“Depends. Your father would probably call it dumb. Just like not wearing your helmet,” I reply, my gloved hand ruffling through his hair to underline my point. Milo scrunches up his nose but doesn’t complain. He’s pretty small for a twelve year old, still more concerned with games and hockey—especially hockey—than his appearance. I grimace when I imagine other middle schoolers going up against him.
“Milo! What did I tell you? Homework before hockey!”
Both of us jump at the loud voice then duck under the stern glare from Coach Kovachev.
“Buttatko!I was notplayinghockey,” Milo points out as he lets go of me to hurry off the ice, already suspecting his flimsy argument won’t convince his father. A grin tugs on my lips as Milo imitates the coach’s accented way of speaking.
Coach just huffs at that, waiting until his son has stalked off the ice before sending him down the tunnel with a gentle slap of his hockey stick against his bum. “Go wait in my office. I have to talk to Nicholas.”
This makes me perk up. Glancing around, I realize that I’m the last one out here. The rest of the team must have already hit the showers while I was busy horsing around with Milo.
“Talk to me?” I ask unnecessarily, suddenly feelingveryaware of how sweaty I am. My pads and hockey uniform are clinging to my overworked body. A year ago I wouldn’t have batted an eye at this, but now my mind immediately starts picking the training session apart. In hindsight, I probably could have created better scoring chances in the scrimmage, and ithadtaken a moment for me to get into the drills.
Coach just raises a brow at me. “Know another Nicholas here?” he asks as he takes a seat on the bench, prompting me to sit down beside him. “How is your knee?”
My hand, which has started subconsciously massaging my right knee, freezes as if I’ve been caught jerking off in the showers.
“Uhm...better, sir,” I tell him after a moment’s pause, not sounding very convincing to my own ears, even though it’s not a lie. My knee has gottena lotbetter since that UMass defenseman sent me crashing into the boards.
One moment I was pivoting to set our Captain, Linus Zollweg, up for a hat trick; the next I was screaming from the hot pain that seared through my right side. I knew right then and there that I was fucked. The tearing sensation had nothing to do with the hits and shoves every hockey player is used to, and the shocked faces of my teammates confirmed my worst fears. Even our opponents looked at me with pity when I was carried off the ice. The team doctor didn’t waste much time on me and waved me off to the hospital at first glance. There they diagnosed me with the shittiest Christmas present ever: an ACL rupture that lasted me from the end of last year up until recently. It’s taken months for me just to be able to put skates back on my feet.
So yeah, I might not be fully up to speed again, and I know it. Especially when the coaches have us running a lot of skill drills. It still feels wobbly when getting down on one knee or jumping from the inside to the outside edge of the skate and back again. But I’ve also come a long way from taking my first steps with crutches back in January. I don’t say any of that, though, because it sounds like an excuse.
Or does it? I don’t know. I thought the first few training sessions went okay, especially since we’re still in the pre-season. But when I see Coach tilt his head, I reconsider.
“Good.” His eyes focus on my knee as if he’s trying to x-ray it personally. “Because the team will need you this year. But you better take things slow, yes? Don’t do too much too soon.”
I find myself nodding along to his words before I feel the blood freeze in my veins. I did nothing but take it slow these past months! I hobbled forward using the tiniest of steps, stretched my ligaments inch by inch, trained without weight like an absolute beginner…I’m tired of it.
“I was thinking Aldridge, Dunn and you on a line. Just for a while. Will be good for them, too.”
I’m sure there is a complimentsomewherein those words, but my brain is still stuck on the fact that I have just gotten relegated from first to fourth line.
Fucking fourth line with the sophomores, which means that I’m not going to see a lot of ice time in our first game.
My mouth opens as if to protest, but I quickly bite my lower lip. Hard. Arguing with Coach is bad form, even when I want to fight—and plead—for a chance to change his mind. I also can’t escape the flicker of doubt I feel.
I know that I haven’t been able to keep up with my former linemates the way I did before my injury, but I can’t put my finger on the exact issue. It’s not that I’m more winded or slower per se. It’s just…like I’m always lagging a second behind. Loudly denying that would be a lie.
I let out a careful breath and force myself to nod. “Yeah, makes sense.”
Coach narrows his eyes at me, fine lines forming around their corners as he regards me with obvious suspicion. “Makes sense?” he repeats before leaning the slightest bit forward, as if he has trouble seeing me. “No talking back? You are Nicholas, yes? No secret SBU spy?”
I snort at that despite the lump in my throat. “You think I would allow my brother to spy on us?” I manage to keep mywords light and mock-offended as I try to prevent my voice from shaking.
I’ve been demoted to fourth line. I’ve been demoted to fourth line. I’ve been demoted to–
“Hm. Maybe notallowit. Maybe you kidnapped Nicholas.” He winks at me while getting up. “It’s not forever,” he adds with a much more serious expression as he passes me on the way to the tunnel, briefly patting my shoulder. “Just until you get your skates back under yourself and the injury out of your head.”
Blinking down at my feet I nod, not really knowing what to make of that. I don’t have any more time to waste. This is my last year of college before entering the NHL. My draft spot should guarantee me a contract with the New York Rebels, but my injury suddenly turned me into a wild card. Doctors told me I’m good to play again, but there’s a glaring mark on my health record now. I know the Rebels will be watching me like hawks this season, and sitting on the bench is not the advertisement I need right now.
***
I’ve just been demoted to fourth line.
The thought is still present in my head as I drag my duffel and gear from the driveway to the porch of the small house I’m renting with a few other students.
I had actually looked forward to the full college experience, roommate and dorms and all, but the harsh reality presented itself differently. Instead of becoming my new best friend, my roommate turned out to be the biggest pain in the ass I could have ever imagined. There is nothing wrong with taking college seriously, but I wasn’t impressed with his snitching, complaining and lecturing—not to mention him taking out my light bulbs to try and enforce a ten PM curfew.
