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Shane and Lars have been at each other’s throats ever since we lost to New Jersey. Not only can’t they get into sync during practices, they’re also bickering like school kids at the Ice Box every damn day.
Two days ago, Shane ate more of Lars’ eggs, and Lars flipped out. Again. Even though Lars wrote his name on this new carton half a dozen times, so you can’t possibly miss it no matter what angle you’re looking at it from.
It’s clear Shane just did it to screw with him since Lars has been such a dick lately. To be fair, Lars makes himself way too easy to screw with, with that hair-trigger temper of his.
The hometown crowd still cheers for us as we skate onto the ice, but there’s something missing from the atmosphere. The fans aren’t as excited as they were previous years, they don’t greet us like the conquering heroes we used to be.
I want to fix that. I need to fix that.
But I sure as shit can’t do it myself. We need to be on the same page.
At the start of the game, we’re not.
It’s the same story, even though Coach has drilled us to death during every practice since the New Jersey loss. Lack of communication, lack of chemistry, bad timing.
We find ourselves down 1-0 at the beginning of the second period. And then Hayes College, our visiting opponent, scores on us again.
By the third period, it’s 3-0.
To add insult to injury, one of the players high-sticks Lars. The stick slams down onto the back of Lars’s neck with sickening force, and Lars hits the ice.
It’s Shane of all people who sees red and goes after the Hayes player. Shane’s gloves are ripped off and he’s throwing left and rights with reckless abandon. Other Hayes guys try to pull Shane away, but Shane’s uncontrollable.
“No one take a dirty shot at my teammate like that and gets away with it,” he grows at the Hayes defenseman he’s pummeling. The only thing the guy can do is cover up and try to weather the storm. Finally, Liam and I are able to drag Shane away.
He goes right into the Sin Bin.
Coach calls Lars back to the bench to take a break. When Lars gets back to his feet, he looks at Shane—and nods.
Once Shane’s time in the Sin Bin is over, Lars goes back out to the ice, too.
And suddenly, they’re playing like they’ve been teammates for years.
Perfect communication, perfect passing, perfect timing.
We score two goals in quick succession. The game still ends at 3-2, another loss, but when we’re back in the locker room, the mood isn’t somber like it’s been after every other loss.
“Some nice stick work out there, Shane,” Lars says. The rest of the locker room observes Lars complimenting Shane with silent awe, like they’ve just spotted a rare albino moose in the wilderness.
“Thanks, bro,” Shane replies.
* * *
The morning after the loss,Lars and I are sitting on the couch in the living room, watching TV. Neither of us have class until later this afternoon.
A yawn bellows down the stairway as Shane traipses down, shirtless and in just a pair of sweatpants.
“Morning, guys,” he says groggily.
“Hey, Shane,” I reply.
Lars nods in his direction. It’s hard to tell whether Lars is giving someone the silent treatment or just being … Lars.
Shane rustles through the fridge. “Fuck,” he says. “I’m hungry but I forgot to go shopping.”
“Use some of my eggs,” Lars says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
Shane’s head whips to Lars’s direction. “Seriously?”
