This is your stop
“ALL RIGHT. HERE’S ONE. YOU’RE GIFTED A PET TIGER—”
“Nice,” Nazzy says.
“What’s his name?” Patrick asks.
Beckett rolls his eyes as he tapes up his stick in preparation for tonight’s away game against Brown University. “He doesn’t have one.”
“What kind of tiger doesn’t have a name?” demands Patrick.
“That’s a good point,” Shane tells Beck.
“Are you jackasses going to let me finish or no?”
“Fine, go,” Nazem says, waving his hand in permission. “We get a pet tiger. A nameless pet tiger.”
I snicker under my breath.
“Anyway,” Beckett continues, “this tiger is great. Round the clock protection, top-notch wingman because all the chicks want to rub his ears or whatever. Basically, he’s a net positive in your life.”
“But…?” Shane asks, because there’s always a but in these things.
“But for three hours every day, you have to hear him bitch,” Beckett finishes.
“About what?” Rand asks curiously, pulling his jersey over his chest protector.
“About everything. I’m talking the most mundane, trivial, petty stuff.” Beckett nods. “Basically, for three hours every day, he turns into Micah’s girlfriend.”
“Fuck off,” Micah says, flipping him the bird. “Veronica doesn’t complain that much.”
Shane cackles. “Dude. All she does is complain.”
From the locker at the end of the row, Jordan Trager turns with a scowl. “Why are you assholes always doing this thought experiment shit?”
“Oh, that’s actually a funny story,” Nazem pipes up, tossing out a rare olive branch. For the most part, the Eastwood and Briar guys religiously avoid each other. “We were on the bus coming back from a game against Dartmouth, and there was an incident—”
“I don’t give two shits about your funny story,” mutters Trager. “I’m just saying, this is fucking childish.”
“Says the guy with the cartoon tiger tattooed on his back,” Beckett replies with a chuckle. “Staring at that godawful thing is what gave me the idea for that thought experiment.”
“You’re seriously trashing my tattoo?” Trager snaps. “A man’s tattoos are sacred.”
“So are a man’s eyes, and your tattoo is hurting mine,” drawls Beck.
Across the room, I notice Will Larsen trying to hide a smile.
The memory of last night’s mayhem promptly returns. Finding Larsen in my bathroom was…bizarre. His secret friendship with Beck is of no concern to me, though. I only care that he keeps his goddamn mouth shut about seeing Gigi there.
I notice Austin sitting on the bench, his curly hair falling into his face as he tightly laces up one skate. He’s been quiet lately. He’s always leaned toward the shy side, but he’s usually a lot more talkative during practice and in the locker room.
I realize it probably falls under the purview of cocaptain to check in with everybody, so I clap a hand on his shoulder and lean toward him.
“You doing okay?”
Pope gives me a suspicious look. “Yeah. Why? Did I do something wrong?”
“No. Nothing. I was just checking in.”
“Why?” he asks again.
Shane starts to laugh. “Dude. You’re so bad at human interaction that people get suspicious when you inquire about their well-being.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble and start taping my own stick. See, this is why I didn’t want the captain title to begin with. Leadership skills continue to elude me.
And, evidently, teamwork continues to elude us.
The game remains scoreless for the first two periods, which is more than one could hope for, considering how many shots they take on net. Kurth is a rock star. And Beckett and Demaine work so well together in the defensive zone that Coach keeps them on a few shifts in a row. They return to the bench utterly spent. Will helps to heave Beckett through the door so Pope and Karlsson can pop out. Beckett collapses on the bench, sweat dripping down his face.
Will gives him a consolatory look and passes over a squirt bottle of water. Colson catches the exchange and frowns, and Will then pretends to study his gloves, picking at an elusive loose thread.
There are too many secrets on this bench.
I’m banging Colson’s ex-girlfriend.
His best friend is watching time travel movies with the enemy.
What has the world come to?
At the beginning of the third, we’re ahead by one goal, after Austin releases a one-timer that makes it past Brown’s goalie. It’s the first gear shift we’ve had all game, but the momentum doesn’t last. Next time we’re in the defending zone, Colson misses a pivotal pass at the face-off that leads to a costly opposition goal.
The score jumps to 1–1.
When Colson returns to the bench, Rand gets in his face. “Good going, captain,” he says sarcastically.
“Fuck you,” Colson spits out.
“Fuck you.”
“Enough!” Coach snaps, holding up his hand. He turns and calls for a substitution.
Meanwhile, I’m as pissed as Rand, because I clearly communicated I was going for the slot. All Colson had to do was fucking listen and the puck would be on his stick right now.
Still, it’s probably not the smartest move on my part, as we skate into face-off position on our next shift, when I scowl at Colson and mutter, “Maybe listen this time?”
