Jesus. Social media is scary.
The original poster only tagged the NHL account, but whoever runs it added the comment who will get the better grade? with a thinking face emoji, and tagged both me and Jaysen.
It’s impossible to miss Delilah with that hair. They just don’t care about her. So I retweet it and say obviously @LilahJames23.
The professor shows up as the notifications start pouring in. My follower count has been steadily rising ever since the focus shifted to my draft class. I barely even use the thing, but I’m gonna have to turn off notifications soon. For now, I silence my phone and take the syllabus the girl a few seats over passes to me. We don’t do roll call. Instead, the professor goes around and makes each of us introduce ourselves.
In a class this size, it’ll take almost the whole hour.
Everyone’s giving their year, their majors, what they plan to do with their degree. My hands are clammy, my chest tight. What the hell am I supposed to say without making myself look like an ass?
Jaysen’s right. I don’t belong here. I should be on some CHL team, not wasting my and everyone else’s time in this classroom, taking up space on this campus.
Jaysen turns in his seat to face more people when he’s up, eyes skipping right over me as he says, “I’m Jaysen. Freshman soc major. Thinking about working in a law firm someday.”
Not a word about hockey. Jaysen Caulfield is made up of more important things.
Now I have to make it look like I am, too. Just to get him off my back.
I drown out the rest of the intros, scrambling to come up with something meaningful. Anything I like that I could make a career out of. Something I’d be happy to get out of bed for.
My mind comes up startlingly blank. Nothing makes me happy, really. Getting out of bed is a chore.
“Hi!” Delilah says, all loud and bubbly, jolting me out of my thoughts. “I’m Delilah James. Sophomore sports management major. I’m playing for Team USA women’s hockey in the Olympics next year and working for them after I graduate.”
There is no hoping or planning about it. She talks like it’s already a given. I mean, of course it is. She’s a James, after all.
Then it’s my turn. Forty-something pairs of eyes on me is nothing compared to the thousands when I’m on the ice. But this is way more stressful. Talking is not part of my skill set.
My mouth is so dry that my tongue makes this gross sticky sound as it moves. “I’m, uh…” My eyes dart around the room, looking for someone safe to focus on so it’s not like I’m talking to all of these people. It’d be weird if I stared at Delilah right next to me. So of course I home in on Jaysen. He watches me through heavy eyelids, head tilted back like a challenge.
I clear my throat. “Mickey. Freshman. Marine science major.”
And that’s all I got. Jaysen raises one eyebrow so it arches above his glasses. I look away.
The room is quiet for a beat before some guy shouts, “Go Sens!”
The Ottawa Senators are a favorite to tank this season and win the draft lottery for that coveted top pick. I sigh heavily and barely catch the way Jaysen’s face sours as he turns around. He’s a top prospect, too, but nobody made any comments like that for him.
JaysenCaulfield @jaycaul21 ? 32m
Replying to @NHL
Note how @mjames17 is behind me, just like he will be on draft day
THREE
SEPTEMBER
I get through the first few weeks of college without dropping out, but that’s only because I don’t want to deal with Dad whining about it for the next twenty years.
We got team lifting in the morning, followed by team breakfast in the players’ lounge. Team lunch in the dining hall after morning classes and suffering through afternoon classes just to get to team captains’ practice and team dinner and team Saturdays at the rink and team study hall on Sunday afternoons. But even with all this team bullshit, I still feel no closer to any of them.
Well, maybe Dorian a little, but that’s only because I live with him and he’s at least tolerable. Still, it’s not like I go out of my way to talk to him. There’s a lot of awkward silences in our room at night.
Practice gets more and more serious as the season approaches, and the captains work us hard, running through Coach’s practice plans. I leave the rink every night gasping for breath and go to the weight room every morning so sore I can barely move.
And I’ve been doing this my whole life.
Maybe I should call Dad. Ask if he felt this out of shape at this point, too, or if I’m just hopelessly unprepared for college hockey and everyone will finally see I’m not worthy of my own name.
My entire body shudders at that betrayal of my mind. Let me just call up my dad and fuel the fire of his disappointment. Right.
It’s not that he’s a terrible parent. It’s just … everyone says he had five other kids just to get to me. I’m always afraid my sisters are gonna resent me for it. Then there’s the fact that Delilah is a better hockey player than me, but Dad refuses to admit it.
With both of us playing at the same level this season, no one will be able to deny it.
The energy in the locker room is completely different before the first official practice toward the end of the month. The guys are pretty quiet as we suit up, this nervous excitement radiating off of everyone. No matter how hard we worked in captains’ practices, how seriously we took Zero and Kovy, it’s not the same as answering to the coach who’s going to determine your ice time.
We get a few minutes to warm up and stretch on the ice before Coach Campbell blows his whistle and calls out, “On the line.”
There’s a collective sense of ugh, here we go as we take to the goal line and another blow of the whistle sends us sprinting to the lines and back. I have a distinct disadvantage with my shorter legs. I might be quick in-game, using my size to duck around bigger guys and get the jump on them, but when it comes to a dead sprint, it’s harder for me to keep up.
It’s a flaw that NHL scouts will no doubt agonize over when they start getting nitpicky between Jaysen and me. I’m not about to let him show me up here. I push myself to the point of collapse, the taste of iron in the back of my throat, but I still end up a couple strides behind him. We both gasp for air, bent over with our sticks across our thighs, but when he looks up and catches me watching him, he looks so pleased with himself I could smack him.
Our starting goaltender, Colie, is on a whole other level when we move on to shooting drills. He was pretty good during captains’ practices, but under the scrutiny of his Olympic gold-medalist goalie coach, he’s stepped it up. His reflexes are so quick it’s mildly frightening, and he makes it look so easy, I’m half-tempted to put on the pads and try it for myself. I’m so impressed I can’t even get frustrated when he blocks most of my shots.
It helps that Jaysen’s not having any better luck. The upperclassmen have been playing with Colie long enough that they know his weaknesses and are able to exploit them a bit before he shuts them down, too.
After that, we move on to three-on-twos, with Coach Campbell shouting out real-time feedback, like:
“Cicero, keep your head up!”
“Caulfield, more pressure on the puck along the boards!”
And, “James, you had a lane! Take the one-timer next time!”
I huff, far enough away he can’t hear me. I can wrist a one-timer all day, but I was at the point for that one, and I’ve never been confident in my slap shot. Especially not on a moving puck. I’d rather take the time to set it up than risk whiffing on it and making a fool of myself.
We get in a good hour and a half of ice time before Coach calls it quits. As we head off the ice, Coach says, “Cicero, Caulfield, James. Hang back a minute.”