I block a shot with my shin, I get dumped on my ass behind the net, I finish every hit just a little late because there’s nothing more annoying than a guy who won’t go away.
We drop two more goals in the third and the score is 4-2 when the clock dies.
There’s no handshake line, not for regular games, just a scattered exodus to the room.
Nobody’s talking.
Coach doesn’t bother with the postmortem, just glares and points us to the tunnel. I skate off last, head down.
The arena is already half-empty, the diehards and drunks shuffling out for last call.
In the hallway, I hear a stick tap, once, twice, from somewhere behind me.
I look back and it’s Ryan Holt, our captain, blood on his knuckles, grinning like a wolf.
“Nice chin, Rosen,” he says.
“Better save,” I shoot back, and he laughs, which hurts more than anything.
Nobody in the world likes me, but they respect the hell out of a guy who takes a shot and doesn’t stay down.
I live for it. I hate it. I want more.
In the dressing room, my hands are shaking as I undo the helmet, peel back the jersey, wipe off the new blood from the old scars.
I press my tongue to the inside of my cheek and taste the iron and sweat and just a little bit of glory.
I made the play. I made a difference. It’ll never be enough.
But it’s all I know how to do.
———
The locker room is always cold.
Not the bone-deep freeze of the rink, but the institutional chill that lingers in cinderblock and tile, a kind of engineered misery designed to keep everyone on edge and moving.
There’s a weird comfort in it, the way the sweat cools to a prickling itch, the way the steam from the showers turns your breath into a little private cloud.
I always liked it more after a loss, the silence thicker, the fuck-you energy bouncing off the walls like a live puck.
Victories are for teams with something to prove. We have nothing to prove. We’re just here because it’s the only place that’ll take us.
I’m working the laces out of my left skate, teeth clamped around a bit of athletic tape that tastes like chemical lemons and plastic, when I realize the stall next to mine is empty.
Not just “guy’s in the shower” empty, but stripped-out, every item vanished, like a chalk outline after the body’s been hauled away.
The sign above says “D. WEBB” in black sharpie, slightly off-kilter, the way the trainers write it when they’re not quite sober.
I never saw Darius as the type to bounce without saying shit.
He’s the only guy on the squad who can finish a full sentence, the only one who doesn’t act like my existence is an affront to the game.
I glance around, keep it casual.
O’Doul is face down on the training table, nursing a knee, trainers dabbing at the swelling with bags of ice.
Cap’s already in the shower, singing “Yellow Ledbetter” off-key in a voice that sounds like a motorcycle accident.
