SEVEN
My entire world narrows down to hockey on the day of our exhibition.
My body carries me to classes and gets me to the rink and puts me on the bus to Ontario for my first college hockey game, but my head plays no part in any of it, only coming alive when I step onto the ice in my black-and-purple uniform. Hartland across my chest above a crown. James III across my shoulders over the number 17.
It’s just another hockey game.
It doesn’t even count toward stats.
I just have to play my game and everything will be fine.
It’s a mantra I repeat to myself through the warm-ups, all the way to puck drop to keep myself calm. Every time I catch a glimpse of Cauler, sharing my ice and uniform, I have to start over.
The real hockey media isn’t going to bother with an exhibition, but some student-looking reporter with a Mustangs mic pulls me aside in the hall outside the visitors’ locker room after a scoreless first period. My hair is slicked with water, and sweat that drips from my chin and stings my lips and burns my eyes, but they stick a camera in my face and start rattling off questions like they expect it to be second nature to me.
Most of the Royals keep walking by like this is normal, but Cauler and Zero both pause behind the camera guy. Cauler looks about as irritated as he always does when I get special attention, but Zero crosses his arms and watches me closely as I assure the kid with the mic that twenty minutes of hockey isn’t going to determine the entire outcome of our season.
The rest of the questions are easy to answer with minimal brain power, and after a while, I realize I’ve been staring over the camera guy’s shoulder as I speak. Right at Cauler. I blink back into focus, and he smirks at me. Raises one eyebrow. I clear my throat and look back at the interviewer right as he tilts the mic back in my direction.
“Sorry,” I say. “What was that?”
He fumbles for a second before taking a breath and starting over. “Analysts have been saying recently that Jaysen Caulfield’s stock has been rising. Does that make you feel threatened at all?”
My face twitches. I see Cauler shift out of the corner of my eye, but I refuse to look at him. I don’t wanna see how smug that made him.
“Of course not,” I say slowly, shrugging a shoulder. “He’s a great hockey player and whatever team gets him, first or second’ll be super lucky. It doesn’t matter what order we’re drafted in. He’s my teammate; all that matters is how we work together on the ice.”
Cauler’s laugh draws my attention back to him just as he and Zero step around the camera guy. Zero grabs my jersey and starts pulling me away. “What does matter is that you’re missing Coach’s intermission speech,” he says. The student reporter is too caught off guard to say anything.
Zero leads us the rest of the way to the locker room, and Cauler crowds against me as the door closes behind us. I can feel him against my back, hovering over my shoulder as he says, “I’m a great hockey player, huh?”
I roll my eyes, even as my heart clenches with his voice almost right in my ear. “Gotta play nice for the cameras.”
He laughs again. Sometimes I can’t tell if he’s mocking me or if he just really enjoys seeing me get taken down a notch. Probably both.
“Nice of you three to join us,” Coach says as I sink into my borrowed stall. I don’t respond, keeping my eyes on the whiteboard he’s used to draw up a new play.
“Wannabe sports reporter was attempting to render him comatose,” Zero says, motioning to the muted TV on the far wall playing a delay of the interview. I hardly recognize myself on the screen. The flush in my cheeks from almost ten minutes of ice time can’t hide the sick dullness of the rest of me. The dark bags under my eyes, the hollowness in my cheeks. I watch myself bullshit my way through the questions, and I have no idea how no one else has caught on all these years. My mask is nowhere near as good as I thought it was.
I take in every one of Coach’s words and I know I’ll be able to pick up the new play when I step on the ice, but I don’t exactly pay attention. My heartbeat is a too-fast flutter, breaths too shallow to fill my lungs. Sweat pools in the fingertips of my gloves until I pull them off and wipe my hands on my soaked jersey.
Does that make you feel threatened?
I close my eyes. Of course it makes me feel threatened. I’ve only been told I’d be the top pick since the day I was born. It’s like whatever comes of my career after that day doesn’t matter as long as I’m picked first just like Dad and Grampa.