That gets his back up. I blink and he’s in my face. His arm comes out, not quite to the point of a shove. More of a tap.
I stare down at his glove on my arm. Then I look up. Shocked and angry. “What the fuck are you doing?”
“Keep your goddamn commentary to yourself,” he snaps at me. “We’re trying to play a game here.”
Except these five seconds of bickering get us the whistle. The referee calls delay of game.
Jesus Christ.
We took a fucking penalty.
“What the hell,” Demaine growls as he shoots off toward the bench so Coach can get the penalty kill team on.
“Are you kidding me right now?” The vein on Jensen’s forehead looks like it’s about to explode. “Delay of game?” he screams toward our penalty boxes.
Colson and I both duck our heads. He’s right to scream. There are many penalties that can be avoided, and the one we took is definitely one of them. Especially when it’s called because you’re arguing with your own teammate. No, worse—your cocaptain.
Coach’s eyes tell me we’re in grave danger right now. Brown capitalizes on our error and scores on the penalty.
2–1, Brown.
Case and I are out of the sin bin and return to the ice to do damage control. With two minutes left, a beauty from Larsen brings the score to 2–2. The five-minute overtime period ends scoreless, so now we’ve got a second tie on our record. It’s not a loss, but it might as well be the way Coach fumes in the locker room.
Luckily, he spares us a prolonged verbal ass-kicking. He simply walks in, snaps his index finger from me to Case, and barks out one word: “Deplorable.” Then he addresses the rest of the room. “Shower and change. I’ll see you on the bus.”
Fuck.
This season is off to a tragic start. Only one win so far. And now, tonight, our latest game ends in a tie because the damned cocaptains took a penalty they shouldn’t have. I don’t blame Coach for being mad. He’s used to winning the Frozen Four, and that’s starting to look like a pipe dream this season.
We reconvene on the bus. The mood is glum. It’s a ninety-minute drive back to the Briar campus; about ten minutes in, I notice Jensen get up to talk to the driver.
Ten seconds after that, the bus stops on the side of the road.
Shane, my seatmate, lifts his head from his phone. He was texting with yet another cheerleader, who he’s been hanging out with all week. “What’s this?”
“Colson. Ryder. Get up.”
Case and I exchange a nervous look at the forbidding command. We rise from our seats.
“This is your stop.”
I turn toward the window. All I see is pitch blackness. This side of the two-lane highway offers nothing but a gravel shoulder and a dark stretch of forest.
“What do mean this is our stop?” Colson echoes. He’s puzzled. “You want us to walk home?”
Jensen’s smile is all teeth and no humor. “Think of it as another team-building exercise.”
“Abandoning us in the middle of the woods to a serial killer is team-building?” Tristan Yoo blurts out.
“First of all, there is no ‘us.’ It’s them. So calm down, Yoo.” Coach nods. “But you raise a good point.”
He extends his gaze over the sea of male faces until it lands on someone a few rows behind Beckett. A sophomore named Terrence who isn’t a starter.
“Boy Scout, you always carry that Swiss army knife around. You have it on you?”
“Yessir.”
“Hand it over.”
“Yessir.”
Coach scans the bus again. “Let’s not pretend none of you smoke or have smoked a substance in your life. I need two lighters. Pass ’em up.”
A couple of lighters make their way up the rows until they’re in his hands. Jensen slaps one in my palm, the other in Case’s. The army knife also goes to Case. I make a mental note of that. I guess between the two of us, Jensen believes I’m the one more likely to murder the other and thus shouldn’t possess the weapon. Not sure if I should take that as a compliment or insult.
“You have your phones. You have fire. You have protection. You’ve got your jackets.” He plucks a bag of chips out of a startled Nazem’s hands. “And some food. All the tools you need to survive the night. The bus will pick you up from this location in the morning.”
“Coach, come on. This is insanity,” Colson protests. “You can’t just—”
“I can’t just what?”
Case falls silent.
“Because the way I see it, I can’t just have my team captains taking delay-of-game penalties because they’re squabbling like toddlers who haven’t had their naps. Clearly your time with the Laredos isn’t working.”
“Yeah, because they’re batshit crazy,” Patrick mumbles.
Choked laughter echoes through the bus.
“At the end of the day, what happened tonight—this game that we should have won and didn’t—is on you. Both of you.” He looks from me to Case, his mouth pinched in a tight line. “It’s about forty miles to Hastings, and if you choose to walk, it’s going to take you all night. I personally suggest you hunker down and camp out for the night. Use the time to squash the beef. Make it right. The bus will be back here at 6:00 a.m.” He bares his teeth and points to the door. “Get moving.”
