Ice is not a forgiving surface.
A truth I learned when I put on my first pair of hockey skates at age five. Knowledge that has been affirmed hundreds—maybe thousands—of times over the past seventeen years.
Knowing it’ll hurt doesn’t make hitting the frozen sheet that feels as firm as cement any less painful. It might explain why I love skating so much, though.
Forgiving isn’t an adjective anyone would use to describe me, either.
I grab my stick and pull myself up, the blades of my skates sliding under me effortlessly. Skating is second nature. Easier than walking.
The sharpened metal glides across the polished ice effortlessly.
I suck in a deep breath of chilled air, doing my best not to let Robby Sampson know that hit pretty much leveled me out. I’m going to have to scour the freezer for some peas tonight.
“If you manage to limp over to Gaffney’s, I’ll buy the first round,” Hunter Morgan says as he stops a few feet away, purposefully spraying white shavings this way that arc across the center line and coat me from helmet to skate.
I yank my right hand free from the glove so I can flip my best friend off, then shake the front of my practice jersey to clear the snow away. “I’m fine. Never felt better. Ice can’t damage iron.” I lift my arm and flex my bicep for emphasis.
If you’ve got it, flaunt it, right? I’ve never gotten any complaints.
Hunter snorts at the obnoxious move, unimpressed. “Save the lame lines for the ladies, Hart. I’m the one who’s going to be stuck listening to you groan about that bruise for the next few days.”
“I don’t groan,” I grumble.
“Need me to grab you a walker, captain, or can you make it back to the bench all by yourself?”
“Dick,” I mutter as I skate toward the boards.
Hunter laughs. He heard me. Good.
I take a seat on the bench and squirt some Gatorade into my mouth, wincing as my side throbs with what I’m sure will turn into a nasty bruise. The third line gets into position for the continuous in-zone drill we’re running. I watch as one of the sophomore wingers, Cole Smith, enters offside.
Wait for it…
Seconds later, “Smith!” is bellowed across the ice.
Cole receives a lecture from Coach Keller that—if I had to guess—involved lots of colorful vocabulary and at least one reference to skills learned back in the PeeWee days, then play resumes.
Two more shifts, and my line is back on the ice.
I skate between my linemates toward the blue line. The throbbing pain in my ribs fades as I inhale deeply, cold air filling my lungs. The signature scent of sweat and ice and rubber and Zamboni fuel found only in a hockey rink has always been like that for me.
A salve.
A relief.
An escape.
On the ice, I’m untouchable.
Metaphorically speaking. Hockey isn’t known for being a non-contact sport.
Dean Zimmerman, the assistant coach, drops the puck between me and Aidan Phillips. Aidan earned his spot in the center of the second line. He’s always quick to react to the face-off and fight for possession.
I’m faster.
The second the puck hits the ice, I’m in motion. I swipe the black circle into the sweet spot on my stick and take off toward Willis, who’s trying to cover every inch of the goal he can with his six-three frame.
I could send the puck straight past him. I’ve made plenty of shots from farther away. Willis is favoring the left side because I’m veering that way. I doubt he’ll have a chance to correct if I shoot right. I’ve got a seventy-five percent—hell, eighty if I go top shelf—chance of this puck going in.
It’ll earn me a lecture from Coach Keller on teamwork. Not the first; most definitely not the last.
Holt University’s men’s ice hockey team has plenty of problems.
My ability to score goals isn’t one of them.
That’s what convinces me to slow, circle, and send the puck over to Hunter rather than take the shot myself. Hunter glances between me and Louis Jamison, trying to decide who to pass it to next. One of us hasn’t landed a single shot between the irons all practice, and that person is not me.
But it’s called practice for a reason.
Hunter comes to the same conclusion. He passes to Louis, who manages a slapshot that almost makes it past Willis. Our goalie snags it out of mid-air at the last second, tossing it out of his glove and against the scuffed boards with a harmless bounce.
A shrill whistle pierces the cold air.
