The first few practices are always a shitshow. Like a bench-clearing brawl where everyone's trying to prove they deserve to stay on the ice. It’s how we weed out who doesn’t belong and fight for our previous spots. New and better players can show up. Returning ones might improve over the summer.
I fight for mine every year. Can't imagine losing it, especially to some freshman.
My friends are already at their stalls as I walk over. Viktor’s perched on the bench, half of his gear on, gesturing wildly with his hands while Zach laces up his skates. But the moment he spots me, he stops talking and nudges Zach.
They both glare, and I roll my eyes, dropping my gear bag. “Say what you have to say.”
Zach huffs. “Why didn’t you show up?”
I strip my shirt off and toss it into the cubby. “Had shit to handle.”
Viktor glares at me like he’s contemplating slitting my throat. “You ghosted your best friends on one of the most important days of their lives because you had shit to handle?”
“Yes.”
Zach stands and steps forward, crowding my space. “Talk. Now.”
I snort. “Really? Sit the fuck down and finish getting dressed.”
He grabs my arm, squeezing hard.
I don’t flinch, just lean in until we’re nose-to-nose. “Let. Go.”
His grip tightens. “Not until you answer.”
“It's handled.”
He releases me, then snatches his jersey from the bench. “You gave me shit about keeping secrets.” He puts it on, yanking the bottom too hard. “Hypocrite.”
He’s right.
And fuck if that doesn't sting worse than a high stick to the face.
“This is different.” I unzip my bag, pull out my chest protector, and put it on. “You fuckheads ever consider I might’ve been lying dead in a ditch somewhere?”
“You weren’t.” Zach drops down onto the bench, taping his shin pads.
“You just figured that out when I walked through the door. Didn’t know before.”
“We did.” He tosses the roll of tape into his bag.
I quirk a brow. “How?”
He snarls at Viktor, who’s putting on the rest of his gear, not bothering to look my way, lips pressed into a tight line.
Before I can insist on an answer, the locker room door opens and Henneman walks in, gear bag over his shoulder.
That motherfucker waited me out.
His eyes dart around the room before landing on me, then he immediately looks away. He heads to his stall, which is a few feet away from ours, shoulders hunched like he's trying to make his six-foot-seven frame disappear.
“He better have improved.” Zach doesn't bother to lower his voice. “Or Coach needs to bench his ass.”
Henneman tenses but doesn't respond. Just unpacks his gear and starts getting ready for practice, already wearing his base layer.
“He's stronger than you think,” I say, putting on compression shorts containing my cup.
Why am I defending him?
