“Huh?” I ask absently, fastening my chest protector. “What email?”
Chase makes a face. “Fuck no. He sends like thirty a week. Update this, compulsory training that. Who the hell is reading all of those?”
“No, this is huge. He said—”
A wolf whistle pierces the air behind us. Startled, we whirl around to find Coach Miller standing at the front of the room standing next to a tall guy sporting a scarlet Falcons hoodie. A guy who does not, to the best my knowledge, attend Boyd—because he plays on the starting line for one of our rival teams.
“What in the actual fuck?” Chase says beneath his breath, so low that only we can hear.
“That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Dallas hisses.
I glance over again in confusion. As Woodbine’s top forward, Reid Holloway is one of the division’s point leaders this season. I can hold my own in net, but there’s nothing more unsettling than the sight of him barreling down the ice on a breakaway after he’s weaved through our defensive line yet again. He’s that good.
He’s also a total prick, as most opposing players are. Shoots high, crashes the net, and every time we play in their barn, he leads the crowd in chanting my name to taunt me. At this point in my career, I can block it out for the most part, but it’s still irritating as hell.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen. Per my email earlier today, we have a new athlete joining us this semester.” Coach Miller gestures to Reid’s towering figure with his red clipboard. “This is Reid Holloway, our new junior forward. Most of you are familiar with him from his time with the Panthers where he was one of their top performers. The rest of you will get to know him over the coming days at practice.
“I expect everyone to welcome him with open arms and make him feel like a valued member of this team.” He levels the room with a steely glare, lingering pointedly on Chase. Given how much time he spends in the sin bin whenever we play against Woodbine, Miller has a point.
Around the room, the guys offer tentative greetings and half-hearted welcomes. Beneath the forced friendliness is a definite undercurrent of reluctance. Changing up the roster in the middle of the season is almost unheard of, and for good reason. It throws off the whole team dynamic.
Reid heads for his new locker looking about as happy as we are to see him, which is to say he looks miserable. Something catastrophic must’ve happened to make him transfer so abruptly. I’m mildly curious as to what it might be, but not curious enough to find out.
We finish getting dressed while Coach Miller runs us through the day’s practice plan. He’s already rearranged our starting forwards, placing Reid with Dallas and Chase on the first line. Chase is wholly displeased with this development and slips on his crimson jersey overhead while muttering a tirade of curses under his breath. At least I’m not directly affected on the ice. I would be pissed about that, too.
Everyone else filters out of the dressing room while we hang back, intentionally dawdling to buy time. Chase watches Reid push through the swinging door, then turns back to face us in the empty dressing room. Tension stretches across his face, mirroring the way I feel.
“This is bullshit.” He snatches his water bottle off the bench, clutching it like he’s trying to strangle it.
“Chill, man.” Dallas makes a “calm down” motion with his hands. “It’ll be fine once the new lines have a chance to gel. Whether or not you want to admit it, Holloway’s one of those players you hate when he’s on the other side but like having on your team.”
Pretty common scenario in hockey. My money’s still on Reid being a dick, though.
When neither of us respond, Dallas continues. “Help me out here, Ty. You know you’d hate Carter if you had to play against him.”
“Fair enough,” I admit. “He’d be the fucking worst.”
Chase’s head swivels to look at me and he levels me with a scowl, but his mouth twitches like he’s trying not to laugh. Thanks to his physical playing style and smart-ass mouth, he can get under other people’s skin like no one can. It’s his God-given gift. Speaking as a goalie, players like that are a huge pain in the ass.
“Either way,” Dallas adds, “you’re going to have to get over it. Consider it practice for the league.”
This is true, unfortunately. Players get traded mid-season in the pros all the time and when it happens, everyone has to move past any prior grudges for the sake of the team. I’m practical enough to understand that, but spiteful enough not to care at the moment.
It’s also possible I’m not thinking clearly after today’s earlier events. Maybe I’ll be more level-headed after some time on the ice. Practice always helps me get my head straight.
“Gonna be a long semester,” Chase mutters.
I grab my helmet, pushing to stand. “Sure is.”
Just not for the reasons he thinks.
CHAPTER 5
ONE & THE SAME
SERAPHINA
Office of the Registrar – Boyd University
Declaring a major: All students must declare a major by the end of sophomore year.
I set my mug of coffee on the kitchen counter and make a face, re-reading the page. While I understand the reasoning behind the policy, it strikes me as a little unfair. Unlike Chase, I didn’t come out of the womb knowing what I wanted to be when I grew up. He’s eaten, slept, and breathed hockey for as long as I can remember. My first memory of him is on skates.
Meanwhile, I can’t even commit to a program of study, let alone a career. As a sophomore entering my second semester, it’s getting down to the wire. I’m nearly finished with my general education requirements, and if I don’t settle on a major soon, I could end up wasting time and money on courses that won’t count. The only other alternative would be taking a break from school until I decide. That poses a very real risk I wouldn’t end up going back, and I don’t have a backup plan that doesn’t involve college.
Then again, I don’t have a plan that involves college, either. I don’t have a plan, period.
Flipping through the Courses and Academic Options section, I do a gut check as I try to picture myself in various programs. English? Not unless romance novels are a major part of the curriculum. Science of any sort? Hell no. Math? An even harder no. Psychology? Maybe…
The page lands on Introduction to Creative Writing. Curiosity piqued, I scan the course description. Writing has been one of my favorite escapes from reality ever since I was a kid. It started with devouring books at a young age and evolved into imagining my own stories. Eventually I started writing to occupy myself whenever I got dragged to one of Chase’s games. Maybe that wasn’t very sisterly of me but in my defense, there were a lot of them. A girl can only watch so much hockey.
I composed countless pieces huddled on the benches of various subzero arenas over the years. Although everyone in my family thinks writing was a phase, one of my best-kept secrets is that I still do it. Mostly poetry, along with some other scraps of fiction that I’ve buried in the furthest depths of my hard drive, praying no one finds them should I meet an untimely end.
A seed of curiosity blooms in my brain. I’ve never studied writing formally. The idea is intriguing, if slightly intimidating.