He’s muttering in Russian, and can’t keep up with us, but he’s doing his best.
God dammit, there go my eyes.
“Fucking prick.” Ashton Knight falls in beside us. “I want to punch his smug, fat face.”
I would’ve laughed if I wasn’t having trouble breathing.
“You’re a good man, Knight,” West tells him.
“You fuckers are crazy,” Felix says, as he skates in beside us. “But I’ll skate. Fuck Coach.”
I love seeing the solidarity, even if they don’t know what’s happening. Or maybe they do. Maybe the whole team knows I’m sleeping with Coach Morrison’s daughter. For her sake, I hope not.
“You guys know I teach a learn to skate seminar every summer in Chicago,” Simon says, joining us. “Even in my gear, I can outskate all your asses.”
Again, I want to laugh but my body isn’t having it.
“How long will he keep this up?” Felix asks, glancing over to where Coach is yelling at Phil, one of the trainers. We can’t hear them but it’s obvious Phil doesn’t think this is a good idea.
“Herb Brooks did it for over an hour.”
“You’re at thirty-two minutes,” West says. “I’ve got a timer going on my phone.”
Jesus. I don’t know if I have another thirty minutes in me.
My gait is shorter now, muscles straining, and I’m not sure if I’m going to make it.
But he wants me to fail, to collapse, puke in front of my teammates.
And I can’t. No matter what happens, I have to keep going.
Half the team is on the ice now, skating alongside me, giving encouragement, trying to show support.
If I had the energy, I’d take note of whoisn’ton the ice, but I figure West is watching. He’ll know who did what. And which guys are truly team players.
Most surprising is that Blaze is out here now, skating at the far end of the squiggly line we make as we sprint back and forth between the two goals.
“I’m gonna puke,” I grunt to West.
“Do it if you have to but don’t stop moving. Fuck him.”
It’s hard but somehow, I swallow down the bile and keep skating.
For what seems like an eternity.
Finally—and I have no idea how much time has passed—Coach blows the whistle and motions us to stop. I collapse against the boards, chest heaving, legs like Jell-O, too tired to even take the towel Phil offers me.
“Bodi, talk to me.” Phil looks worried.
“I’m…okay.” That’s a lie, but again, fuck Coach Morrison. I’ll die out here before I show weakness.
Coach is rambling about integrity, trust, and some other bullshit that’s filled with hypocrisy.
“You need hydration,” Phil says. “Let’s go.” He nudges me toward the tunnel.
“Michener, in my office after practice.” Coach Morrison locks gazes with me, and I see nothing but disgust in his.
Yeah, feeling’s mutual, buddy.
