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“Why?” he asks again.
Shane starts to laugh. “Dude. You’re so bad at human interaction that people get suspicious when you inquire about their well-being.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble and start taping my own stick. See, this is why I didn’t want the captain title to begin with. Leadership skills continue to elude me.
And, evidently, teamwork continues to elude us.
The game remains scoreless for the first two periods, which is more than one could hope for, considering how many shots they take on net. Kurth is a rock star. And Beckett and Demaine work so well together in the defensive zone that Coach keeps them on a few shifts in a row. They return to the bench utterly spent. Will helps to heave Beckett through the door so Pope and Karlsson can pop out. Beckett collapses on the bench, sweat dripping down his face.
Will gives him a consolatory look and passes over a squirt bottle of water. Colson catches the exchange and frowns, and Will then pretends to study his gloves, picking at an elusive loose thread.
There are too many secrets on this bench.
I’m banging Colson’s ex-girlfriend.
His best friend is watching time travel movies with the enemy.
What has the world come to?
At the beginning of the third, we’re ahead by one goal, after Austin releases a one-timer that makes it past Brown’s goalie. It’s the first gear shift we’ve had all game, but the momentum doesn’t last. Next time we’re in the defending zone, Colson misses a pivotal pass at the face-off that leads to a costly opposition goal.
The score jumps to 1–1.
When Colson returns to the bench, Rand gets in his face. “Good going, captain,” he says sarcastically.
“Fuck you,” Colson spits out.
“Fuck you.”
“Enough!” Coach snaps, holding up his hand. He turns and calls for a substitution.
Meanwhile, I’m as pissed as Rand, because I clearly communicated I was going for the slot. All Colson had to do was fucking listen and the puck would be on his stick right now.
Still, it’s probably not the smartest move on my part, as we skate into face-off position on our next shift, when I scowl at Colson and mutter, “Maybe listen this time?”
That gets his back up. I blink and he’s in my face. His arm comes out, not quite to the point of a shove. More of a tap.
I stare down at his glove on my arm. Then I look up. Shocked and angry. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Keep your goddamn commentary to yourself,” he snaps at me. “We’re trying to play a game here.”
Except these five seconds of bickering get us the whistle. The referee calls delay of game.
Jesus Christ.
We took a fucking penalty.
“What the hell,” Demaine growls as he shoots off toward the bench so Coach can get the penalty kill team on.
“Are you kidding me right now?” The vein on Jensen’s forehead looks like it’s about to explode. “Delay of game?” he screams toward our penalty boxes.
Colson and I both duck our heads. He’s right to scream. There are many penalties that can be avoided, and the one we took is definitely one of them. Especially when it’s called because you’re arguing with your own teammate. No, worse—your cocaptain.
Coach’s eyes tell me we’re in grave danger right now. Brown capitalizes on our error and scores on the penalty.
2–1, Brown.
Case and I are out of the sin bin and return to the ice to do damage control. With two minutes left, a beauty from Larsen brings the score to 2–2. The five-minute overtime period ends scoreless, so now we’ve got a second tie on our record. It’s not a loss, but it might as well be the way Coach fumes in the locker room.
Luckily, he spares us a prolonged verbal ass-kicking. He simply walks in, snaps his index finger from me to Case, and barks out one word: “Deplorable.” Then he addresses the rest of the room. “Shower and change. I’ll see you on the bus.”
Fuck.
This season is off to a tragic start. Only one win so far. And now, tonight, our latest game ends in a tie because the damned cocaptains took a penalty they shouldn’t have. I don’t blame Coach for being mad. He’s used to winning the Frozen Four, and that’s starting to look like a pipe dream this season.
We reconvene on the bus. The mood is glum. It’s a ninety-minute drive back to the Briar campus; about ten minutes in, I notice Jensen get up to talk to the driver.
Ten seconds after that, the bus stops on the side of the road.
Shane, my seatmate, lifts his head from his phone. He was texting with yet another cheerleader, who he’s been hanging out with all week. “What’s this?”
“Colson. Ryder. Get up.”
Case and I exchange a nervous look at the forbidding command. We rise from our seats.
“This is your stop.”
