I’m walking too fast, and by the time I see them, I’m already stepping out of sight without waving back. I kind of feel bad about it.
We have to reevaluate our entire game plan during intermission. We came in expecting to skate circles around these guys, but the goaltending switch has made them into a completely new team. Like they saw what Lu was capable of after that first shift and it inspired them.
Panic sets in halfway through the second. There are pro scouts watching us be shut down by one of the worst teams we’ll face this season. The Eagles take advantage of our frustration. At every face-off, they’ve got something to say about my personality, about my face. Every check into the boards is followed by a comment on my height and how easy it would be to break me in half. Every stoppage in play brings on the prediction that I’ll never be as good as my father.
My silence only spurs them on, but I’ve never been very good at chirping.
Cauler finally, finally, puts the puck away with five minutes left in the second, unassisted and absolutely beautiful with a toe drag through the crease and a flick of the wrist that sends the puck straight back and into the water bottle on top of the net, breaking it open so it sprays all over Lu.
It’s the most horrible thing I’ve ever seen. I can imagine him walking to the stage at the draft after being picked first. Holding up one finger in all the press photos to show his rank with me beside him holding up two.
I know it’s ridiculous. I know one single goal isn’t going to determine our draft order. But when I watch the replay, with Cauler beside me smiling and soaking in the praise of our teammates, I feel sick to my stomach.
* * *
IT GETS WORSE.
It’s late in the third and I am desperate. I have no points and there are Sabres scouts in the stands, and Cauler is showing me up left and right. We got comfortable with our two-goal lead. Sat back on our heels, watched the Eagles come back to tie it up.
The Eagles. The fucking Eagles.
This was supposed to be a blowout. A chance to pad our stats. And now we’re about to go into overtime with a team that only won six games last season.
Coach calls a time-out with less than a minute to go, and we gather around the bench only to be bitched at. “We are not going to be a team that plays down to our opponents’ level,” he shouts, pointing down for emphasis. “We are going to play our game, no matter who we’re up against.”
Cauler cracks a vial of smelling salts before we hit the ice again, and for once he does not look attractive, grimacing at the smell of it. He blinks the burn out of his eyes and holds the vial up to me. “Here. Wake up before you make both of us look like shit.”
He says it without real heat, but it still burns under my skin. I have been a non-factor in this game. I’ve been doing my part on the draw when I’m called on, but I don’t have a point or a hit to my name, only two shots on goal. I need to do something.
I lean in to inhale the salts Cauler holds up to my nose. He might as well have jammed ammonia-laced needles directly into my sinuses. My face scrunches and I shake my head a few times until the burn subsides. It’s the most awake I’ve felt all day.
Our line is sent out with thirty-three seconds left on the clock. We put the pressure on right off the draw, because we are not going into overtime with the Eagles. But Ralph Lu isn’t breaking. He throws himself around with no regard for his own safety, getting some part of his body on all the shots we pepper him with.
I have never wanted to fight a goalie as bad as I do right now. Can he just. Let. Me. Score?
The Eagles ice the puck just to get a break, and with only six seconds left, Coach leaves us out there.
The crowd is on their feet in anticipation, but my pulse is pounding so loud in my ears, their screaming is a dull hum. The play is for me to tap the puck through the legs of the guy in front of me on the face-off. Tuck my shoulder, skirt around him, make a quick pass to Cauler in the slot.
We’ve practiced it dozens of times for moments exactly like this. When we’re down to the wire and need something. When it works, it’s quick and pretty and perfect.
The puck drops. I get a stick on it, tap it through. Step around the Eagle center. And the puck is back on my stick. Cauler is open in the slot, the defense collapsing in around me, Lu squared up and ready for a shot.
If I get it to Cauler, we’ll win this game. Still get ripped apart by Coach for putting ourselves in this position, but at least we won’t be the team that lost to the Eagles. Cauler will leave this hell game with two goals. Two beautiful goals. One game winner. He’ll be all the analysts talk about.
If I take this shot, at this angle, the chances of it going in are about zero. But if it does, I’ll have that game winner. I’ll be the one in highlight reels. The scouts in the stands will give impressed nods as they jot down notes about my daring and confidence. I’ll even give them the most passionate celly they’ve ever seen from me.
Cauler is open in the slot. I keep my eyes on Lu.
Somewhere behind me, Zero shouts “No!” like he knows what I’m going to do before I’ve even decided myself.
I take the shot. Aim for the short side, where there’s this tiny little gap in the top corner.
Lu gets a glove on it. Of course he does.
The entire arena deflates as the horn sounds on regulation. There’s none of the excitement from the crowd that usually comes with overtime. They know we screwed this game up.
They know I screwed this game up.
I let my momentum carry me backward into the boards and stand there staring blankly out over the ice as the Eagles celebrate keeping up with us. They look like they just won a championship. Someone in the crowd pounds on the glass by my head. I still don’t move.
Until Cauler skates up in front of me. I push off the boards before he can say anything. He stays with me, grabbing my jersey to slow me down.
“Forget the play, Your Grace?” he asks. There’s full-blown malice in his voice again.
I don’t say anything. Don’t feel anything. I tug out of his grip and skate to the bench with my eyes forward.
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The Royals top line is just a line of assholes.
SIXTEEN
A bad bounce loses us the game two minutes into overtime. I don’t hear anything Coach says in the locker room. All I know is it involves a lot of screaming.
The boys are quiet. Judging by the quick glances they keep shooting me, a lot of them blame me for this. But we were all off our game. Screw them.
I don’t shower at the rink. I’m gonna hear it from them eventually. Doesn’t need to be when we’re all naked.
I pull my hood up and hunch my shoulders, keeping my head low when I step out of the locker room. I just want to get out of this arena without anyone talking to me, looking at me, breathing in my general direction. Take a shower and convince my sisters to get drunk at the lax house instead of the hockey party.
“Mickey!”
Oh god, kill me now. Haven’t I been tortured enough today?
I stop in the middle of the Hall of Champions and take a deep, deep breath before turning to face my father. He closes the glass door to Coach’s office and heads toward me, passing the mural of himself and his name on the walls under every honor.
“Hey, bud,” he says softly once he catches up to me. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and we head out. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine.” I can’t see him with my hood up, but I’m sure he’s giving me those fake concerned eyes, the ones he uses to mask his disappointment.
“You sure? That was a rough game.”