I wiped sweat off my brow with the back of a soaked glove.“You skate with the math major, you pick up vocabulary.”
“Roomie treating you okay?”
“Taped a rules list to the fridge,” I said.“Color-coded.Even signed by yours truly.”
“That’s either adorable or serial-killer stuff.Jury’s out.”
Javier slid to a stop in front of us, spraying a sheet of ice at our skates.“Glove looked sharp,” he said, voice even.“But you’re still late on push-outs when I shade right.”He shoved his mouth guard between teeth and skated away before I could answer.
Ryan lifted his brows.“Translation: You’re earning respect.”
“Or I’m a science project.”
“Science projects don’t dress for Friday’s home opener.”He nudged my elbow.“Relax.”
Easy advice when you weren’t the newest transfer wearing borrowed expectations like a too-tight chest protector.
Harper whistled again.“Full-ice scrimmage.Two fifteen-minute run-time periods.Carter and Decker split.”
Decker—last semester’s backup—tapped my pads as he passed.“You start?”
“Coach hasn’t said.”But every cell in my body prayed for it.
We took positions.First unit against first unit.Crowd noise would be triple Friday, but right now the rink was quiet except for the Zamboni exhaust lingering from the morning cut and the smack of sticks on ice.
Faceoff.Puck dropped.The rush built quick—Morales scooping possession, cutting inside our rookie defenseman, flipping to Ryan streaking down the wing.Ryan ripped a snapshot glove side.I snared it clean.Play whistled dead.
I tossed the puck to the ref stand-in, heart rate steadying.Felt good.Felt right.
Next shift, Javier deked our captain, toe-dragged forehand, and fired low blocker.I read it, dropped, paddle down.Rebound kicked out too far.He shoveled it upstairs before I could recover.
Ping.Water bottle off.
Harper’s whistle.“Keep the rebound inside the blue paint!”
My chest burned.I’d let anger torpedo games before; couldn’t now.Dad’s voice hissed somewhere beneath the mask—“don’t let them see weakness, kid”—but I ignored it, dialed in.
When the first period ended 2–1 red squad, Harper waved me over.She didn’t raise her voice; she never had to.
“Carter, you’re tracking well, but your weight transfer is slow when you reset after a high shot.Less pop-up, more edge-load.Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Show me.”
Second period: I focused on staying loaded, shoulder down, nose on puck.Javier kept testing glove high, but I met him every time.Ryan scored on Decker at the other end, cackling loud enough to echo.The horn sounded—scrimmage tied 3–3.
Harper blew her final whistle.“Bag skate tomorrow morning; film this afternoon.Weights at sixteen-hundred.Hit the showers.”
Players scattered.I crouched, tapping both posts again before sliding out.My shoulder throbbed where yesterday’s scrimmage had clipped me, but adrenaline masked most of it.
Inside the tunnel, fluorescent lights hummed.The gear smell thickened—wet tape, rubber, ammonia crystals from sweat-soaked pads.Voices bounced off concrete.Ryan threw an arm over my helmet, steering me toward the stalls.
“Friday’s our house opener against Caribou State,” he said.“Stands’ll be packed, student section liquored up by warm-ups.You ready?”
“If Coach calls my name, yeah.”
“That glove side looked ready.”He bumped fists, then ducked into his stall.
