Elliot frowned. He leaned forward, resting his thick forearms on the table. “Coach clamped down hard on hazing after an incident last year. A few guys got out of hand.”
“What happened?”
“A couple of the scholarship players took a joke too far with a freshman,” Elliot said. “Coach benched them for three games. Sent a clear message.”
“And the freshman?”
“Transferred out. Couldn’t hack it, anyway.” He waved a hand in the air. “Doesn’t matter. Save your energy for the ice.”
“I have plenty of energy.”
“Don’t waste your time thinking about all that scholarship kid crap.” Elliot grabbed his water glass. “If you start reaching out to pull the drowning guys up, the next thing you know, you’re both at the bottom of the lake.”
My hand drifted to the back of my neck, fingers digging into the tight muscles there.
“Don’t let them take you under, Karter,” he added.
“I’m not drowning, Elliot.”
“I didn’t say you were. I’m only telling you to keep your head up. Those guys don’t play by the same rules because they don’t have anything to lose. You do.”
Nodding agreeably was my usual habit. Going along with him was the easiest way to keep the peace. But as I looked at Elliot, his easy confidence taking up all the space at the table, my back teeth ground together.
He meant well. He always played the wise, protective older brother. Except today, letting him run interference for me just made me feel useless. The sudden urge to stop being anobligation he had to protect flared up. I didn’t want to be kept safe in a bubble someone else had built.
My chair scraped back. Standing up, I grabbed my plastic tray. “I need to get to practice.”
“We have an hour before we need to be at the rink,” Elliot pointed out.
“Yeah, but my muscles are tight. Stretching early will help.”
We walked toward the dining hall exit. Pushing my tray onto the metal conveyor belt, the hard smack of the plastic matched the new, stubborn need twisting in my gut. Proving I could handle myself out on the ice today was the only thing I cared about.
The walk across campus to the athletic facility passed in a blur of nervous energy. In the locker room, my hands yanked my skate laces tighter than usual. And keeping my head down and headphones on blocked out the pre-practice noise. Stepping out of the tunnel, the blast of freezing air from the rink hit my face, snapping me into focus.
Gliding onto the ice of the Ridge Cross hockey rink for the afternoon session, my gloves gripped my stick tight.
Playing the fragile legacy kid was officially over.
Coach Corby stood by the bench. “Line drills! Let’s go! Move your feet!” he shouted.
Coasting over to Elliot’s group, Trenton Wright slapped his stick against my shin pads.
“Pacing yourself, Karter?” Trenton asked with an easy smirk. “Good call. Let the walk-ons tire themselves out.”
Next, we lined up for transition drills. Coach Corby paced the center ice circle, blowing his whistle and barking at anyone who lost their footing. He blew the play dead just to scream at asophomore walk-on for a sloppy backhand, immediately sending the kid to the boards for a set of penalty laps.
Two reps later, my turn came. I pushed off too hard, caught an edge on the rutted ice, and completely butchered the pivot. My stick fumbled the puck, sending it sliding harmlessly into the corner.
I gritted my teeth and stopped, bracing for Corby to light me up. I wanted him to yell. I wanted to skate the penalty laps. And I knew I needed the correction so I could actually improve.
Instead, Corby just tapped his clipboard. “The ice is getting chopped up out there, Karter,” Coach called out, giving me a mild, polite nod. “Just reset your footing for the next round. Go get back in line.”
Trenton snickered behind me. Elliot skated by and tapped my lower back with his glove, telling me not to sweat it.
My grip on my hockey stick tightened until my hands hurt. That polite nod was exactly what I hated. It was the kind of coddling that made my dad force me into that miserable PG year to begin with—he was so convinced I would be a failure on the ice that he made me wait an extra year just to put on this jersey.
If my last name were anything else, Coach Corby wouldn’t be giving me a polite nod. I would be skating suicides until my lungs burned, just like any other player.