“That’s a wrap, boys. Hit the showers.”
That’s all he says. Unless one of us is running a play incorrectly or late to practice, Coach Keller is a man of few words. Rumor on campus is he had higher aspirations than coaching season after season of spotty records under a perennial rain cloud. Literally. Sunny days are a rare occurrence in Somerville, Washington, where Holt University is located.
“Do you think Coach will crack a smile if we win Friday?” Hunter asks as we step off the ice and stomp along the rubber mats that lead to the locker room.
“He looked passably amused before we lost in overtime during playoffs last year,” Aidan calls from behind us. “What day was that, Sampson?”
“March tenth,” Robby answers as we step inside the locker room and start stripping off our sweaty gear. Sampson has an uncanny ability to recall dates no one else would ever think twice about. He’d make a good detective.
I knew the answer too, but not because I have a good memory.
Aidan shrugs as he unlaces his skates. “I’m shit at math. Seven months ago? That’s a long time to scowl. He’d better perk up a little if we beat Rockford on Friday. I can’t remember the last time some part of my body didn’t hurt, and the season hasn’t even started yet.”
“You and Hart should form a support group,” Hunter suggests, smirking. “I can already hear him complaining about his ribs for the next few days. Thanks a fuck ton for that, Sampson.”
Robby shrugs. “He was gonna score otherwise.”
“Hart is our only hope of a championship. Be careful with him,” Aidan instructs.
I roll my eyes before heading for the showers.
Despite the lackluster water pressure, the warm spray feels like liquid heaven against my sore muscles. It’s not just the hit from Robby earlier. I’ve spent the same seven months Coach has been humorless putting my body through the ringer. Daily runs. Extra weight sessions. Endless laps around the rink. I’m in the best shape of my life. I’ve dedicated my entire hockey career to always being the fastest guy on the ice, so that’s saying something.
Unlike Coach Keller, my higher hopes are still in the mix. Professional hockey teams don’t sign players from schools like Holt on the off chance they might stumble upon the next Wayne Gretzky amidst mediocrity. If I want a shot, I need to make noise. Noise scouts can’t tune out. Noise of the jaw-dropping stats, outstanding season, national championship sort.
I’m good.
The problem is hockey is a team sport. And as great as the guys in the locker room are, none of them could have played at a school with a better hockey program than Holt’s. I could have, and the fact that I’m not is one of many things I’m bitter about. Along with the untimely—to say the least—summer skills camp concussion that made me miss the combine and the draft two years ago. Getting signed as an undrafted free agent is my only hope of playing professionally now.
I soap my hair and watch as the white suds disappear down the drain, then shut off the water and grab a threadbare towel. Holt spared expenses when it came to their athletic facilities. I pull on a matching pair of Holt Hockey sweats when I return to my locker—pretty much all I wear—and ruffle the ratty towel through my short hair as I wait for Hunter to get his stuff together.
My car is in the shop, so it’s either rely on him to get around or walk in the rain.
“Gaffney’s?” Hunter asks as he pulls on his own Holt Hockey sweatshirt.
“Yeah, sure.” All that’s waiting for me at our shared house is a bag of peas and a pile of homework.
“Gaffney’s, Sampson?”
“Hell yeah, I’m there,” Robby replies.
“Me, too,” Aidan adds.
“How about you, Williams?” Hunter asks Jack Williams as he exits the showers.
“Can’t, man. Study group tonight.”
Hunter and I exchange looks, and it’s a miracle neither of us burst out laughing. Jack is the sort of preppy people pleaser I picture playing golf, not hockey. He’s a decent defender but an outlier on the team. Unlike the rest of us, he seems to have higher aspirations for his college years than getting drunk and screwing around. And playing hockey, of course.
Word of our post-practice plans spreads rapidly among the rest of the guys. Hunter finishes getting dressed and we head out into the light sprinkle that’s falling from the sky. Holt’s athletic complex consists of three buildings: the ice arena, the basketball gym and weight rooms, and then the pool that also has a couple of rooms with generic exercise equipment like treadmills and ellipticals.
