I’m still half-asleep when I stumble into the weight room. I didn’t mean to close my eyes earlier, but I did, and now I’m even drowsier than I was before my three-hour nap. I’m tired and irritated, in a grouchy mood in general.
I join the group of guys huddled around the whiteboard where Coach Zimmerman is scrawling out today’s circuit. There are a couple of groans around the room when the guys get a good look at it, then start to lumber toward their assigned stations.
“Hey. You good?” Hunter asks, glancing over from his spot next to me.
“Yeah. Why?”
“You bailed last night—Phillips is pissed you didn’t show up at Thomas’s party, by the way—and then you were in your room most of the day. That’s why.”
“I felt a little stuffed up yesterday. Just needed to lie low for twenty-four hours. Rest up a bit.”
Hunter looks even more concerned, and I feel like shit for lying to him. I’m not sure how he’d react to knowing I was with Harlow last night after his warnings to stay focused. It’s not like I’ve been celibate during previous seasons. But I’ve also never been distracted the way Harlow affects me before.
I recognized that, and that’s why last night was never supposed to happen. But it did, and I don’t want to talk about it.
“I’m fine,” I say, then glance at the whiteboard and head for an open barbell. I cover up another yawn as I load up the end with plates.
If I’d woken up with enough time to spare, I would’ve stopped for a coffee.
Aidan comes over to me as I’m clamping the collars on each end of the bar. “Hart! Why didn’t you show up last night? I texted you five times about Thomas’s party.”
“I didn’t see them,” I reply truthfully.
“Man, there’s commitment, and then there’s crazy. You are rapidly heading toward the second category. Have some fun, all right?”
I’m half-tempted to tell Aidan the truth: that I missed the party because I was busy having the best sex of my life. Just to get him off my back about being too committed to hockey. But Aidan has a huge mouth. If I tell him, the entire team—hell, the entire school—will probably hear about it.
And it feels…cheap, to diminish last night to proof I don’t think about hockey all the time.
“I have plenty of fun, Phillips,” I reply. “Worry about your points, and let me worry about my social life, okay?”
“Plenty of fun? Good one, Hart.”
“This is my shot, Phillips,” I remind him.
He’s wrong that I’m consumed by nothing but hockey, but he’s right that I’m focused on it.
I’m worried some guys on the team have gotten complacent about winning. Easier to do than you’d think, when you’re coasting on an undefeated season. When you’re expecting to win. But with each victory, we’re creeping closer to the playoffs. Even at the lowest Division level, that means the pressure and the expectations will ratchet up.
I can’t be the only one prepared for it to. That’s what has happened for the past three seasons.
“Yeah, I know,” Aidan replies, losing his smirk. “Second line will be ready. I promise.”
“Great.” I lie down on the bench and lift the barbell.
I hate lifting weights. I get it’s a necessary part of building muscle and know that strength will translate on the ice. But I’d much prefer to be running or out on the ice than lifting and lowering a weighted bar repeatedly. There’s nothing to do except study the cracked plaster ceiling of the weight room as I coax my muscles to keep cooperating, even after they begin to tremble.
The entire weight-training circuit takes about an hour, and then we move to the film room to watch some tape on our next opponents.
Calling it a film room is a misnomer. Unlike at schools that are generous with their athletic budgets and have a robust one to begin with, ours is bare bones. Reminiscent of a middle school physical education classroom. Scuffed linoleum, walls that were once painted white but veered gray a long time ago, and metal folding chairs that squeak when you sit in them. There’s a whiteboard that lost its ability to be wiped clean. Faded swipes of black and blue marker mar the surface, adding squiggly lines to the video that’s being projected up on the screen.
Coach Keller’s strategy has always leaned heavily on watching film. I know players—and other coaches—who prefer to work on individual skills than spy on opponents. I suppose there is a mental component to it. Watching a superior team can be demoralizing. But anticipating other players’ moves has always been a strength of mine. It’s far easier to do that when I have a good sense of their playing style before stepping onto the ice.
Weekend practices can be a crapshoot. Filled with distractions and grumbles. I’m impressed there aren’t any mutters or time checks throughout the entire film session. Or when Coach announces that we’ll have ice time at eight tonight because of a flu going around that’s affecting half the Somerville Sharks.
I’m impressed by the guys’ composure. Despite my dedicated pursuit of it, I’m under no illusions a championship is a safe bet. Confidence in my teammates, in not only their skill but also their commitment, will go a long way.
“Hart. Got a minute?” Coach asks as the rest of the guys shuffle out of the darkened room.
“Yeah, sure.”
