“Yessir.” I step onto the ice, feeling like the new kid at school. The team is on a water break. Guys stand in twos and threes talking about whatever. This is just an ordinary Thursday for them, while my heart is doing laps around my ribcage.
I skate toward my net and drop my water bottle onto it. Then I drop to the ice for a couple more stretches, while surreptitiously glancing around at the players.
All the big names are here. I spot the team captain talking to defenseman Tommaso DiCosta. And there’s Hudson Newgate chatting with Dougherty.
I’ve shared ice with a few of these guys before. In fact, now the backup goalie—Zack Walcott—is skating toward me, which is kind of surprising. I’m not a fan of this dude. He’s always been way too smug.
So I’m not prepared for him to greet me with a friendly smile and say, “Beck! Great to see you. Gonna stop some pucks for us today?”
“That’s the idea.” I pick myself up off the ice so we’re eye to eye.
“Cool, cool,” he says, sounding ten degrees warmer than I ever thought him capable of. “Gotta guess that your first time getting called up can’t possibly go as bad as mine. So you might as well relax.”
“Wait, really?”
“Really.” He thumps my shoulder pad. “I’ll tell you sometime. Good story.”
We’re interrupted by David Stoneman, one of the alternate captains and a fan favorite. He arrives with a spray of ice and a smile. “Hey, dude. I’m Stoney. You like burgers?”
Just be cool, Beck. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Well, no. Vegetarians exist. Not usually in this building, but still. And—this is even harder for me to process—not everybody drinks beer, either. Hale doesn’t.”
He points, and I spot Jethro Hale—my idol, and Coach Powers’s boyfriend—taking a seat in the bleachers. He’s not dressed to work out. He’s holding a clipboard and a pen.
“Hale’s first night with the team, I invited him to get drunk. But he doesn’t drink any alcohol, so I’ve learned to ask.”
“Uh, smart.” Where is this conversation going, by the way? I’ve never met someone with a conversation style that’s half as odd as my own.
Also…why is Hale here? It can’t be to watch me.
Can it?
“So you and beer are friends?” Stoney asks, oblivious to my rioting nerves.
“We’re more like drinking buddies who only see each other on weekends,” I chatter. “But burgers and I are tight.”
He grins. “Cool! We’ll get one after this, then.”
I sneak another glance at Hale and see an older man sitting down beside him. “So, um, does Hale come to every practice?”
Stoney glances at the retired goalie again and frowns, like he’s never thought about it before. “Nah, he’s a scout. We rarely see him. The goalie coach is here, too. Huh. Maybe that’s because of you? But hey, no pressure. See you after!”
He skates off, and I take a deep breath.
Our Father who art in hockey heaven, if you could get me through this without embarrassing myself, I’ll let my subscription to BoyzPorn lapse, and I’ll donate the money to a soup kitchen. Or an animal shelter. Or a soup kitchen for dogs. Is that a thing?
Coach blows his whistle. Every nerve ending fires inside me as I skate into the crease.
This is it. Time to prove I belong here, even if my stomach feels like it’s hosting its own scrimmage.
Coach divides the team into squads, while I do a couple more last-minute stretches. The forwards line up for a simple drill—shots from the slot. Nothing fancy. I bounce on my toes, trying to shake out the jitters.
First shot comes from Hudson Newgate. Clean wrist shot, low blocker side. I catch it square in the chest, absorbing the rubber with a satisfying thump. The rebound bounces harmlessly to the corner.
“Nice!” someone calls out. Maybe Stoney.
The second shot comes from a guy I don’t recognize—probably a fourth-liner. He winds up like he’s trying to put the puck through the back wall but telegraphs it so obviously that I’m already there before he releases. Simple glove save.
