Seventh period finally drags itself into existence. My body knows before the bell rings. I can feel anticipation in my legs, in the way my hands itch to hold a stick.
I follow the map down the main stairwell, past the trophy case, then through a set of double doors marked “Athletic Complex.” The air changes. Less perfume, more sweat. Less cologne, more rubber, and oil. The familiar musky and somewhat sweet, yet sour smell.
When I push open the door to the rink, I stop. It is beautiful. Glass boards. Freshly surfaced ice. Lines bright and straight. Seats rising on one side, dark and empty now but humming with potential.
It is colder in here. Perfect.
A few guys are already in the stands, lacing up skates. Others lean against the boards, laughing. They wear school-branded track jackets. They move like they own this space.
In the middle of the ice, there is a boy skating lazy circles, stretching his legs. His posture is loose, practiced. Like the surface belongs to him.
I know who he is before I know his name.
You can tell who the king is on any sheet. He is the one who does not have to look around to be sure others see him. He knows they do.
He has light brown hair that falls just right, not too long, not too short. His uniform undershirt fits him snug, no wrinkles. His skating is smooth. Efficient. No wasted motion.
He glides to the far end, takes a puck, sends it ripping into the net with a shot that rings off the crossbar and settles deep into my chest.
Yeah. Okay. He is good.
“Kilovac?” A voice snaps from behind me.
I turn. A man in his fifties, red nose and cheeks, barrel-chested, with a whistle around his neck and a clipboard in his hand, looks me over. Coach Popav.
“Yes,” I say.
“You are late,” he grunts.
I check the clock. I am not. But I do not argue.
“Get dressed,” he barks. “Your locker is in the back, left side. Move.”
I move.
The locker room is stark. Benches, hooks, the smell of sweat and old tape. Some of the guys glance up when I come in. A few nod. Most just keep talking. The sounds of their voices bounce off the tiles.
I find the stall with my name taped above it. The gear is lined up. Secondhand, but better than what I had at my last rink. I change quickly and efficiently. I have done this a thousand times in worse conditions.
Helmets click. Sticks bang lightly against the floor. The rest of the team filters out toward the tunnel. I fall in near the back.
My first step onto the ice is a breath I did not know I was holding. Blades bite. Knees flex. Everything inside me loosens and tightens at the same time.
This is home. Always has been. No matter what the walls look like around it.
Coach blows the whistle. “Line up. Let’s see what our new little scholarship experiment can do.”
A few guys snicker under their breath. “Scholarship experiment” sticks between my teeth like something I want to spit out.
We start with warm-up laps. I skate easy at first, feeling the ice, testing the edges. It responds the way all ice does. Honest. Clear.
The rest of the team has decent speed. A couple have real power. I pick out strengths, weaknesses, and habits. It is how I survive. You learn who will hit clean, who will swing high, and who will dive.
We start drills. Passing. Shooting. Edgework. I hold my own. Coach does not say anything, which is probably the best thing he can do.
Then he calls for a one-on-one drill.
“Volkov,” he shouts. “Blue line. Defense.” He scans the group. “Kilovac. Puck carrier.”
