I mean, I get it. Our production ofTartuffelater this year isn’t going to bring in thousands (millions?) of dollars in revenue for the school. Still, you can’t blame me for wanting to know what all the fuss is about.
AndGavin did offer to come see what I do. It’s only fair I reciprocate, right?
I’m not really sure what drives me to do it, but a second later, I am opening the gleaming glass door and stepping into the lobby.
It’s deserted, but I can hear muffled sounds coming through what must be the doors to the seating area. Probably locked. But I try one anyway, giving it a hard yank, as if that would make a difference. And miraculously, it opens. Huh. Welp, I’m just gonna assume that if they didn’t want me watching, they would have locked that.
I step inside, cold air hitting me. Brr. I was not expecting that. Which, okay,ice,Dash…
Behind me, the heavy door swings shut, slowing until it clicks into place.
In here, the sounds are more distinct. Skate blades scraping across the ice, a sharp crack that must be a stick hitting a puck. Someone, probably the coach, yelling out instructions in lingo that’s gibberish to me. A whistle, loud and shrill.
I’m in a little entry tunnel, so I have to take a few steps forward before the ice and the arena come fully into view.
Holy shit, this is a lot of seats. Like a lot, a lot of seats. Like, I knew hockey was popular at this school, but… holy shit.
“Hey, watch it, West!” I look down at the ice to see some guy skating backwards and giving some other guy—presumably my roommate—double middle fingers. But his tone is teasing, so I guess that’s just how it’s done in Jockland.
A sharp whistle cuts the air. “Knock it off, Griff,”yells a middle-aged man off on one side of the ice. Okay, maybe that is not how it’s done in Jockland.
There are a dozen guys skating around on the ice. It’s hard to tell who’s who. They’re all wearing helmets, plus pads that make them look like Transformers and jerseys with numbers but no names. I know which one Gavin is, thanks to his friend there, but other than that, I’m lost. Still, it’s kinda mesmerizing, watching these hulking figures zipping around at crazy speeds, intent on doing whatever exactly it is they’re doing.
CHAPTER 2
CALEB
I’min the very last row of the stands in the Green Mountain Stags Hockey Arena.
I amin the arena.
I can’t freaking believe it.
I duck my head to hide my grin even though there’s nobody here to see me.
Because, as previously mentioned, I am in the very last row of the stands of the Green Mountain Stags Arena. During practice. When no one but a die-hard hockey fan would possibly venture in.
And I am. A die-hard hockey fan. In a way.
I’m watching players weave in and out of cones. I think this is an edgework drill. And earlier I’m pretty positive they were running breakout drills.
One player finishes the run with finesse, curving in a half circle, spraying ice as he goes. I practically want to cheer.
I know this is a little weird.
I know I don’t have a friend or a boyfriend or a brother on the team. I know I’m just some freshman weirdo, sitting alone in the nosebleeds watching practice. If anyone asked, I’m not even sure what I’d say. That I like hockey? That would be true, but...
Doesn’t matter. I couldn’t not come.
Coach blows his whistle, and the team skates around to center ice. I lean forward, pushing my glasses back up, even though I know I’m not going to be able to recognize any of them from here. I did thoroughly examine the roster online, though. You know, just so I’d be ready for the season. Too bad they seem to be using random number practice jerseys because otherwise I?—
Movement catches my eye, and I freeze.
Holy—what? Why? There’s someone else here. A guy. A guy my age. I don’t know how long he’s been here—he must have been standing in the entrance where I couldn’t see him. But I can see him now, because he’sclimbing up the stairs into the stands.
I don’t think he’s seen me yet. Maybe I could slip away? I scoop up my stuff—my bag, my phone, the game schedule flyer I picked up off the rack in the lobby—and look around frantically, but there is nowhere I could go that wouldn’t be in plain sight.
I sit like a deer (a Stag?) in headlights, hoping he somehow won’t notice the skinny dweeb in the back row.
