Icebreaker by A. L. Graziadei
ONE
AUGUST
So, being both depressed and anxious at the same time is absolutely wild.
I have zero desire or motivation to play hockey or do anything other than acquaint myself with my new mattress, but I also have this all-consuming need to be on the ice. To prove myself worthy of my own name.
At least I have Delilah here to make the whole situation tolerable.
I sit on top of the boards at home bench, taping the blade of my stick and listening to the scrape of ice as my sister teaches her new girlfriend, Jade, how to skate. Don’t ask me how Delilah ended up with a non-athlete. Her life is even more hockey-centric than mine, and in the few hours I’ve known Jade, she’s made it perfectly clear that she knows next to nothing about the sport.
Still, the way Delilah smiles, holding Jade’s hands and skating backward as she guides her across the ice, it’s almost enough to make me smile, too.
I try. Force a little uptick at the corners of my mouth. But with banners bearing my name hanging from the rafters, I feel like I’m suffocating under them.
Well, not exactly my name. I’m Mickey James III. Hanging from the rafters are two banners that say James and James II above the now-retired numbers 7 and 13. Waiting for my James III and 17 to join them and complete the trio.
At least until I produce Mickey James IV, and IV spawns Mickey James V, and so on until there are no numbers left for anyone else and Hartland University is forced to shut down the men’s hockey program.
“Don’t let go!” Jade says with the barest hint of a Southern accent, followed by shrieks of laughter as they both tumble to the ice. Thank god Delilah’s wearing shorts under her dress, or I would’ve had to gouge my own eyes out.
I tear the tape off and set the roll next to me on the boards, trading it for my phone and resting my stick across my lap. Obligation forced me up the hill to the arena and into my skates, but apathy overpowers my will to step onto the ice.
There’s a couple messages from my best friend, Nova, waiting for me when I unlock my phone.
Nova: Hey babe
How’s day one going
I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the away goal, the gap in the seats offering a view of Cayuga Lake down the hill, sunlight glinting off it like glass. Hartland’s old stone-and-brick buildings peeking through masses of trees.
If I were anyone else, I might be thrilled to be here right now. On this gorgeous campus, days before the start of my freshman year of college. My entire future laid out at my feet.
But because I’m me, all I can think to say is:
Mickey: Kill me now.
I will pay to fly you from paris or wherever tf you are just so you can kill me
Nova: Sorry your majesty
You’re not that lucky
I narrow my eyes at the your majesty. That’s a new one. Never should’ve joined a team called the Royals.
I glance up in time to see Delilah haul Jade to her feet. She brushes snow off her leggings, and I notice paint stains on her hands, vibrant blues and reds on her dark skin. That’s right. Delilah mentioned she was an artist. Delilah, my total jock of a sister, dating an artist who didn’t even know what a celly was until Delilah demonstrated her go-to goal celebration (the dice roll, because she is that kind of hockey jock) ten minutes ago.
It’s a side of her I never thought I’d see.
“Think you’re ready for some two-on-one?” I call out, my voice rough with disuse.
Jade startles like she forgot I was here, which I can’t blame her for, but her shock melts into an easy grin as she holds Delilah’s arm for support and stretches her back. “Sure! I’ll just … sit in the net or something. Because I can’t even stand on ice, apparently.”
“Once you get over the fear of falling, you’ll pick it up in no time,” Delilah says. She guides Jade back to the bench for a break and leans against the boards next to me.
“I’m more interested in watching the two of you,” Jade says from behind me on the bench. “I want to see real hockey players in action.”
Delilah looks at me, the bangs of her excessively long bubblegum-pink hair hanging in her face. I watch her gaze linger on the dark circles under my eyes, her lips pressing together in a thin line. She probably thinks I’ll collapse as soon as my skates touch the ice, but really, this is just how I look all the time now.
Ever since the NHL Entry Draft ended in June and the focus shifted over to next year’s prospects. Over to me and Jaysen Caulfield, everyone’s projected top two. With my anxiety at its peak, sleep’s been pretty hard to come by.
But I don’t like the concerned look she’s giving me. I slide off the boards and out to center ice just to get away from it.
The smell of a hockey rink is pretty much universal. I close my eyes and breathe in the cold, clean, hockey-scented air, and I could be at any arena in the world. KeyBank Center, where I was pretty much raised back in Buffalo. USA Hockey Arena in Michigan, my home for the past two years.
Hartland’s Giancarlo Alumni Arena is probably twice the size of USA Hockey Arena, with alternating sections of black and purple seats in two levels and an honest-to-god overhead jumbotron with four screens for replays and live gameplay. I’ve played in NHL arenas before, but only for special games. This’ll be my first season having a home rink as nice as this.
Everything’s okay. Everything is going according to plan. I have no reason for sleepless nights, no reason to be so damn miserable all the time.
As soon as the thought crosses my mind, laughter echoes from down the tunnel to the locker room. Like a challenge I have to brace myself for.
My new captains step out of the tunnel first. Seniors named Luca Cicero and Maverick Kovachis, known as Zero and Kovy according to the team group chat I got put in against my will over the summer. I half expect the entire rest of the team to come barreling out behind them, but only one other follows.
The world narrows to a pinpoint as he steps into view, and for the first time in my life, I truly understand how it feels to be stuck between fight or flight.
Jaysen. Caulfield.
I must have committed some heinous crime in a past life to be punished like this. Stuck on a team with my greatest rival. The biggest threat to my number one draft spot. My primary source of heart-wrenching anxiety.
The captains stop at the bench to talk to Delilah and Jade for a minute, giving them hugs and asking about their summers. Jaysen steps past them, looking around the arena, taking it in with pure, wide-eyed awe on his face.
When his eyes lock on me at center ice, the soft curve of his smile sharpens into something wolfish.
I’ve never worried much for my draft spot. I figured as long as I kept playing my game, I’d be safe. But in this moment, with Jaysen looking at me like he’s ready to devour my every hope and dream, I start to sweat.
This is going to be a long year.
* * *
LAST TIME I shared ice with Jaysen Caulfield, the National Team Development Program and I routed his Green Bay Gamblers 6–1. I put up a hat trick and he scored the only Gamblers goal. He must still be holding a grudge because he won’t get off my ass now.
I pick up a loose puck at the benches, and he’s in my space a split second later. I turn to put my body between him and the puck, and he pushes a fist into my back, reaching for the poke check. I turn again, pulling the puck along the boards back in the direction I came from. He recovers pretty quick, but my speed is one of my greatest assets. I make the pass to Delilah at the blue line, and Jaysen shoves me before taking off to backcheck.