A few days later, we have our last game before the short break in our schedule for Thanksgiving. I’m amped up for it because this season is shaping up to be our best yet.
We’ve always been good, but the team is playing better than ever with the chemistry the current roster has built.
Losing to Elmwood is a distant memory now that we’re further into the season and crushing our standings on the road to playoffs. We’ve pushed hard in practice and in games, earning rare words of praise from Coach Lombard.
During warm-ups, I hit every puck Madden sends my way, sinking them into the net before our second match up with Princeton.
It gets the crowd going. People wave felt flags that say Go Knights while we run through drills.
A couple of girls call my name when I skate by. It used to be my fuel before a game. The effect it has on me isn’t the same.
Not anymore. Not by a longshot.
There’s only one girl I want to hear screaming my name right now.
I go through pregame stretches, then pass some loose pucks to Madden and Elijah while I warm up my legs by circling the rink.
On my next lap, I wave to my mom and younger brother on the other side of the glass. My bag is packed for Thanksgiving weekend. We head out after the game.
“Easton! Do the thing!” Asher shouts, miming a crossover by tapping his foot excitedly.
Grinning, I oblige. Dad showed me this technique when I was around his age. It helped me perfect handling the puck while moving like I’m one with the ice. Asher is obsessed with backwards crossovers and has started asking me to teach him when I bring him to my local rink at home.
“You ready?”
He nods eagerly. I flash him a crooked smile and scoop up a puck, skating in a tight circle before pushing backwards, one leg crossing over the other a few times like I’m running on the ice to pick up speed. Changing directions, I race back to the boards, firing off a pass to one of my teammates zipping around me.
“Woo!” Asher claps and throws his fists above his head while Mom ruffles his hair.
The ref blows his whistle to end warm-ups. I circle up at the bench with my team after the announcer’s opening.
“Graves,” Coach Lombard barks. “Get out there.”
Madden jolts before flinging himself over the boards to join me, Theo, Noah, and Brody on the first line in Hutchinson’s place while he recovers from a sprain. We’ve played this formation in practice, but this is the first chance he’s been given to join a game for the first puck drop.
“Like we practiced, boys.” Coach hands off the iPad to Kincaid and folds his arms across his chest. “Work up those appetites for tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
The guys echo me and we skate off ready to take on Princeton.
First period passes without either team putting up points. I’m not worried. In fact, I’m feeling awesome, switching on and off the ice for a few minutes at a time as we work through our lines.
When it’s my shift again, I trade off with Elijah. “Good work, rookie.”
My skates glide across the ice and my concentration is sharp going into the second period.
Before Princeton’s center can react, I win the face-off and avoid their defense by flicking the puck right to Theo.
No lie, I feel so great because I kissed Maya at the house party Saturday night. God, that kiss. It’s a miracle I’m able to split my focus from the memory to play the game.
Every other second, I’m reliving the night in my head from the moment I thought she was about to strip in front of the guys to carrying her over my shoulder to my room.
To watching her take off her brother’s jersey for me.
To seeing her in my shirt.
To the moment I claimed her mouth in that hot as hell kiss.
My grin is unstoppable. I pick up the pass Theo whips my way, closing in on the net. Keller used to be the only player fast enough to match our star right wing, but I’ve proved since freshman year I’m just as good on the forward line.
The goalie shifts, giving me an opening. He’s expecting me to pass to Madden racing in on my other side. We don’t call him Mad Man Graves for nothing. He’s a skilled winger, yet it’s his wild energy that commands the opposing team’s attention on the ice.
Seizing the opportunity to use Madden as a decoy, I angle as if I’m preparing to pass to him, then flick the puck off with a wrist shot. It sails across the ice and skips into the air, passing into the net over the goalie’s stick to light up the lamp.
Score, baby.
I hope a clip of that makes it to social media so Maya can see it since she’s not here. She texted me early this morning when she left for her family’s home in New Hampshire.
“Nice play.” I high five Madden.
His stare remains trained on the net. A muscle in his jaw jumps. I recognize the hungry expression as the burning desire to be the one on the offensive line scoring the goals.
The beauty of hockey is that it’s not like most other team sports. Everyone on the team has a job, but any of us can take over the tasks of all the positions to support each other for every play. Whatever it takes to get the puck to our teammates and into the other team’s net. Madden’s still learning that.
“Don’t worry, man. Coach sees how hard you’re working. He’ll keep shifting you around the lines to find the sweet spot. This isn’t your only shot.”
Theo skates up on Madden’s other side, clapping him on the back. “Good hustle, Graves.” He snorts. “I think you scared the piss out of their goalie.”
The comment gets a satisfied smirk from Madden as we return to the red line.
Princeton’s forward wins the face-off, shouldering past me hard enough to make me struggle to keep my balance. I take off after the guy while he looks for his teammates. Noah checks one of their wingers against the boards once he has the puck and Brody moves in when the Princeton player tries to throw a punch that Noah dodges.
The refs miss it.
I clench my jaw and come at their center to steal possession back when he reaches the loose puck first. He’s just out of my range when he takes a shot on the net, cursing when he misses.
Reeves edges out of the crease to get the puck and two of Princeton’s guys go for him while he’s not looking. One barrels into him from behind with a sloppy check and trips, taking Cam down to the ice with him.
Oh, fuck no.
There are plenty of unspoken rules in hockey. The most important of all is simple: never touch the goalie.
Even with all the padding he wears, the landing is awkward. He doesn’t move for a beat, but it’s a split second too long in my book.
All of us react in a flash, gloves flying off and fists grabbing jerseys to yank the Princeton player away from Cameron while our teammates yell from the bench. The center slams into my side, struggling with me.
