The ref’s whistle suddenly pierces the air.
I groan when I see Beckett took a penalty for slashing. The Briar fans scream their outrage, and then our line is off the ice and the penalty kill team takes over. Trager and Rand are both on that line. They’re two of the best penalty killers in college hockey. But they’re not in sync at all. They’re so busy encroaching on each other’s territory that they both somehow lose sight of the puck.
The Northeastern left winger easily scores, drawing first blood in the game.
Coach throws down his clipboard.
He’s fuming when Trager and Rand return to the bench. “What was that?” he yells. “What in goddamn hell was that?”
You’d think they’d feel foolish enough to be shamefaced, but they’re too busy glaring at each other.
“That was a garbage goal,” Rand mutters when he catches me frowning at him.
I stare at him in disbelief. To even imply it was nothing but a lucky goal is insane. He and Trager screwed up and the other team capitalized on it. The end.
He sees my face and ducks his head, his own expression dark.
The buzzer signals the end of the first period. Coach reams into us in the locker room during intermission. It’s well deserved, and we take it without a word. Trager looks like he’s got something to say, but he blessedly keeps his obnoxious mouth shut under the face of Jensen’s wrath.
But he’s got plenty to say when the game resumes. After I miss a shot and return to the bench for a line change, Trager glowers at me and spits out a series of insults, ending with, “Why the fuck didn’t you pass? Case was wide open.”
I give him a withering glare. “I didn’t see that he was wide open. I don’t have eyeballs in the back of my head.”
“Enough. All of you shut up.” Coach’s eyes are stone-cold murder.
The second period is much like the first. We’re completely out of sorts. The only saving grace is that our goalie is a rock star. That starting position was well earned by Kurth. He’s truly the greatest goaltender I’ve ever seen play outside a professional setting.
“He’s incredible,” Shane mutters as we watch Kurth’s glove pluck another shot out of the air, and the home crowd releases a deafening roar of approval.
“Rock star,” one of the Briar guys agrees in awe.
Evidently, that’s the only agreement we can reach on the bench—that our goalie is saving our collective asses.
As the game nears its last seconds, we’re still completely shut out by Northeastern’s goalie, who typically has more holes than Swiss cheese. It’s a testament not to how good he is, but to how bad we’re playing.
The final buzzer blares to cheers from the small amount of Northeastern fans and a chorus of boos from the Briar crowd.
Our first game is the most dismal Briar showing in a real long time, and for a man who’s not into speeches, our coach has no problem telling us that in the locker room.
“That, in all my years of coaching at this university, was the most pathetic display I’ve ever seen,” he fumes. “And not because you lost. We’ve been shut out before.” His harsh gaze flicks toward some of the older Briar players. “We all know what it’s like to lose. But to lose like that? Because you couldn’t be bothered to work together? Goddamn unacceptable.”
He whips his clipboard across the room in an explosion of pages.
Jensen draws a breath. Then he exhales in a slow, even rush.
“Keep your gear on, except for your skates. Put on your shoes and go meet Coach Maran in the gymnasium.”
He stalks out of the room.
We all stand there, still in full uniform and pads, still sweating from the three periods we spent skating around like chickens with our heads cut off.
Guys exchange wary looks.
“I don’t like this,” Patrick says uneasily. “Why can’t we change and shower?”
“C’mon,” Nick mutters. “Let’s get this over with.”
A few minutes later we enter the gymnasium, where Nazem lets out an anguished wail that bounces off the acoustics in the cavernous space.
My vision is assaulted by three unacceptable things.
Nance.
Sheldon.
And an obstacle course.
“No,” Shane moans. “Please. I can’t. No.”
“Jensen had this set up already!” Patrick exclaims, betrayal filling his eyes. “That means he thought we were going to lose.”
He’s right, I realize. Which evokes a rush of acrimony, because what kind of coach has such low confidence in his team that he proactively prepares a punishment for an expected loss?
Everyone swivels toward our assistant coach in pure accusation.
“Oh, no, this was going to happen either way,” Maran reveals with a shrug. “Win or lose.”
“So if we won, we were still going to get punished?” Trager is outraged.
“Now, boys, this isn’t punishment,” Sheldon says, stepping forward with a comforting smile.
“It’s a reward,” Nance tries to reassure us. “This is soul food. We have to nourish the soul in order to reach our full growth potential.”
Sheldon makes a tsking noise with his tongue. “With that said, we heard we have an itty-bitty communication problem happening here.”
Assistant Coach Maran snorts.
“Luckily, we have the perfect exercise to solve this problem,” Sheldon says.
Both siblings are wearing whistles and pastels again. And both look way too excited to be spending their Friday night playing communication games with a bunch of pissed-off, sweaty hockey players.
“I can’t,” moans the freshman who replaced Tim Coffey on the starting roster until Coffey’s wrist heals. “Come on, Coach. We just played three periods of hockey. I’m so tired.”
“Yep. And now you’re going to complete an obstacle course,” Coach Maran says cheerfully. He nods at the Laredos. “I’ll leave you to it.”
I clench my teeth to stop myself from hissing expletives at Maran’s retreating back. This is a goddamn nightmare.
“I should’ve transferred schools,” mutters Shane.
“Yeah, for real.” Beckett sounds exhausted.
“Whatever,” Trager says, stalking forward. His Converse sneakers look absurd with his uniform, though I’m sure we all look equally ridiculous. “Let’s get this bullshit over with.”
“All right,” Nance announces, clapping her hands. “You’re going to pair up now. Each pair needs to consist of one former Eastwood and Briar player. Doesn’t matter how you pick your pairs, but that’s the only stipulation.”
Colson is standing beside me, so I look over and we exchange a tight nod. On my other side, Beckett seeks out a Briar guy and winds up with Will Larsen.
I step forward and examine the course in front of us. Three lanes wind their way from one end of the gym to the other. One side has a raised wooden platform I assume is the starting position, the other side offers a color-specific mat that must be the finish line. The lanes are color-coordinated and contain identical features. Balance beams about three feet high. Random milkcrates, painted their lane color, along with a few big black tires, are scattered on the waxed floor. Past the minefield of crates and tires is a kiddie pool with a second balance beam suspended over it, although this beam is wider and lower to the ground. Beyond that are big fake papier-maché boulders.