—Graham
I was not at all prepared for what happened at the Saint B’s game. It was a home game against a so-so team. What could go wrong?
Just everything.
The first sign of trouble came a half an hour before faceoff. During that last thirty minutes in the locker room, every guy was busy getting amped up in his own special way. Some people sat quietly in a corner, thinking calm thoughts. But there was a lot of joking around and smack talk, too. The place was crowded, with everyone strapping on their gear. There were two trainers in the room, too, taping up muscles and helping to stretch out tetchy limbs.
I went into the hallway supply cabinet for some orange hockey tape. Don’t laugh when I tell you that I play better with orange tape. Hockey players are some of the most superstitious people you’ll ever meet. (Just ask Hartley about his lucky underwear.)
At the distant end of the hallway, I saw Coach come out of his office. But before he got very far, a gray-haired guy in a Saint B’s jacket came wheeling out of the visitors’ locker room. He got up in Coach’s face. “There’s a reporter up my ass, and it’s your fucking fault,” he barked.
There was a tense silence, and then I heard Coach chuckle. “Really?” He stood his ground, even though the other guy was practically spitting into his mouth. “That can’t be true. Because I thought you had a team policy against taking anything up the ass.”
Although the other coach’s back was to me, I could hear the fury in his voice. “You want this bitch asking me questions, do you? You think you can make my team look bad?”
Again, Coach chuckled. “You don’t need my help with that.”
I jammed the tape into my hockey shorts, freeing up my hands in case the other guy threw a punch at Coach. But the bastard only yanked the visitors’ locker room door open and disappeared inside again.
With a pounding pulse, I ducked back into our room to finish taping up my stick. A minute later, Coach stalked in looking tense. “Listen up!” he barked.
The room got quiet immediately.
“Your opponents want to win tonight. But we want it more, right?”
“YEAH!” everyone shouted as one.
Coach was pacing near the door. “Look. Their coach is a blowhard with a nasty temper. And his offensive line is sketchy this year, because we stole one of their best players. We didn’t play this team last year, but you saw how it is on the tapes. To win this thing, they need to get under your skin. Are you going to let them?”
“NO!” we hollered together.
“Good. Because I need you to remember that you’re bigger than that. This game isn’t going to be about finessing the puck. This game is going to be all about attitude. And the team that keeps the coolest head is gonna win. So I need you to repeat after me: Attitude is destiny!”
“Attitude is destiny!”
“Okay. Let’s kill ‘em. Get out there.” Coach’s face looked as tense as I’d ever seen it.
Bella put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m pretty sure that quote is supposed to be, ‘character is destiny.’”
“Yeah? I think I’d keep that critique to myself.”
“I was planning on it.”
“Hey, Bella?” I gave my skate laces one more tug and stood up.
“Yeah?”
“Any reason Coach would be talking to reporters?”
She frowned. “No idea. Why do you ask?”
“Just something he said.” My teammates had begun to stream out the door, cat calling and whooping it up. “Let’s go.”
“Kill ‘em tonight, Graham.”
“Yes ma’am.”
But… yeah. Not so much.
