Page 7 of Home for the Hockey-Days

I grunt, unable to still my mind enough to drift into the abyss of sleep. And I swear to all that’s holy if I hear Jingle Bells one more fucking time...

Why don’t all airports have gyms? Somewhere for us to pump some iron while we wait for them to announce the inevitable cancellation of our flight across the country. I’m half tempted to drop to the floor and do some push-ups in a bid to distract myself from the self-loathing spiral my brain is caught in.

So I can’t math, so what?

I can shoot a puck at ninety three miles per hour and score a goal from damn near anywhere on the ice. I know plenty of people who can math who can’t hockey. I don’t seethemgetting dragged into the dean’s office.

What gives?

The urge to expel energy burns under my skin, heating my blood and making me twitch. Maybe a mindless scroll of social media will keep my attention for a while. The first story on my feed is a post from the team we are traveling to play against. They have already announced that our game is canceled and will take place at another time.

If they know we aren’t boarding a fucking plane, and I know we aren’t boarding a fucking plane, why the fucking fuck hasn’t the airport announced it?

Caged like animals lingering around the departure gate, everything pisses me off. From the de la Peña twins grinning and singing with Raffi, the cheap-ass Christmas decorations hung poorly on the walls around us, to Justin Ashe’s snoring providing an off-tempo baseline to the music.

I need to hit something. I’m sure the freshman, Artemis, could go toe to toe with me in a ring. I’ve seen him workout. Dude’s a machine. If anyone on the roster could dance with me, I think it’d be him. I really fucking hate charity, at least when it’s directed at me.

I know they’re on my team, and we all skate for the same logo on the front of our shirts. We all want the same wins, and to succeed on the ice, but we aren’t the same, them and me. We’re far fucking from it.

Their offer to pay for my tutor still sits uncomfortably on my chest, and I’m sorely tempted to give the Bitches Brew gift card from Artemis to Mom as part of her Christmas present.

I hate taking loans, or help from people. I hate owing anything to anyone. And I sure as shit hate being bailed out of a situation I created myself. If only I’d done a little more studying, or read the questions through a second time on my test papers.

Fuck.

Justin Ashe is awake and the first to drop to the floor for apush up challenge, but he’s not alone. One of the Wolves, a sophomore, Xavier Martinez, is next to him.

“First to one hundred?” Xavier grins at Justin who nods. Joke’s on Justin if he thinks he can out-do a Martinez. Xavier is hockey royalty, his older brother Roman, who plays for the New Orleans Phantoms, is the best goaltender in the national league.

“Works for me.” Justin looks up, not one to back down from a challenge. “Someone set a timer?”

One of the twins pulls out their phone. “On it.”

It’s not long before both men are grunting, and Xavier’s grin has been replaced by a tight-lipped grimace.

A few more Raccoons and Wolves join in and soon there are close to a dozen hockey players face down on the airport floor trying to do one hundred push-ups.

Xavier beats Justin to the finish line and face plants on the floor. “What’s next?” His chest heaves, and sweat trickles down his face.

Lachlan Fergusson, one of my oldest friends in the game—even though he now lives and plays in Wisconsin—collects a few empty water bottles from around the feet of the players. “What about bowling?” He holds up a massage ball.

Lachlan lines up ten bottles in a triangle shape and takes some long strides away from them. He throws a shot, knocking over one pin from the back corner of the group of bottles.

“Fuck.” Lachlan stamps his foot, but two other Wolves stand behind him like they’re keen to take a turn.

One of my teammates collects another round of empty plastic bottles and lines them up a few feet away from Lachlan’s ‘bowling lane’ making two lanes for us to play. A half hour later we have four plastic bottle bowling lanes with two massage balls, a tennis ball, and a golf ball from a traveler whodidn’t put all his balls in his checked baggage. Players on both teams are taking turns, and we’re keeping score on a notepad.

Turns out our competitive natures lend themselves to wanting to win. Who’d have thought?

It comes down to the last two throws, me on one side, and Lachlan on the other. Both teams and some random travelers surround us in a horseshoe shaped crowd. Lachlan offers me his hand to shake before we both throw.

“May the best team win.”

That one sentence feels like the weight of the world is suddenly dropped onto my shoulders. Fuck. No pressure. It’s just a friendly game between rival teams, right? A massage ball against empty bottles.

No. Big. Deal.

Then why is sweat prickling across my brow? Why is my stomach tight and muscles tense like I’m stepping up to an Olympic race? Why is there so much anticipation in the air that it’s heavy and crackling?

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