Unlike larger and more sport-centric schools, Holt doesn’t grant any preferential treatment to its student athletes over the rest of the school or the surrounding town. We have to schedule our ice time around the Somerville Sharks—a local youth hockey team—and open ice-skating sessions for the general public two nights a week. Time in the weight room is a tense negotiation between us and the basketball team.
The only upside is that the University’s apathy toward its athletes is shared by most of the student body. We’re fighting for time and space against other sports teams and elementary schoolers. Few other Holt students make the long, often wet walk to the sports complex on the fringe of campus to work out on any sort of regular basis.
Or drive here. The parking lot is mostly empty as we approach Hunter’s green SUV. Aidan heads for the shiny, red truck that’s the source of endless teasing from the rest of us. It’s a shade similar to a fire engine. Against the muted, gray backdrop of a Washington fall on the cusp of winter, it stands out. Aidan isn’t one to blend in, so I guess it fits him. And his vehicle is functioning, which is more than can be said about my car.
The trip to Gaffney’s only takes five minutes. We’re already on the periphery of campus closest to downtown Somerville. It’s a straight shot down the unoriginally named Main Street to the small collection of buildings that serve as the town hub. What could be described as a mall contains a few box stores and a supermarket chain, followed by the town’s library, post office, and elementary school. Just past it is where Holt students spend the bulk of their time off-campus. There are a couple of coffee shops, an Italian restaurant, a bookstore, a popular doughnut place, and then Gaffney’s is at the far end of the block.
Hunter parks in the lot located alongside the outdoor patio that doesn’t get much use. Drinking a cold beer with a hot girl is a much less enjoyable experience in the rain, I’ve found.
Aidan’s assault to the eyes slides into the next available spot a few minutes later. We loiter in the parking lot to wait for what turns into most of the team. There’s a blatant shortage of options for entertainment in the evenings, especially on a weeknight. Also, despite—or maybe because of—the significant amount of time we spend together, we’re a close-knit group. Hanging out off the ice isn’t a rare occurrence.
Half the guys here aren’t twenty-one yet, but it won’t matter. Hockey players are rarely short or skinny. Few of the guys on the team look underage. We’re also within walking distance of Holt’s campus and the nearby neighborhoods where most upperclassmen live. The most dangerous drunk decision you could make would be to walk south rather than north, toward the Sound’s icy, dark depths.
We head inside as a boisterous, freshly showered group. Team morale is high headed into the season. It’s nice to see, as captain, but I care most about how it’ll translate into Friday’s final score.
Gaffney’s has a casual feel that’s natural, not curated. It’s scuffed floors and old country songs and trivia nights.
The bar is busy when we enter, most of the patrons other Holt students.
Tuesdays mean wings and pints are offered at half price, an easy sell for broke students dismayed the week is only half over. Usually I’d be one of them, but Friday’s game has me second-guessing a wish that time will speed by.
Seven months of preparation for one hour on the ice.
It’s the first game of my final college season. There will be more of them. Thirty-four, to be exact. But Friday is my chance to finally put plans into motion.
There is no such thing as a second first impression. An explosive start before other storylines eat up the limited coverage college hockey receives is my best shot at drawing the attention I desperately need to.
“Hey, Harlow.”
I’m distracted from stressing about Friday’s game by Aidan’s greeting as we pass by one of the occupied high-top tables. Several of the other guys I’m with repeat it, cheerfully acknowledging the redhead that I walk past without a word. If I wasn’t exhausted and distracted, it wouldn’t have taken me this long to spot her.
I might act like she doesn’t exist, but I always notice her.
Harlow Hayes and I share history.
It’s not the sort we wrote ourselves.
That makes it complicated. Messy. Conflicting.
It was one thing freshman year, when I would, at most, catch a glimpse of her distinctive hair in the dining hall or out on the quad. Our paths didn’t cross.
