Page 71 of These Wicked Hearts

The arena is loud in a way that crawls under my skin. I’m expecting an easy game. Not because I have my shit together, but because it’s the Vermont Miners and well, yeah, this is going to be a breeze.

The Vermont Miners have been at the bottom of the stats every year for the past six seasons. They’re in a fifteen-year playoff drought. Going to the Miners is a career death sentence, and they’ve struggled to really find their ground after some bad management nearly a decade ago.

Their GM gutted their entire staffing team at the end of last season. New coach, new assistant coach, and a couple of new players. Still, they’re having a hard time finding their ground so far this season. I see people talk about their players. They say the team is too old, they need fresh blood, which I don’t agree with. They have a handful of veteran players close to retirement, including their star—well, only star player—Theo Zepper.

Theo was one of those players every hockey player looked up to early in his career. He was drafted to the Manitoba Ravens when he was twenty, where he played and dominated the roster for nearly a decade, winning them two cups, until a huge trade rocked the hockey world when he chose to trade to the Miners. No one knows why. Still, he made the most of what he could with this sad excuse for a team. He became the first ever Black hockey captain for the Miners. He’s also won many awards on his own, despite the team’s poor performance.

The noise thumps like a second heartbeat here in the arena. I can feel the vibrations through the bench, the floor, through my skates, my chest.

I lean forward on the bench, my elbows resting on the boards, feeling restless. Coach moved me back a line, and I’ve barely had any ice time so far. Across the rink I watch Rome thunder down the ice, body-checking Theo. As solid as a brick wall, Theo doesn’t move, standing his ground.

I think about his words from earlier, and I’ve watched our coach. When Rome is on the ice it’s like he holds a special kind of attention.

“Hey.” Knox bumps my shoulder as he drops down, breathing hard beside me. He takes a towel and wipes his forehead. “You good?”

Coach yells over us at someone on the ice. I can barely make out the words and my focus drifts. Rome takes a pass, settles the puck, then fires clean straight through the crease and scores. “Yeah!” we yell on the bench, but I notice most of the guys don’t even go over to him to congratulate him.

“Why does everyone hate Rome?” I know why the league and fans hate him. His own team, though?

I watch as the man in question glances toward the bench.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t say hate, he’s just kind of a dick. Very closed off, and we all know he’s a dirty player. We kind of let him have his distance.”

I think about Rome’s confession. That’s not what he wants at all. Rome skates to the bench as we slide down the line.

“Yeah, man.” I stand and watch him glare before he realizes what I’m doing and bumps my fist. I think I catch a tiny smile on his lips before it slips clean off to be replaced by his normal bored stare.

We’re up by four goals, and I wait then hop over the boards. Everything narrows. My mind sharpens in the way I love. No thoughts at all. Just me, the puck, and instinct. This is where I’m supposed to be. It’s the only thing in my life that makes sense. The only thing I’m good at. I chase down the loose puck along the boards and shoulder an opposing player. He shoves me hard, but I manage to free the puck, backhanding it to one of my guys.

“—fuck off me.”

I shove someone back and free myself and find the puck. A teammate shoulders a winger at my side. I watch him then skate fast down the ice. I match him, shoving another player away from me. The puck kicks free and I’m gone, pushing hard toward it. My legs burn in the best way.

A defenseman comes my way. I find my teammate with the puck. He shoots to me and I’m off. I slip past my opponent and shoot. “Fuck!” It hits the post. I’m signaled and hop over, sliding into the bench.

“So close,” Knox whispers.

“Fuck off.” I squirt water in my mouth. “Closer than you’ve got tonight.”

“Ouch,” Knox laughs. “They’re down by three with five minutes left, they’re not getting shit.” Knox stands, waiting. “Hey.”

I look up at him.

“A couple of the guys are hanging out tonight. You want to come? Casual. No clubs or nothing.”

“Where?”

“At Theo’s house.”

“Theo?”

Knox nods. “He’s a good friend of mine. It’ll be quiet. Nothing crazy.”

“Oh, uh, okay.”

Coach is riding us harder even though it’s almost impossible to lose. I hop over the boards, legs screaming, but I push. The puck comes to me. I cut wide, building momentum, with one defenseman closing in. I find Pyotr and shoot it to him. Not paying attention, I hit hard into another player, and for a split second my world tilts before I crash onto the ice.

“Fuck!” I grab the back of my head, my vision swimming.