Jennings sighs, probably thinking we’re chirping him over his intelligence again. “Yes, Harry, I know who Oprah is.”
Harry,Matt’s nickname even though it has the same number of syllables as his last name. It’s a hockey thing.
Matt tosses his arms in the air. “And my faith in humanity is restored.”
Jennings’s brow wrinkles.
I shake my head at him, signaling not to worry about it. “He’s old.”
Matt whacks me in the butt with his stick.
“Hey,” I yelp even though my pads absorb the blow.
“No disrespecting your captain,” Matt calls.
I trail Jennings to our bench, where he snatches a water bottle and squirts into his mouth. When he’s done, he sprays me, but my eyes close before it hits my face. We do this before every game.
“You ready for the season?” he asks.
“I think so.”
He douses me with another healthy stream of water. “What’s with the attitude?”
I shake my head, spraying water droplets to the side. “Just in my head.”
“About what?”
“I need a good season. It’s the last year of my entry-level contract.”
I worked my ass off all summer, forgoing time with my family and friends. I’m stronger, fitter, and more skilled than ever. I won’t repeat last year’s lackluster performance, the dreaded sophomore slump. Disappointing the ownership, my coaches, and the fans is not an option.
Jennings scoffs. “Come on, you’re not going anywhere.”
My stomach somersaults at the thought of leaving Palmer City, the place I now consider home. I have friends here. An apartment. I like my teammates and my coach. My brand of hockey aligns with the system the Wolves play. Ifit. I come across as easygoing, but I haven’t always felt at home like I do here. Iwantto stay.
“I fucking hope so.”
I want a long-term deal with a solid salary to cement myself as part of this team's core. I need to show them I’m worth a multi-million dollar investment.
“Don’t hope.” Jennings skates by me, bumping my shoulder. “You got this, Briggsy.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m on the ice, waiting for puck drop on the opposite side of the face-off circle from Volk. His nemesis, Justin Ward, shoves his shoulder while skating to center ice. They exchange words I can’t hear over the roar of the excited crowd, the beginning of tonight’s trash talk.
Niko Halonen—a flashy acquisition from the trade deadline last season who centers our line—smirks at Ward. The cocky asshole pushes our patience, but as far as I can tell, he’s not a bad guy… unlike Ward, whose favorite part of hockey is to purposefully injure people.
Halo—as the team calls Halonen—wins the face-off and sends the puck to me. Nothing compares to the jolt of adrenaline flaring inside me when the puck lands on my stick. I take off, my skate blades marking fresh ice as I blaze past a defender toward the opposing goal. I pass the puck to Halo and brace for a hit, one of the d-men on the other team checking me into the boards. I’m usually one of the smallest guys on the ice, but it’s never held me back.
And it never will.
People have described me as fearless since I was a kid. I wouldn’t have made it here if I wasn’t.
I shove the guy off me in time to watch Volk slap a shot into the net. The siren sounds to signal a goal, and the arena erupts, generating enough noise to drown out the celebratory song. Volk gestures to himself with raised arms, encouraging the crowd to cheer louder.
I’m grinning as I skate toward my teammates. A goal in the first minute of the first game of the season—there’s no rust toshake off. We're picking up where we left off last season, on a mission to win the cup.
“Hell yeah, Volk!” I shout when I reach them, throwing myself into the huddle.
The game is uneventful heading to the third, with both teams buckling down to battle relentlessly. I notch one assist and play solid defense, which will please our coach since he demands we play scrappy.