Adrenaline pumps through my veins as we all scuffle, elbows getting in cheap shots on both sides. It takes everything in me not to smash my fist into the forward’s face.
The refs blow whistles and work to break it up, one wrestling me away from Princeton’s center with the beady eyes.
“It was a clean hit!” Beady Eyes keeps shouting.
“Bullshit,” I spit.
“Enough,” the ref barks. “Number fifty-two, penalty for charging. Two minutes in the penalty box.”
The blare of the whistle directly in my ear is jarring. I grimace, skating off when the ref lets Noah pull me away. Coach’s stare bores into the side of my head. I look his way, finding him standing at our bench with his arms crossed and a surly expression. He gives a single jerk of his head in silent approval.
We skate over to Reeves as Theo and Brody help him up.
“You good?” Noah asks.
“Yeah.” Cameron gives me a fist bump. “Why the hell do you look like this is a funeral? Jesus, lighten up. I’m fine. Are we playing hockey, or what?”
My shoulders relax. “We’ve got your back.”
“Thanks. Now get out of my zone. I like to chill back here while you do the work over there.” He gestures to the opposing end of the rink.
Theo snorts. “Next one’s for you.”
“Aww, you shouldn’t have, big guy.” Cameron rests his elbows on the upper bar of the net with a chuckle.
Noah and Brody get back to defensive positions and the rest of us get to where we need to be for another face-off. I exchange glances with Theo and Madden, both of them nodding. We’re all on the same page.
The second the puck hits the ice, it’s all-out war and we dominate the other team in retaliation for fucking with our goalie.
We press the one-player advantage while fuckface fifty-two waits out the clock in the sin bin, scoring a goal to bring the game to 2-0.
The score remains the same through the third period until it ends. Princeton’s players rip off their helmets, skating off our ice with defeat hanging over their heads. Our team follows them to go to our lockers. People lean over the tunnel waving things ready to be autographed.
Noah pauses to sign things and take photos as usual.
Victory is sweet. Even better when we thrashed them the rest of the game, playing with brutal precision to shut down any move they tried to make, out-skating them to keep the puck in our control.
We file into the locker room in high spirits, stripping sweaty pads and jerseys. Someone connects their phone to a bluetooth speaker and plays music while the rest of us grab showers.
“Good game, boys. That was a nice hustle out there,” Coach says when he and Kincaid come in. “See you back here on Sunday for practice. If you eat too much pie, you’re skating suicides until you can match tonight’s speed.”
Some of the guys groan. Coach Kincaid takes over the debriefing.
“Anyone not going home, the rink will be open tomorrow during normal hours, closed on Thursday, then Friday afternoon and Saturday it’s back to the regular hours. Have a good weekend with your families.”
“We know you will,” Noah fires off with a smirk. “Man’s got it made after he scored the coach’s daughter.”
“Alright,” Kincaid says mildly when the guys whistle. “Get out of my locker room, assholes. Come back ready for the next game on the schedule. We’re playing Bexley U.”
“Happy Thanksgiving, Coach.” I shoulder my gear bag.
“See you, East.”
On my way out to meet up with Mom and Asher, Noah falls into step beside me. His younger brother waits for him outside the door to the locker rooms.
“Jonah,” Noah says as he catches him around the shoulders before he can dodge him. “What’s up, little dude?”
“Hate it when you call me that,” Jonah grumbles.
They struggle, Jonah fighting off Noah as he goes to mess with his hair.
“How’ve you been? We haven’t seen you up here for a game yet,” I say.
Jonah is four years younger than Noah and attends a boarding school an hour away. Their parents live in California, where both of them spend their summers. The rest of the year, they go to their grandparents’ place near Connecticut’s coast.
He shrugs. “Not bad.”
Noah wins the struggle, ruffling his brother’s hair. “He’s lying. He’s been blowing my phone up every other day about this guy on his team pissing him off.”
Jonah pulls a face. “It’s whatever. I can’t wait to graduate so I can get the hell away from him.”
“Oh yeah? You coming to play for Heston?” I ask. “Bet Coach would love that.”
“No, this little traitor wants to play for Elmwood.” Noah scoffs and pokes Jonah’s cheek.
“I like their coaching staff,” Jonah mutters stiffly. “It’s not personal, just strategy.”
I grin, shaking my head. The two Porter brothers couldn’t be more opposite in personality.
“I see my mom.” I tap Noah’s arm with the back of my hand. “See you when I get back.”
“Later, dude.”
I jog over to meet Mom and Asher waiting near the exit.
“Hey, sweetheart. Great game.” I bend so Mom can hug me easier. She gives me a kiss on the cheek. “Ready to go home?”
“Yeah.” I squeeze her in another half hug and high five my little brother. “Did you hear it’s supposed to snow tomorrow? We can skate on the pond if it’s cold enough.”
“Or I could kick your ass on Mario Kart,” he says.
“Asher,” Mom chides with an amused huff. “What did I say about your language?”
He shrugs. “I’m nine.”
“Almost nine,” she corrects. “Still not allowed to talk like that.”
He deflates with a whine.
When we lost Dad, he was just turning four. He’s entering middle school next year, and at that point where kids waver between wanting to grow up too fast and remembering they’re still just a kid.
I snort. “Dude, don’t try her. You won’t ever forget the taste of soap if you’ve got a dirty mouth.”
“Your mouth is dirty,” Asher mutters. “I’ve heard you.”
I smirk, whispering to him. “The trick is not to get caught.”
Mom gives me an exasperated look that melts into a loving smile as we make our way out of the arena.
It feels good to spend time with them. Most of my year is spent training and focusing on the season. If I’m going pro, I have to cherish this time.
