Page 27 of Puck Daddies
I’m not going to rebound on my best friends. Hooking up again tonight would make the feeling bigger. It would be easy. It would not be smart.
I close my eyes. I breathe. I let the day end.
But in my dreams, it’s all mouths and heart flutters and hard things.
10
HUDSON
The arena isfrosty like always. The cold resets my brain, and right now, I need that. Practice grounds me. Until Coach blows the whistle and everyone turns. “Speed test for left wing. Goal line to goal line, full gear, five reps. Best average time gets top slot. Second gets the next line. Third rotates. Edwards, you’re in the pool.”
Travis looks like a kid who just got moved up. He nods so hard his helmet shifts.
I roll my shoulders. I know how this goes. I’ve won this test every season. My legs feel hot and ready. Then I push off for the warmup, and the right quad whispers those old complaints. Hitch from a stupid fight two weeks ago. I knew not to take the bait. I took it anyway. Now regret is a knot in the muscle that won’t let up.
Coach holds his whistle, ready to blow. “Line up. Clock’s hot.”
We line up, and I look straight ahead. I don’t look at the bench. I don’t look at Travis. I keep my stick loose in my right hand and drop into the stance that makes the first three strides count.
Whistle screams.
First rep is clean. I explode, open my stride, keep my chest down. Cross the line and glide into a stop that sprays to the boards. I look up at the clock. Good time. Not my best. Quad holds but complains.
We reset. Whistle. Second rep bites. Travis and I are even until the last ten feet. I feel the hitch. It’s small, but it costs me. He hits the line a fraction before me.
The fuck?
Third rep. I tell the leg to shut up. It doesn’t. I push through. The last three strides aren’t clean. I cross, glance up. Travis by a hair again. Rocco clocks me and raises an eyebrow. Fitz keeps his face blank.
Fourth rep. I win it. It hurts. I don’t show it.
Fifth rep. I miss by a blink. The clock doesn’t care about my reasons.
Coach reads out the averages. “Edwards, 11.97. Domenico, 12.56. Hellebore, 12.12. Harris, 12.01.”
12.01. Fuck. When did I get old?
I bite the inside of my cheek. Not a big loss, but it’s not the size of the loss that matters. It’s a loss. Coach marks the board. “Edwards starts first line left. Harris on the next. Rotations as usual.”
Travis looks stunned. He nods and doesn’t say anything. Good. The room chirps but not hard. It’s practice. We eat this and skate. That’s the job.
I take a lap and lean into the boards in front of the trainer. He pats the bench. “Sit.”
I sit. He pokes the quad. “Tender?”
“Fine,” I say.
He levels a look at me.
“Fine enough.”
He wraps an ice pack to the muscle with that sticky fabric. I hiss once and then shut up. Coach blows again. “Edges. Let’s go.”
I push off with ice strapped on. It burns in a way I can use. We do edges, small space. I keep my stick down and my mouth shut. Travis misses a cone and corrects. He’s fast, raw power, needs skill. I hate that this is the day he gets to be faster than me. I hate that I let a nobody drag me into a fight that didn’t matter, and now I’m skating right of a kid who took advantage of it. I hate that this is on me.
After practice, in the room, I peel the tape and toss it. The quad throbs. I tell myself I’ll get treatment later. Fitz drops onto the bench next to me. “You good?”
“Yeah.”
