Page 20 of Snowballed

We head-nod each other. I feel a strange liberty. I’m under no pressure to prove myself or make the top pairing because none of that matters anymore. I don’t have to become best friends with everyone to get their votes for the captaincy. I can relax.

Seb squints at me in a familiar way, and I brace myself for what’s coming. Having to talk about my father is painful because I feel so phony.

“So, your brother just got drafted, right? Is he going to training camp?”

Whoosh. Like that, I’ve transformed from Gary Goodwin’s son to Adam Goodwin’s brother. Still not my own person, but what the hell. I’d rather talk about Adam.

“Yeah, he is. He went to Vancouver’s prospects camp and did well, so he’s hoping.” Adam messages me nearly every day with updates.

“I got taken in the same draft. But not as high as your brother, so I figured another year of college would help,” Seb explains.

I nod. Since I’ve never seen this guy play, I have no idea what his game is like. But being over-ready for the NHL never hurt anyone’s career.

“So, are you a senior?” J.D. asks me.

“No, I’m in grad school. Education program,” I explain.

“Oh, that’s different,” he says.

“Yeah, I got injured in my sophomore season, so I still have a year of Div 1 eligibility left.” The small scars on my knee are all that are left after nine months of recovering from an ACL tear and surgery. I think I came back even stronger, but a serious injury is yet another reason to get written off by scouts.

We begin with gym training. A cardio warm-up, then stretching, and then more strenuous training. Despite my soreness, I feel pretty good. Then we get changed for a short skating session. NCAA rules mean we can’t train as long in the preseason but getting on the ice is important.

My cubby is where the defense sit and make my way over. I’m beside one of the goaltenders, a big guy with reddish hair.

I introduce myself. He ducks his head and mutters, “Spencer Briggs.”

“What year are you in?” I ask.

“I’m a sophomore.” He’s not talkative, but it seems more like shyness than anything else.

Skating practice is fast paced and surprisingly loose. It’s being run by the same woman who led our gym work. Coach Keller and his assistant coach, Magnus Garfunkle, are up the stands watching and evaluating.

Being on the ice again feels good. Despite the feud with my father, I spent the summer either teaching or practicing at his hockey academy, so I’m ready to go. Some of the guys aren’t; I can see a few guys gasping after shifts or breaking for water during drills. After all these years, I’m good at evaluating. I’m easily a top four d-man on this team, and possibly top pairing. Depends on what the coach is looking for. I’m also happy to see that this team looks better than my old one. I’d rather be part of a winning team than a top player on a lousy one.

Coach Keller comes down to the ice to talk to us afterwards.

“Well, some of you weren’t working on your conditioning this summer. You’re supposed to come here ready to go. Johansson, Smith, Pokroy, and Meyers. Stay behind for a little skating practice.”

From the groans, this must mean bag skating, and I’m happy my skating until puking days are over. I check out Zoe’s brother. He tore into the room late, so we never got a chance to talk. He has her fair coloring but lacks her insane energy.

The coach continues. “We have a good team this year, and I want you guys ready to go from the first puck drop. I’m going to be talking to everyone at some point this week. Coach Garfunkle will post the list in the room. Don’t read anything into the order.”

I have to talk to the coach later today. I message Zoe to let her know I’ll be late, and she sends back a “No problem” with a happy face.

I really need to get my own car.

After showering and dressing, I go outside into the sunshine. The sun feels good, but it strikes me that this is the best weather I’ll get. Every day will get colder from now on—until when? April? July?

My stomach growls, and I remember Zoe’s lunch. I pull it out and rip open the Velcro. She’s made a sandwich with chicken, tomato, and soft cheese. It’s delicious, of course, but I wonder about the provenance of the chicken meat. Luckily, I don’t feel the same bond to the chickens as I do to the smiling Hammy, so I eat my lunch without guilt.

One of the forwards sits down next to me. He’s a big, dark-haired guy. “Hey, Noah.”

“Hey.”

“I’m Paul Wagner. We met earlier. Mind if I join you?”

I’m not going to remember every one’s name for ages. Maybe I’ll memorize the roster photos.

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