I spend most of the first period talking with Jade and answering questions from the fans sitting around us, to the point where I’m no doubt gonna be chewed out by Coach again for not paying attention.
Seeing the Royals play from the outside is damn near a religious experience. We’ve settled into something fast and fluid and beautiful and completely worthy of our 10–3–1 record. Our talent is kind of front-loaded on the top line, but the other three aren’t far behind. Our blueliners are easily the best in the NCAA, and Colie’s been a beast in goal.
My old teams were good. I’ve lost count of the number of championships I’ve won over the years. I got a Clark Cup with the NTDP U17s and a gold medal with the U18s in the IIHF Worlds last season. But I never really felt anything from those victories or for the guys sharing them with me. I’ve never felt pride filling my chest so fully it literally aches, especially not for a team barely halfway through its season.
There’s not a doubt in my mind they’ll be adding a new championship banner to the rafters next October. I can almost imagine myself standing on this ice, watching the banner go up with Cauler and Dorian and Barbie beside me. In reality, I’ll be off in whatever city drafts me in June, watching a livestream on the Royals’ website if I’m lucky.
Every time my line takes the ice, my heart jumps. Wicker got pulled up from the second line to replace me, and it didn’t take long for them all to adapt. Wicker adds this little extra layer of grit onto the speed and flash style we’ve developed together. He makes this sick cross-ice pass to Zero in the third that would’ve been an assist if Zero didn’t ring it off the pipe.
I let out a whooshing breath.
“You worried Wicker’s gonna steal your spot?” one of the players from the women’s team asks, half-turning in her seat to grin at me.
“No,” I lie. I am never not worried about someone taking my spot. On the ice, in the draft, on this campus, in the lives of Dorian and Barbie and Cauler. Coach’s already given my spot away once, so I know he’s not afraid to make changes. God. What if I don’t fit in with another line and my play suffers? What if everyone decides it was Cauler making me look good instead of the other way around?
Because Cauler’s playing just as good without me as he does with me. I can’t stop looking at him even when he’s off puck. The way he moves on the ice has my palms sweating so bad, I’m almost constantly wiping them on my jeans. It’s worse—better—when he makes this downright nasty play, practically breaking the ankles of two separate blueliners. They look like they’ve never played hockey before in their lives as he weaves through them on the way to the net. He puts the puck bar down and throws himself at the glass in celebration.
And then. When he breaks away from the boys’ huddle, on his way to the bench. He finds me in the stands and points a finger right at me, this smug little grin on his face. And he winks.
I feel it in my soul.
I melt down in my seat and hold my cup in front of my mouth, face tilted down. I really don’t need my blushing broadcasted over the jumbotron.
Jaysen: Did that goal look as sexy as it felt?
I lock my phone before Delilah or Jade can get a look at it. It feels weird leaving the arena with the fans, but Coach apparently wants to mess with my head or something, because he banned me from the locker room on top of my one-game suspension.
It’s working, too. I used to be itching to get out, away from hockey as fast as possible, to enjoy as much of a break as I could. But now I miss my team. I should be there.
I pull my phone back out and let Delilah and Jade get a couple steps ahead of me.
Mickey: Hard to say
I mean it was pretty yeah
But I’m not exactly aroused by hockey plays
Jaysen: Lmao
Explain last night then
I shove my phone in my pocket and hide my burning face in my hood.
* * *
AS GOOD AS things have been going, the days are getting shorter, so my depression doesn’t give a single shit. It’s getting too cold to do homework at the dock between classes, but as soon as I get into my room all I want to do is lie in bed and watch YouTube videos of near-death experiences caught on camera. As soon as I hit the mattress I am just done. I don’t even realize how much time I’ve wasted away until Dorian bursts through the door and throws himself on his bed, groaning. That means it’s past noon.
“You ever enter a room quietly?” I ask. It’s common enough at this point that I don’t have a heart attack every time he comes back anymore, but still.