it.”
“Yes, coach.”
“I lost you for seven minutes last game because you couldn’t keep your gloves on. Tonight you keep them on. You are on the ice for sixty minutes.”
“Yes, coach.”
He holds my eye for one beat. He moves on.
Stanley leans across the bench. “No fights, Blue. You hear coach? No fights. Not even one little fight.”
“I will end you.”
“Threats. Hostility. This is exactly what coach is talking about, Goldie.”
Walker is laughing again.
I don’t eat the pre-game banana. I lace my skates and pull my helmet on. I tape the strap. I hit my head once against the stall back to seat the helmet right. I roll my neck. Left, right. The shoulder grabs just a little, not as much as it was. I think it might be getting better.
The room goes quiet, and then Coach claps once.
“Let’s go.”
The tunnel is cold. We line up the way we always line up. Benson first because he’s the captain. Stanley next because Stanley insists. Then Rowan and Walker and a couple of D-men and the third line and then me and Tate at the back of the pack. I have my mouth guard in. My stick is in my left hand. My right glove is over my left glove because of the chin strap I am still picking at, and I drop my left glove down to my side as Coach walks past and slaps a few helmets and then we move.
