Page 91 of Jaded

This is still my game, my team, my surrogate family. Even if I’ve doubted myself more than maybe any other person in the universe.

The Dingoes dominate the first period. We pile into the locker room during intermission to celebrate a resounding 3 – 0 lead.

We dominate the second period, too, enter the third with a 5 – 0 lead.

We win.

It’s not the end of our away-game stint, though, so we’re back on the bus.

We drive. We fly.

Another rink. Another game, another team.

We play.

We win.

The next morning, we grab breakfast too early, zombie-shuffle to the bus, do another zombie-shuffle to the plane, pass out with our heads against the windows or tipped back onto the seats.

I spend the flight with my temple pressed to the window, studying the land beneath us.

I watch as Day River draws into view. A speck on the horizon, a spill of silver on the snow. Needles of skyscrapers prodding the crystal cerulean of the sky, and yet utterly dwarfed by the immensity of the mountains beyond. Such an apt representation of nature and man, no?

Off the plane. Off the bus. Back at our own rink. Back to reality . . . and Coach Ethan marching towards me and my truck like a man on a mission.

“Nothing good ever started with a look like that,” I admit as he draws near.

“No.” He huffs out a laugh. “I’m inclined to agree with you there.”

“Now I’m deeply concerned.”

Another huffed laugh, a hand dragged through his hair. “Look. I . . . am a man to admit when I’m wrong.”

“Oh man, this isserious.” I school my features into stern composure, clasp my hands together against the strong desire to fidget. “Lay it on me, Coach.”

“I think you’re right about the Ice Out.”

“I . . . what?” My hands fall out of their weave in shock.

“I think I’ve been trying the same thing over and over, and it’s not working.” His dark gaze lifts to meet mine. “Instead of a transfer, I want to consider recruiting someone local.”

“What?” My brows shoot upwards in realization. “Local . . . You’re talking, like, an Ice Out player?”

His gaze slides sideways, away from me. Can’t tell if I’m just too hard to look at, or he’s still thinking this through. Both, maybe. “I’m going to host an open practice. A tryout. And I’m going to invite top Ice Out players to join us.”

I stare at him with my mouth literally hanging open. I might start drooling if I don’t get the damned thing closed soon. “What?”

Apparently that’s all I’m capable of saying anymore. Great. Great for a team leader—

“I can handle the organizational aspects. But I might need your help for things like . . . selection and general communication.”

Another wave of realization hits.

“You think,” I say slowly, “that because I’ve been to the Ice Out, I know how all that works?”

“You seem to know more about it than most people,” he says. Which okay. I guess I could see how he assumes that, after my little curation of Ice Out-themed TED Talks.

“I just observe more,” I correct. “Watch people. But that doesn’t mean I know anything about it.”

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