Page 8 of Patrick

I look at Bog and for a second, try to work out if he’s talking about Rossi or coach. “Who? Rossi?”

He nods. “Almost as big as yours. He has you in his crosshairs like he’s Rambo. What’s that all about?”

It’s not the first time Bog has asked me about Rossi. He’s been out to get me since he broke into his team’s lineup last season. He’s not exactly their star player.

I shrug.

“You’re both from Rye, so you must know him. Bad blood?”

Surprise almost reaches my expression at his guess, and I wonder what he knows. What’s going on suddenly that coach called me out on the Rossi feud and now Bog is hinting at it? I push away from the boards without answering him, but he follows, and we skate a circle around the rink as everyone joins us. Glancing at the clock, I see we’re all on time, so there won’t be any gassers.

The assistant coach, Winnick, blows his whistle. Looks like he’s running the practice. Thank fuck. We skate to the bench and listen to him while the stick boys squirt water in our mouths.

“Drills. Three on three. Start with the fourth line against the third.” He blows his whistle, and the six guys onto the ice line up at center ice. The rest of us jump over the boards to sit on the bench.

“I hear Rossi is rich,” Bog says, grinning. “That has to annoy you.”

I look at my friend and laugh, recognizing he’s not going to stop until he gets me to talk about Vincent Rossi, otherwise known as my nemesis.

“His family has money. A shit ton of it. He’s had the world handed to him. Plus, if I’m truthful, he’s a decent hockey player. Not as good as I am, and not likely to make it past college, but hell, when he’s done with hockey, he has his family’s empire waiting for him. So I don’t know why he needs to fuck with me.” Big fat lie, but I can’t tell him more.

Bog shrugs. “Must have a tiny dick.”

I laugh. “I wouldn’t know.” But my joking mood dies because making it or not making it in the pros is no laughing matter. I take another swig of water.

“Don’t let him mess with you. You can’t fight him. Let me do it. You don’t need any blemishes on your record.”

I snort. “Don’t I know. If I don’t make it in hockey, I can look forward to being manager at our family’s small fishery or at our market, or out on the boat. Whatever. Not a win since I can barely tolerate the smell of fish without puking.”

“Dude, that’s rough. Your family would make you work in the fishery when the smell makes you sick?”

“They don’t know. And I’ll never admit it even under the pain of torture and a slow death.”

“You’re such a wannabe martyr.” He chortles and slaps my back. “But you’re not going to end up a fish martyr because you’re a sure bet to make it to the NHL. The surest bet on our team.” His words make me smile, but they don’t penetrate enough to instill confidence. That will take some beast-mode work. And I’m up for it.

Coach Winnick blows the whistle and we hop over the boards onto the ice to take our turn at the three-on-three drill and a half dozen other drills before we end with a last cool down skate around the perimeter.

Skating around the rink at UNH is almost like being home, minus the chaos that is my family.

Nothing against my family. They're everything to me. They're why I tough it out in the summers, working at our fish market and filling in at the fishery when absolutely necessary. They deserve my best because they are the best.

Though it’s an odd fact that the only person who’s ever caught on that I detest the smell of fish isn't anyone from my family—it's Fifi—aka Sofia Rossi.

I shake my head to dislodge her from my mind, where she seems to cling like a barnacle no matter how much I try to shake her.

I haven’t seen her except in passing for over two years, but absence and the impossibility of us ever getting together don’t seem to penetrate the connection between her and my imagination. The only dreams I ever have, that I can remember in the morning, feature her and me…. Fuck. Don't think about that now.

I skate to the bench for water, and on my way, I notice a few girls at the boards watching. When I skate back, fully intending to flirt and get my mind off the forbidden fruit whose taste I can’t seem to get out of my mouth—even though strictly speaking, I’ve never truly tasted her. Not the way I want to. The way I was meant to—in another universe.

Removing my helmet to take a swig from the bottle, I turn to the ladies with a smile.

I almost slip and fall on my head because there she is, the one girl I’ve sworn up and down I'd quit flirting with—and who I will be skinned alive over if I’m ever caught doing what I want to do with her—stands there, smiling back, perfect pearly white teeth, luxurious dark hair framing her face, waving a fluffy pink mitten at me. Fifi fucking Rossi.

Nearly smashing into the boards where they stand forces the other two girls, Ricci and Nina, to step back in alarm, but not Fifi. She laughs. My face no doubt looks fierce, and I can feel my eyes blaze. I wonder if she can see the war between fiery passion and fear for my life.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” I whisper-shout.

She rolls her eyes. “It’s a public place. And I’m now officially a UNH student.”