The energy in the room deflates enough that no one even reacts when I whiff on a one-timer at the top of the left circle. I can see my mistake with startling clarity this time around. On the ice, I thought I had no time. My defender was stepping in, the goalie sliding through the crease, another guy closing in from behind. My lane was closing, and I thought taking time to line up the shot would’ve been a missed opportunity. But seeing it like this, I can see the defender down low stumble, catching himself on the goalie’s pads, tying them both up. I could’ve waited, deked at the last second to get out of the double, taken a better shot. I had plenty of time.
The worst part is I got over it faster than I have ever gotten over a mistake before. I know I suck at slap shots. I’ve come to terms with it.
And now it’s being shoved in my face.
I sink lower in my seat.
“This is a problem we’ve been having all season,” Coach says, pausing the tape. “We play too fast. There’s times when it works, sure. Like that play with Barboza, James, and Caulfield. But the times it doesn’t are catastrophic. We need to slow it down, think. We hit the blue line like a wall, all at once. Spread it out, take your time. We only got a few months to get our game settled. Our record’s on our side for now, but we keep making mistakes like this, it’s not gonna last. We need to play smarter.
“James,” Coach calls me out. I snap my eyes to him. “You’re better than that. You…”
I tune out the rest of his words and keep my chin tucked in the locker room as we lace up. I don’t hear anything else until I stand to follow my team out to the ice and Coach calls me aside. Cauler narrows his eyes at us as he passes. It almost looks like concern.
“I want you working on your slappers with Coach Stempniak,” Coach says.
My whole body tenses as I look up at them.
“I don’t ever take slapshots, Coach,” I say after a beat of silence. “That was a fluke.”
“It’s a skill you should have.”
I blink at him. The tone of his voice sounds less like a skill you should have and more like an embarrassing skill not to have as Mickey James III. We stare each other down, but I have a lot more practice in keeping my face chilly and unsettling, and Coach cracks eventually. He looks away and says, “Go on, get on with it.”
I take an extra few seconds before tearing my eyes away and leading Coach Stempniak to the ice. We take over one of the zones and set up identically to how Cauler and I did. But this isn’t Cauler and we’re not alone and where each failed shot brought me this weird kind of joy before, now they bring me nothing but rage. I feel eyes on my back. I know the boys are busy practicing behind me, but all I hear is blood rushing in my ears, and I swear they’re all standing back there watching me miss every shot.
I wonder what Dad would say if he could see me now. Probably something about my name and my blood and his legacy. He didn’t have these problems. He’s tall. Strong. Can take a shot from anywhere, slap a puck so hard it breaks the glass. I will never live up to his name.
Sometimes I wonder if he regrets marrying Mom. If he blames her for making me so short.
It takes a half an hour of continuous failure and Coach Stempniak doing the hardest work of his career trying to fix me before I finally connect solidly, accurately, the way a real hockey player should.
And then I’m Mickey James III. A flawless hockey machine who can hit a slap shot as good as anybody.
TWENTY-ONE
DECEMBER
Just because we’re regularly having sex now doesn’t mean I’m gonna let Cauler off easy. I put up three goals and two assists in our two games that weekend, while he comes away with a goal and two assists, and I am officially eleven points ahead of him.
Twitter loves it. Especially when Cauler tweets:
Jaysen Caulfield @jaycaul21
Imagine if @mjames17 could add those eleven points to his height. Maybe then I’d be nervous.
I’m sitting next to him on my bed, sharing a bag of salt-and-vinegar chips, when I reply.
Mickey James III @mjames17
Replying to @jaycaul21
Must really hurt your ego for someone as small as me to be so much better than you.
Cauler snorts when he reads it. “That the best you can do?”
I shrug. “Not like I can get vulgar on social media.”
He pushes me down onto my mattress while Twitter blows up about our rivalry and how much we despise each other.
I wake up on Monday to the alma mater chiming from the bell tower, greeting the first heavy snowfall of the year. My jeans are soaked halfway to my knees by the time I make it to class, only to find a sign taped to the door saying it’s canceled.