When his mom was diagnosed with breast cancer during his senior year, he missed a bunch of practices to be with her through her treatment. Our coach yelled at him one day in the locker room, accusing him of not being committed enough to the team, so I got in his face and defended Travis. He was dealing with enough. His dad has ditched him and his mom, the worthless asshole, leaving Travis to take care of her while he balanced school and hockey. He didn’t need to eat shit from our coach too.
I got benched from playing for a week for mouthing off, but I didn’t care. Travis was my best friend, and I’d stand up for him no matter what, just like he’d done for me.
Travis holds up his phone to me, an unamused expression on his face. “Get dressed. Now. We’re leaving for practice in three minutes.”
I gently pat his cheek. “Aww, are you my personal chauffeur now?”
He shoves my hand away. “Fuck, no. I just don’t want Coach Sawyer to chew our asses out again like the last time you were late. I’m not in the mood to run suicides either.”
I run to my bedroom, which is next to the living room, and throw on a T-shirt while standing in the open doorway.
Travis grimaces at my shirt. “That’s what you’re gonna wear?”
I glance down and grin at the T-shirt I bought at a random souvenir shop on the Vegas strip. It’s gray with the words,Don’t bully me, I’ll cumin white letters.
“It’s my favorite shirt.” I jog to the hallway bathroom so I can brush my teeth and take a piss, then I run to the kitchen and grab my water bottle and two protein bars.
“And come on. That extra drill when I was late wasn’t that bad,” I say.
“It was absolutely that bad,” Travis says when I walk back over to him. “Do you see how much stuff I have to wear? You try skating sprints decked out in goalie gear.”
I grab my bag and slide on my sneakers, devour half of one protein bar, then head for the front door. “Good point. Let’s go then. You’re gonna make us late,” I tease as I jog out the door and to his car, which is parked in the driveway.
“You’re the worst,” he mutters as he hops in the driver’s seat and starts the car.
“Aww, you still love me, Travvie.” I blow him a kiss as I finish the protein bar and guzzle water.
He flips me off even though I see the corner of his mouth quirk up.
He hauls ass to the practice rink on the other side of campus and parks. We make it to the locker room, and I quickly throw on my gear and hit the ice.
By the end of practice, I’m drenched. Those passing and shooting drills Coach put us through kicked my ass, and I’m sweating out all the vodka I drank last night.
Coach Sawyer blows the whistle, and I use the break to rehydrate.
Blake Morrissey, one of my other roommates, skates up to me. His face is red, and he’s breathing hard.
“How the hell are you not vomiting right now?” he says. “I drank half as much as you last night, and I had to leave practice twice so far to throw up.”
I flash what I’m certain is a smug grin. “Guess I’m just naturally better at holding my liquor than you.”
He groans as he drains his water bottle. He pushes up his helmet and wipes the sweat from his brow, his shoulders rising and falling with the breaths he takes.
“We’re throwing out the couch after the way you and your lady friends defiled it last night, by the way,” he says before skating off.
“I’ll get it cleaned up. Promise,” I holler.
Coach blows the whistle, and we pick back up. When practice ends, we all head to the locker room.
“St. George. Hang back a sec,” Coach says.
I linger on the ice as the rest of my teammates head for the locker room. When it’s just me and Coach, he turns to me, an icy glare on his face.
My nerves kick up. This isn’t good. Whenever Coach asks to speak to us one-on-one, it’s hardly ever good news.
“I just heard from your academic advisor this morning. You’re failing one class, and you’ve got Ds in two others.”
All the muscles in my neck and shoulders tense. I clear my throat. “Yeah, um, about that. I’m working on getting those up.”
