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There is something disconcertingly stiff about the way Nico Mackenzie moves on the ice. For someone who played a solid twelve years in the AHL, you’d think he’d be a little more comfortable on skates. Or enjoy it more. But, judging by the sour expression that has adorned his face since I arrived, maybe he doesn’t enjoy much of anything.
I look away from where Mackenzie is hovering at center ice with a trio of forwards, and turn back to my pair of goalies. I’m not sure what is in the air around here, but Carter Morgan could give Coach Mackenzie a run for his money in a scowling competition.
“Hey.” I whack my stick against the front of his pads, drawing his dark blue eyes to mine. “Lose the face. I’m asking you to do a drill, not get a fucking root canal.”
If anything, this makes him scowl harder. But he takes his place between the pipes, so I guess I’ll take the win. Sliding backward until I lightly bump the boards, I keep an eye on them as they run through the drill. The d-men are sloppy, and though Morgan moves well, he does it with gritted teeth and no enjoyment. Nobody on my end of the ice is having fun.
“Hey, how’s it going?” Avery skates up, clipboard in hand, and smiles.
I grunt, not taking my eyes off of the boys. Avery laughs under his breath and watches with me. After the defensemen nearly score on their own goalie, I decide we need a reset.
“Do you have a whistle?” I inquire, and wait as Avery gives three short blows, stopping play. I see Mackenzie turn toward us, crossing his arms. Ignoring him, I wait for the boys to skateover. Predictably, Morgan is the last to join us and hovers behind his teammates.
“Alright, let’s try something different.”
Cognizant of Mackenzie’s eyes burning a hole into my back, I work the d-line through a series of less complicated drills. At some point, Avery skates off and I start to get into a groove. In fact, by the end of practice, the defensive pairs are at least skating together well enough that they don’t bump into one other, and I’m feeling oddly proud of that fact. When I dismiss the rest of the defensemen, I call to Morgan and ask him to stay back. In a move that surprises nobody, he scowls.
“What,” he says, flatly, coming to a slow halt in front of me. I can tell he wants to cross his arms but the bulky gloves are preventing him.
“Do you want to be here?” I ask, and the frown deepens.
“Obviously,” he practically spits.
“Is it?” Since I’m not wearing goalie pads, I can cross my arms. He’s small for a hockey player, probably 5’11” if he reaches for it, so his skates only put him at eye level with me. “I’m not giving you a hard time; you shouldn’t be here if you’re not having fun.”
“I’m having fun,” he tells me, a challenging glint in his eye.Jesus, this is going nowhere.
“What are you studying?” I ask, and he narrows his eyes at me.
“Business.”
“Sounds boring.” I earn less of a frown with that, and I give him a smile back. He shuffles his skates, scuffing up the ice.
“My dad wants me to work for him,” he admits, and by the look on his face you would think I waterboarded him for the information.
“What do you want to do?”
“Morgan,” the sharp voice of Nico Mackenzie cuts across whatever Morgan was about to say, and he begins scowling in earnest. “Don’t you have class to get to?”
“Sure do, Coach Mackenzie. See ya, Tony.” Morgan salutes us as he skates lazily away, and if I wasn’t annoyed with Mackenzie I might have laughed. I’m not sure where he picked up the Tony shit, but it might be better for me to head that off at the pass. God knows I don’t want the entire team calling me that.
I wait for him to be out of earshot before turning to Mackenzie. “What the fuck, man, I was just getting him to talk.”
“Tony?” Mackenzie asks, scathingly.
He looms over me in skates, and he’s close enough that I have to crane my neck to look him in the face. He’s got an interesting face: light brown hair and hazel eyes that lean much farther toward green than brown. His hair is cropped short, and his face is clean of any scruff; next to him, I feel slightly unkempt, with my shaggy post-playoff hair. But it’s the small scars that really give him character, thin red lines scoring his brow and bisecting one eyebrow. They’re healed, but still fresh enough to be visible.
“Carter Morgan III: freshman, studying for a business degree that his parents want him to finish in three years instead of four, hence the summer program. Born with a silver spoon in his mouth so large, it’s a miracle he didn’t choke on it. Chip on his shoulder the size of Texas, and has zero friends from what I can tell. Certainly, none on this team. He rooms alone because his parents pay for it.”
Mackenzie rattles this off so quick, it takes me a minute to parse through everything he said.
“So, what you’re saying is he needs a friend.”
“No, what I’m saying is he needs to grow up. If he wants to play hockey, he needs to be a part of the team andearnhis spot. Daddy’s money won’t help him here.”
“I’ll talk to him,” I offer.
“Don’t bother. You’re only temporary.”
