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“We learned something tonight. That’s how we have to think about this.”
“Yeah, we learned we suck,” Bryce, one of the second line wingers, says.
“We learnedwhywe suck,” Liam says, standing next to me and putting some team-captain-bass into his voice. “And more importantly, we learned that before the regular season starts. So we have time to do something about it.”
“Yeah, we suck because offense can’t get any shots on goal,” Lars grumbles, stripping off his pads.
“We didn’t have any time with the puck because defense couldn’t keep Fernway from controlling it for the whole fucking game,” Bryce spits back, rising to Lars’s bait.
“Enough!” I shout, silencing the bickering before anyone else can get a word in. Bryce sits down, turning away from Lars, who continues to glower.
“Aaron,” Liam says, glancing around to find our goalie. “You played a hell of a game. Anyone else in the same net would’ve given up ten goals or more.”
Aaron nods. “Thanks, cap.”
“The rest of us,” I pick up for Liam, “we’ve got a lot of work to do. And you know what, it’s not our skills that need work. It’s our communication. Our chemistry. Our teamwork. That’s what went wrong, and we all know it. If this were a skills competition against Fernway instead of an actual game, we would’ve won.”
“Since junior hockey, our coaches have drilled into us that teamwork is more important than talent,” Walsh says, sort of surprising me by standing up and joining me and Liam. But I guess I shouldn’t be surprised, because he’s not a rookie anymore. And when Liam and I graduate next year, he’ll be the Hot Shots veteran who’ll need to be able to rally these guys and tell them what they need to hear. “Tonight, we know they weren’t bullshitting us. Our skills don’t mean anything if we can’t get on the same page and make them work together.”
I can feel a sense of agreement settling over the rest of the guys. This result sucked, it really sucked, but the worst thing that could happen is for us to be at each other’s throats because of it.
“So, I guess the victory party is off?” Aaron says.
“No way,” I shoot back. We need more time off the ice together, not less, and we need to learn not to let a defeat crush our spirits. “Party’s on, and it’s gonna be the best of the year.”
“You’re gonna be there, too, Lars,” Liam says to our grump defenseman.
Lars opens his mouth, because I just knew he was going to try to get out of it, but I cut him off before he can start. “All hands on deck, Lars. Consider it team building.”
* * *
I guessthe rest of the Ridley campus either didn’t see or didn’t realize how pathetic that exhibition loss was, because the Ice Box is bumping. It’s packed full of students and there’s a wild, chaotic, jubilant atmosphere that this place hasn’t seen in over a year.
For a while, the Ice Box was the hottest party house on campus. Then, as the guys started finding girlfriends and leaving their partying days behind them, things got milder and tamer, until last year we didn’t even throw a single rager like this.
I guess tonight is just making up for lost time.
The music is loud, the cleared-out living room has turned into a dancefloor, and the place is packed with beautiful girls who seem to be competing with each other to wear as little as possible.
“Yeah, this is the Ice Box I remember from the old days,” I say to Liam who’s next to me. I lift my red Solo cup and take a sip of beer.
Liam nods, but when I look at him, I don’t see that spark of excitement in his eyes that he used to get at a party swarming with beautiful women who are all dreaming of ending the night in a hockey player’s bed.
Because he already knows who he’s ending up in bed with tonight, and for every other night of his life.
He gets a text from Zoey that she just got here, and he leaves to greet her at the front door.
I’m about to let that be my cue to go mingle with one of the dozens of girls who’ve made eyes at me over the last couple minutes, but Shane suddenly slaps me on my back.
“Hell of a fucking party!” he yells. His red Solo cut is empty, and judging by the way he looks and sounds, he’s probably filled up and emptied it a couple times by now.
“Damn right,” I reply, proud that we’re reviving the dormant reputation that the Ice Box spent years earning.
Last year, the basketball players’ house picked up the mantle of best party house on campus—a downright unacceptable situation, if you ask me.
“You seen Lars around?” I ask, hoping he’s not just holing up in his room and being anti-social.
“Speak of the devil,” Shane says as Lars walks up carrying a drink.