I walk up to where he’s fiddling with the projector.
“What’s up, Coach?”
“Been getting a few calls about you, Hart.”
My heart leaps. “You have?”
“Yup,” he confirms. “No such thing as a guarantee in sports, but you’re in a good spot. You’re leading the charge on one hell of a streak.”
I blow out a breath. “What if that streak ends?”
It’s a growing fear, exacerbated by each added mark to the W column, appearing every time I suit up for a game. I step onto the ice worried we’ll lose, instead of hoping we’ll win.
“Then it ends. I’m the damn coach, Hart. My job is to make sure we’re the team with more goals at the end of the game. Yours is to be the best center you can be. Don’t think I haven’t noticed how you’ve stepped us as captain, this season especially.” He points toward the locker room. “Those guys in there? They’d follow you over a damn cliff. I’ve never seen a more determined team. If it were possible to win a championship by wanting it the most, there would already be a new banner in that arena. You stay focused, keep doing what you’re doing, and let me worry about the scoreboard. We’re still a way off from losing a game meaning the end of the season. If it happens, we’ll work harder to win the next one.”
I nod. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Get out of here,” he tells me. “I’ll see you at eight.”
“See you later, Coach.”
Coach Keller nods before he turns back to shutting off the projector. His phone rings and he pulls it out, saying “Hi, honey” before I have a chance to leave the room. I know nothing about Coach’s home life. If he’s married or has any kids. He’s always been a closed book when it comes to anything not related to hockey. A lot like me, I guess.
I head into the locker room. Most of the guys are already gone, probably rushing to eat dinner or finish homework before our evening skate. Aidan is sitting on the bench tying his sneakers. Hunter and Robby are talking about a paper in one of their shared business classes.
I pull off my sweaty shirt, deciding not to bother showering. I’ll just have to take another one later, after our skate.
Aidan glances at me, then does a double take. “Goddamn, Hart. Did you lose a wrestling match with a cougar?”
Robby and Hunter both look this way.
I swear—loudly—in my head.
I don’t need to look down to know what they’re all seeing. I noticed the marks on my chest when I changed before coming here. Pretty sure there are some on my back too.
“I thought you stayed in last night,” Hunter says accusingly.
“I did. I just wasn’t alone.” I pull a clean shirt out of my bag and quickly yank it on.
“I was wondering why there was a car out on the street,” Aidan says. “Was it Sarah?”
“Yeah,” I reply, then clench my jaw. I didn’t mean to give Aidan a name. I’m just trying to escape this conversation as quickly as possible.
“Well, good for you, Hart. See you guys at home.” Aidan stands, grabs his bag, and leaves.
Robby is right behind him.
Hunter stays. “You weren’t with Sarah Clark last night. I accidentally walked in on her with some other guy at the party. Wanna lie to me a third time?”
I exhale. “I just agreed with Aidan so he’d stop asking questions. None of his business who I sleep with. It’s not yours either.”
“It was Harlow Hayes, wasn’t it?”
I zip my bag up and turn to face him. “What the fuck did I just say, Morgan? Do you have a thing for her, just like Williams and half the team?”
“No, I don’t. But that would bother you, if I did, wouldn’t it?” Hunter shakes his head and scoffs. “What the hell is with you and this chick? You hate her for years, now you’re screwing her?”
“What do you care?” I snap.
“I care about you, Conor. I want to buy your jersey and tell every person I meet that my best friend plays hockey professionally. You deserve it. You work harder than anyone I know. And we’re so close. You’re so close. Just wait until the end of the season, if you’re going to get involved with her. Don’t tell me it isn’t affecting you. You were like a zombie today. The whole team noticed. And if you don’t care about screwing up your own future, think about them. We’re all busting our asses, trying to get you your shot. You wanna tell the guys you were too busy getting laid to focus on winning?”
He walks out without giving me a chance to say anything. Don’t know what I would have responded, anyway. Hunter’s disappointment is like a heavy weight in the locker room, even once he’s gone. He’s the most even-keeled, level-headed guy I know. It takes a lot for him to get worked up, to stick his nose into someone else’s business.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out to see a text from my mom, asking how I am and saying she’ll call me before her shift tomorrow. I respond, letting her know that I’m fine and I’ll talk to her soon.
Then I stare at my messages. I’ve never texted Harlow, but I have her number. And I’ve been considering using it all day, apologizing for how we left things this morning. For walking away.
We’re all busting our asses, trying to get you your shot. You wanna tell the guys you were too busy getting laid to focus on winning?
I shove the phone into my pocket and leave the locker room, telling myself it’s for the best.
