Page 7 of Patrick

CHAPTER 1

TRICK

The smell hits me as soon as I push through the locker room door, and I suck in a deep welcome breath, acrid odor and all, like I’m coming home. Tossing my bag in the direction of my cubby, it hits my buddy Bog in the leg.

He looks up from the laces he’s working on and cracks a smile. Bogdan Dabrowski doesn’t know how not to smile. Mostly I don’t mind his relentless good mood, and some days, like today, I’m into it. He’s good people, which is why he’s more than a teammate; he’s my best friend at UNH and the only guy who’s never given me a hard time about living at home.

“You boys ready for the big game?” Sully, a senior and team captain, walks by, still in his socks, and bumps my fist. “Six days and counting.”

One of the big defensemen pipes up, “I’m ready to knock out some teeth.” He’s a transfer student, and I think his name is Vaughn or Van or something. He doesn’t talk to me much, mostly grunts. “I want to get that Rossi kid. Payback for playing dirty with Trick last time.”

“No fighting,” Sully says. “Whatever you do, keep it on the down low.” He slips me a glance and a nod like he’s taking care of me.

“I appreciate the backup, guys,” I say, “but if anyone’s getting even with Rossi, it’s going to be me.”

Sully frowns. “No way. You’re our high scorer, and Rossi’s a hack trying to take you out of the game. We don’t need you making his job easy.”

Coach Zabra walks in, and my fists automatically clench. “Couldn’t agree with Sully more. But you’re not too big to bench even if the ref doesn’t throw you out for doing something stupid. Keep that in mind, Jennings.”

Coach Zabra is the only one involved with the team—and that includes all the coaches, trainers, my teammates, and even the stick boys—who doesn’t call me Trick. Too bad he’s the most important person when it comes to my hockey career.

In my freshman year, the previous coach, the one who recruited me, started calling me Trick when I got a hat trick early in the season, breaking some kind of freshman record, not just for UNH, but for the entire Hockey East conference.

I didn’t bother telling anyone that people at home have been calling me Trick since peewees.

As the vibrations of Zabra’s comment settle in, the room goes pin-drop silent because Coach isn’t usually so obvious about his dislike for me, and though guys have mentioned it to me from time to time, I’ve never acknowledged the animosity, shrugging it off. This time it’s hard to ignore.

He gives me an insulting smile that couldn’t be interpreted any way except smug. What the hell?

“Got it? You don’t touch Rossi.” He doesn’t touch me with his pointed finger. He knows better. Too bad. I tamp down on the surge of violent need to push back.

Gritting my teeth, I force myself to nod.

“Good.” He turns away and surveys the room. “On the ice in three minutes. Anyone late skates gassers.”

“Fuck,” Bog says under his breath.

I grunt, and as coach passes by me, he gives me another nasty stare, and all the hairs on my arms stand up. Something’s going on.

In a voice so low I barely hear it, he says, “I know about your family feud with Rossi, Jennings, and if you bring that personal shit onto the ice, your ass is gone, and I don’t care if you end up playing for a loser Division 3 team or fucking pond hockey.” He smiles and slaps my back like he’s been giving me a pep talk, then moves on to his office.

The tension in the room disappears when the door closes behind him, and as I look around, it’s obvious my teammates are under the impression that coach cleared the air and made amends for his earlier harshness.

Fuck. With my jaw clenched and my mouth shut, I grab my gloves and head for the ice. Bog follows me. The season is half over. I’m a junior and have played regular shifts since I was a freshman, so I only have one more year of eligibility.

It doesn’t take a genius to do the math and figure that I would need to get drafted this year or transfer. I have a feeling coach is right about my hockey career possibly ending up on a pond somewhere. No one’s going to want to waste a scholarship spot on their team for me, not even for one season, because I have a feeling coach would make sure a troublemaker reputation follows me.

As for getting drafted into the NHL, I refuse to think about that long shot. Every player on every Division I college team and every junior hockey player in Canada wants the same thing. No fucking chance it’s going to happen to me. I need to finish college and get my degree.

And I need to keep my scholarship to graduate. If not, it’s fish for me, the never-ending nauseating smell of fish for the rest of my life.

As soon as my skates hit the ice, I re-focus. All I can do is play my best hockey and fuck the coach. We’re getting ready for the final stretch to the playoffs, and our game Saturday against B.C. is important. Fuck Rossi too. I’ll let someone else get him back for the dirty hit last time we matched up. Though my whole family will be at the UNH v. BC game—except Connor, who has his own game, playing with the AHL team in Buffalo—to root for me against our bitter rival.

That rival being Rossi, not BC. So yeah, they’ll give me extra shit if I don’t take a shot at him. What else is new? It’s nearly impossible to stay neutral in the Jennings v. Rossi rivalry. I’m being comically generous to call it a rivalry.

As I swing around behind the net, I shave the ice, coming to a stop. My heart stutters as I try not to imagine the last time I saw Fifi⁠—

Bog catches up to me, bumping me lightly into the boards. “I don’t know why he has a chip on his shoulder.”