Holt isn’t a huge school, but it’s big enough to avoid someone if you’re motivated enough. We both were. Are.
Sophomore year Harlow dated Jack Williams, my most responsible teammate. They broke up after a couple of months, but their brief fling somehow resulted in a camaraderie between her and half the hockey team strong enough that they refuse to follow my lead and ignore her.
When it comes to most things, they’ll follow me over a cliff.
But when it comes to someone who made the team chocolate chip cookies once? Laughed at a couple of their more amusing jokes? They could care less what I think.
She also happens to be the hottest girl on campus, which is probably a factor in the guys’ friendliness and is absolutely on brand with my shitty luck.
Hunter shoots me a bemused look when he plops down in the chair beside me at the table I chose. He says nothing, but I know it baffles him—puzzles the whole team, actually—why I refuse to talk to Harlow.
I have a short temper on the ice. I’m usually the first to drop gloves when an opponent starts chirping. Nine times out of ten, I’ll take the shot instead of passing. My penalty minutes are the highest on the team. Off the ice, I tend to be an easy-going guy. I party and drink and hook up, just like the rest of the guys. One random girl inciting my unwavering wrath doesn’t make much sense.
Even more confusing is Harlow’s behavior.
I’ve seen her laugh and joke around other people. But she matches my perpetual rudeness. Whenever I’m around, Harlow has been just as insistent about ignoring me as I’m set on pretending she’s invisible.
Our cold war is frosty on both fronts, which the guys notice, even if they don’t get why.
Explaining would require sharing parts of my past I don’t discuss. Painful truths I’m sick of letting define me and resolved to stop letting do so as soon as I left the small town I grew up in. No girl is going to change that.
“Way to take off, Hart,” Aidan says as he takes the chair across from me. “Do you want the stands to be empty this season?”
“I’d rather win than play in front of a crowd.”
“Well, I’m hoping there will be a crowd watching us win.”
I grunt, aiming my attention at the television affixed to the wall behind the bar. Football is on. Highlights from Sunday night that I’d rather focus on than engage in any conversation involving Harlow.
“I don’t get it,” Aidan pushes. “What’s your problem with her?”
Beneath the table, my hands clench into fists.
“He’s mad Williams got there first,” Hunter says.
There’s murmured agreement amongst the guys.
I don’t know any details—because I avoid the topic of her at all costs—but I do know Jack did not take the break-up with Harlow well. I don’t think he’s dated anyone since. No guy on the team wants to break bro code by getting involved with Harlow, and that probably means I should stop making Vineyard Vines sale jokes at Jack’s expense, because it’s absolutely a best-case scenario for me.
A waitress comes over to take our orders. She’s a perky blonde who’s served me before. Stacey, I remember, thanks to the nametag jauntily affixed to her T-shirt. Conveniently drawing attention to her cleavage.
“Hey, boys,” she greets, surveying the table. Her brown eyes light up when they land on me. I wink at her, and she blushes.
I grab the laminated menu to look over as Stacey takes Aidan’s order. I get a burger and beer every time, but it’s either scan the other options or listen to Robby deliberate whether he should get wings or pizza. So I stare at the words spelling out Gaffney’s limited offerings until they blur.
I glance up. Instead of watching the sports highlights playing on the flatscreen or checking out Stacey’s C-cups, I turn my head to the left. Fix my gaze on the table I passed when the rest of the guys paused.
She’s not looking this way.
Harlow’s attention is on the girl sitting next to her, who’s waving her hands around as she tells some story.
They’re with a group of other people, but I don’t register a single detail about anyone else at the table. I allow myself to study Harlow Hayes—the girl I’ve never talked to and never will.
She’s hot. Gorgeous. Stunning.
Whatever.
Hatred doesn’t make me anywhere near as immune to her looks as I’d love to be. She’s a Canadian export far more appealing to look at than lumber or maple syrup or anything else that’s crossed the border.
Red hair.
High cheekbones.
Pouty mouth.
But… What’s my problem with her?
She’s guilty by association.
