The terminology isn’t hard to figure out. “You’re a forward, right?”
He nods. “Yes. Left wing.”
I look back out over the lines on the ice. “That red line in the middle divides offensive and defensive zones.” I say it slowly, more to give myself time to think than because I need confirmation. I may not know anything about hockey, but that one’s pretty obvious.
“Actually, no,” he corrects. “That’s center ice, yeah, but… See those two blue lines on either side of it?”
My gaze tracks across the ice. The lines in question are about twenty or thirty feet from the red one. “Yes.”
“The space between those is called the neutral zone. The offensive and defensive zones begin once you cross the blue lines.”
Ah. “And that red line on either side of the goal? Is that out of bounds?”
“Nope. We call it ‘out of play’ in hockey, but anything on the ice is in play. If you hit the puck over the glass into the crowd, it’s out of play. Otherwise, we can go anywhere on the ice, including behind the goal.”
I think about it. “That must be fun for the goalie.”
His laugh surprises us both and cuts off abruptly. “Ah, yeah. I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking away. “So, anyway… back to shifts. Forwards work in lines of three—the center, and left and right wings. Each team has four lines rotating time on the ice. The idea is to skate balls-out for short shifts, then take a minute or two to get your breath back before it’s your turn again.”
I remember the speed I saw during training camp and how much stamina would be needed to play like that for an entire game. Rotating makes sense. “How long are the shifts?”
He shrugs. “It depends. In our league, the average is about a minute. In the human league, it’s a little shorter—but they’re only human, right? There’s no set interval. We change shifts when we need to and when the play allows. Sometimes it’s not possible to just leave the ice, so you’re out there for longer than usual.”
This seems like it might be one of those things that makes more sense when I see it in action, because the idea of players randomly coming and going from the ice with nobody knowing when it’s going to happen seems… chaotic.
“What about the defensemen? You said there are two per shift, right?”
“Yeah, they work in pairs.”
“Do they change when the forwards do?”
“No, it’s not a matter of all five players changing shift at the same time. Defense shifts are usually a little longer anyway.” Hepulls a face. “This is a lot of information to just throw at you without a visual example. You need to see a game to put it all into context.”
“Yes.” I seize on the excuse to leave and put some distance between us so I can get my thoughts in order—and not the ones about hockey. “I can watch some games. The league has a YouTube channel, doesn’t it?” I’ll watch as many games as needed to put an end to this awkward encounter and minimize how many we have in future.
“It does,” he says. “But it’s not… Like, watching streamed games is good for newbies because the commentary helps you keep track of things, but you miss a lot of other stuff with the camera focused only on the play.” He hesitates. “Are you free on Thursday night? Come to a game with me, and I’ll talk you through it.”
My voice freezes in my throat.
“It’ll be the human league, of course,” he continues, “but that’s probably better anyway. They don’t play as fast as we do, so it’ll be easier to follow.”
“Uh,” I croak.
“Actually, why don’t I call Jared and Dáithí, and we’ll get a group together? Jared knows a lot about hockey, so he can help to explain too, and with more people along, it’ll be fun.”
Fun. A group. What?
“Sure,” I say weakly. Because how the fuck do I refuse? Dáithí’s boyfriend is my boss, and Jared’s is my species leader.
Oh, crap.
“Great. Trust me, this is a good way to learn. You should also plan to be at our first game next week—no, wait, we’re away. Come to the second one. That’s actually better, because we’re up against the Glaives then, and they’re really good. You’ll see a lot of skill in that game.”
That snaps my attention back to the present. “What do you mean? Are you not usually skilled?” The second the words are out, I wish I could call them back. Could I have been any more tactless?
Felix grimaces, a pink flush burning on his cheekbones. He clears his throat, glances around, then finally says, “The Warhammers aren’t known for playing with finesse. Not yet, anyway. We’re working on it.” He clears his throat again. “Anyway, I’ll set things up for Thursday. Are you going to be around this week, or should I pass the details on to…” He trails off awkwardly and stares at the floor.
Dammit. How did I end up in this position? “We should exchange numbers,” I suggest, the words a little stiffer than I want them to be.
