But I don’t like the concerned look she’s giving me. I slide off the boards and out to center ice just to get away from it.
The smell of a hockey rink is pretty much universal. I close my eyes and breathe in the cold, clean, hockey-scented air, and I could be at any arena in the world. KeyBank Center, where I was pretty much raised back in Buffalo. USA Hockey Arena in Michigan, my home for the past two years.
Hartland’s Giancarlo Alumni Arena is probably twice the size of USA Hockey Arena, with alternating sections of black and purple seats in two levels and an honest-to-god overhead jumbotron with four screens for replays and live gameplay. I’ve played in NHL arenas before, but only for special games. This’ll be my first season having a home rink as nice as this.
Everything’s okay. Everything is going according to plan. I have no reason for sleepless nights, no reason to be so damn miserable all the time.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, laughter echoes from down the tunnel to the locker room. Like a challenge I have to brace myself for.
My new captains step out of the tunnel first. Seniors named Luca Cicero and Maverick Kovachis, known as Zero and Kovy according to the team group chat I got put in against my will over the summer. I half expect the entire rest of the team to come barreling out behind them, but only one other follows.
The world narrows to a pinpoint as he steps into view, and for the first time in my life, I truly understand how it feels to be stuck between fight or flight.
Jaysen. Caulfield.
I must have committed some heinous crime in a past life to be punished like this. Stuck on a team with my greatest rival. The biggest threat to my number one draft spot. My primary source of heart-wrenching anxiety.
The captains stop at the bench to talk to Delilah and Jade for a minute, giving them hugs and asking about their summers. Jaysen steps past them, looking around the arena, taking it in with pure, wide-eyed awe on his face.
When his eyes lock on me at center ice, the soft curve of his smile sharpens into something wolfish.
I’ve never worried much for my draft spot. I figured as long as I kept playing my game, I’d be safe. But in this moment, with Jaysen looking at me like he’s ready to devour my every hope and dream, I start to sweat.
This is going to be a long year.
* * *
LAST TIME I shared ice with Jaysen Caulfield, the National Team Development Program and I routed his Green Bay Gamblers 6–1. I put up a hat trick and he scored the only Gamblers goal. He must still be holding a grudge because he won’t get off my ass now.
I pick up a loose puck at the benches, and he’s in my space a split second later. I turn to put my body between him and the puck, and he pushes a fist into my back, reaching for the poke check. I turn again, pulling the puck along the boards back in the direction I came from. He recovers pretty quick, but my speed is one of my greatest assets. I make the pass to Delilah at the blue line, and Jaysen shoves me before taking off to backcheck.
The next time, he doesn’t bother with the puck and just slams me into the boards. The glass rattles, and I hear Jade’s gasp from the bench. I bite down on my mouth guard and trap the puck against the boards with my skate to keep it out of his reach. But I mean, he’s more interested in being an asshole than playing hockey at this point anyway.
“When’s the last time you smiled?” he says. I shove my hip into him and get enough space to kick the puck out to Zero.
Jaysen doesn’t let up, chirping me whenever he’s in earshot and throwing his body into me every chance he gets. Delilah bumps my shoulder as I catch my breath after one particularly rough hit.
“I think someone’s a little afraid of you,” she says with a wink.
I roll my eyes, but she has a point. He wouldn’t be homed in on me like this if he wasn’t thinking about our draft projections. So I put up with his antagonism, even when he makes a jab at my size and says, “You gotta buy kid skates or what?”
That one almost gets me. It’s not like I’m that short. Perfectly average, actually.
Okay, maybe a few inches below average. For a non-athlete. Most hockey players have something like eight inches on me. But Jaysen only has six, so it’s not like he’s the tallest guy on the ice, either.
He gets around me and puts the puck top shelf, right through one of the holes in the corner of the shooting target, and when he looks at me, his smile is small and cocky, his stick resting across his hips as he glides on one foot back to the rest of us. Delilah’s on the bench with Jade now, explaining the game to her as it plays out in front of them.