Over the facility entryway, a fierce dingbat extends its clawed feet, ready to snatch all who enter, deer antlers atop its head like a crown. Unlike the other renditions of our beloved mascot, it lacks tiny fangs and beady black eyes. I sprint past the black and white faces of former Dingbats. The decals are somewhat faded from time and largely faded from all the post-defacement scrubbing. Lots of these guys look better with blacked-out teeth and eyepatches, if you ask me.
Cold air hits me and I stop running. I catch my breath, walking up to the barrier. I bang on the acrylic, a warbling sound echoing across the empty ice. Terrence catches up, running his hand through his hair with a moan of anguish.
“Man, come on!”
I ignore him, sitting down and unlacing my sneakers.
“I wanted to get some practice shots in before meeting the new coach.”
“And I want to run through my new program.” I swap my sneakers for the skates in my bag. Lugging them around campus isn’t ideal, but if I don’t get here right after afternoon classes end, I risk Terrence or some other puck-head hitting the ice first. Hockey skates tear up the ice bad, and I’d be better off practicing in the dance studio than scratched up ice.
Terrence joins me on the bench. “Qualifiers are soon, yeah? You’ll rock ‘em.”
“You’re sweet, and still not getting into the rink.”
Skates on, and in a few steps, I’m weightless. The ice ferries me to the center of the rink. I pause, taking in the empty stands before landing on Terrence. He squints in my direction, his lips pulling into a pout, an impression of some ancient judge who’s already picked his season favorite. Terrence is sitting right where the judges would be too.
Sometimes I’m jealous of hockey’s rules. Skating has plenty of its own rules and regulations, but it also has styleand artistry. Refs don’t let an elbow fly just because there’s passion behind it. Losing points because a judge didn’t like the chosen arrangement happens more often than anyone is comfortable admitting.
I press on with my warm-ups, taking a couple laps before shifting my weight to skate backwards. Up in the balcony, an impressive set of horns catches my eye. The imposing figure has their back to me, but Leroy is speaking to them, his hands and face animated. I don’t think much of it and transition into a spin.
Terrence lets out a whoop and a clap. Leroy and the stranger turn towards the sound, and that’s when I get a good look at them both. The other guy has horns that put Leroy’s to shame. His handlebar-shaped horns are as wide as his shoulders. His fur is as pale and short as the ice shavings left behind by my skates.
A huge white Minotaur. Where have I seen that before?
My stomach drops and I try to push the dread all the way down to the pick of my skate, catching the ice as I propel myself into a C turn. Terrance doesn’t clap this time. Leroy returns to his conversation with... There’snoway that’s the guy I was talking to last night. What are the odds there are two Minotaurs in our humdrum college town?
The rest of my practice is such a blur, I don’t even notice the rest of the hockey team has shown up. Everyone is dressed in pads, eagerly awaiting their allotted rink time. Leroy shouts at me from across the ice. “C’mon Rod! Unless you’re looking to join the team.”
I take a bow like it’s a real competition before exiting the ice. Any other day, I’d shoot him a comeback, something about how the Dingbats can’t get any worse even with me on the roster. I swallow, give Leroy a nod, and keep my head down as I put my guards on my skates.
Totally-not 3dge-m3 steps in front of the hockey team and clears his throat. “I’ll introduce myself, that is, if Leroyhasn’t already told you everything you need to know about me.”
Some of the guys chuckle. Terrence knocks Leroy with his shoulder and gives him a good-natured but shit-eating grin.
Leroy defends himself. “I’ve been telling them to be on their best behavior, coach.”
“Right now, your best behavior is below average.” The harsh comeback hangs over the ice. He clears his throat. “You all will call me Coach Chris. Now listen, I am not interested in last season or any season before that. Far as I am concerned, we’re rebuilding this team from the ground up. I’m going to have you boys running drills like you’re in the youth league. Like it’s your first time on ice. Just because you’re on the team doesn’t mean you’ve proven anything to me.”
I can practically hear the whole team gulp simultaneously. As entertaining as it is watching the Dingbats sweat, I’m way more interested in the speech itself.
“Now who am I to say this shit, right? I’ve been playing since I was six, like a lot of you, and I joined the ECHL at twenty. I’ve been knocked down by some guys in the big show, scored on a few of them too.”
From where I’m sitting I can only see the coach's backside, so not a bad view at all—but the confidence in his voice tells me he’s smiling. He’s got the whole team hanging on his every word. The only interruption is my heart thudding in my ears– completely unrelated to the nice view of his ass. Even if his tail is swishing as he talks. It's a cute distraction from my utter panic.
I’ve seen 3dge-m3—Coach Chris’dick, and I told him to bounce on mine!
There’s still the possibility it’s not him. Sure heisnew in town, has the same coat color, and a magnetic ass—but I don’t know everyone on campus. Or in town. Someone’s cousin could be visiting for the week ,and that’s who's been asking me to step on them. Maybe Coach Chris has a twin.
I rifle through my bag for my phone, typing out a single word and sending it just in time.
TwinkleTop:Tonight.
“I’m going to push you guys hard this season– starting right now.” Coach Chris claps his hands. “Let’s go, groups of four for circle chaos.”
While the guys file onto the ice, coach pulls his phone from his pocket. I stand up, trying and failing to get a look at his phone over his thick shoulders. He slides it back in without a second thought before shouting orders.
I’ve bawled my eyes out after a competition, but I’ve never run so fast out of an ice rink in my life. The worst part is my head is completely empty. I’m painfully aware of every step I take back to the dorm. I shrug my bag over my shoulder so many times, I’m surprised I don’t pull a muscle. I need to talk to someone. But Terrence is in practice—and even if he wasn’t he’s not an option. Idohave other friends—but maybe best to avoid anyone on campus. Alexsandra has known me forever, and she’s in Europe, but that means she’ll be asleep for several more hours.
