“Yes,” they say in unison, their voices echoing through me.
It’s chilling to watch. One moment they’re stiff and doubtful, and just like that Alex manages to restore what little faith they had.
“Then man up, suit up, and hit the fucking ice.”
Lockers slam as they quickly finish putting on their uniforms,then head to practice. One by one they stroll through the doors and down the tunnel. Slowly the volume diminishes and for a second, all I hear is the buzz from the overhead lights.
Finally, Alex glances up, and our eyes lock. There’s something behind his expression—exhaustion, maybe. When he lets out a long breath, I realize what it is. It’s the pressure. He’s put on a front to hype up his team, to get them out of their heads, but he’s feeling it, too.
“Are you going to tape up my sticks or keep staring all night?”
And the asshole returns.
My mouth presses into a line, and I fight the urge to roll my eyes again.
“Just a little shocked that your brain could form a full sentence let alone give a pep rally.”
His lip twitches. It’s almost a smirk—real, not fake. Almost something human.
Without another word, Alex takes off, disappearing into the tunnel behind the rest of the team.
I shake my head and put my headphones on while I walk over to the equipment room. Digging my phone out of my back pocket, I put on some music and flop down on the bench.
Tonight’s priority is taping off all the sticks, including backups, and making sure the uniforms are clean and ready to go. Last night, I had to sharpen twenty-six pairs of skates, each blade a different cut.
I work fast on Alex’s sticks, wrapping tape around the blades and shaft with a practiced precision.
Stretch. Press. Tear. Repeat.
I run my fingers over the fresh tape, inspecting my work before moving on to his backups. He likes his grip tight, almost suffocating. God, I hate that I know that. Hate that I cared enough to memorize their preferences.
Kane’s tape job is all bark and no finesse—barely staggered grip lines and half a roll at the blade. He likes the handle thick, tape bunched where his fingers rests. He says it “feels mean.”Whatever the hell that means.
Mountain is different from them all, barely even taping his stick blade at all. Just a single strip of friction tape down the middle is how he likes it. He swears that it gives him a better feel, but I wouldn’t know.
When I finish, I move on to gear check and setup. My brain works on autopilot, simmering in silent resentment. If anything is out of place, I catch it before they even notice. The last thing I want is to give them something to come at me for.
I hate this job, but I’m not expelled, which means I still have a chance at making something with this life and getting custody of my brother.
So I replace a torn glove here, a twisted chin strap there. Switch out worn laces, swap broken buckles, and cut away any snapped Velcro like my life depends on it. Because in some sick, twisted way, it does.
Next, I set out sock tape—white, black, and clear—each one unboxed and dropped at the edge of their stalls like they magically appeared. As I move on to hanging towels, my music is drowned out by the cacophony of voices coming down the tunnel.
Practice must be over.
I remove my headphones, hook them around my neck, and check my phone for the time.
It’s been nearly two hours already?
The team pours in, more enthusiastic than when they went out of there. The adrenaline coursing through them is loud and alive as they talk loudly to one another, banging against cold metal.
I stop what I’m doing and step out of the locker room to give them the space to undress and shower, already prepared to be here longer than I need to be. Every practice, they take their sweet time, while I stand in this tunnel. I can’t leave until all players are off the ice and out of the locker room.
The sound of the puck scraping over the ice catches my attention. Curiosity strikes and I find myself inching slowly toward the sound. The right side of the ice comes into view first; then a puck goes barreling into the net at lighting speed. A second later, so does another, each followed by an aggressive grunt.
I reach the end of the tunnel just as Alex skates across the ice, lost in a world of his own.
He doesn’t stop. Another slap of the puck. Another sharp grunt. Doesn’t breathe between shots, just lines them up and lets loose like something in his chest might detonate if he doesn’t.
