Page 31 of Her Name in Red
“Rhodes? You with us?” Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Yes, sir. St. Andrews defensemen play aggressively at the blue line but leave the corners exposed. We exploit that with cross-ice passes and quick transitions.” The words come automatically. I've been playing hockey long enough to fake attention.
Coach narrows his eyes but nods. “Good. Make sure your wingers understand that.”
My phone buzzes in my locker. I know better than to check it, but my eyes flick over, anyway. The notification's right there on the screen.
Good luck today, Captain Golden Boy. I'll be watching.
Fuck.
I slam my locker shut before anyone can see the message. My heart's suddenly hammering like I just did suicide sprints, and I have to force myself to breathe normally. She'll be watching. Somewhere, those dark eyes will be fixed on me while I play.
“Alright, gather up, assholes!” Coach bellows, and the locker room quiets as everyone circles around. “St. Andrews thinks they're coming into our house and walking out with a win. You gonna let that happen?”
“No, sir!” the team shouts back in unison.
“Damn right you're not. Rhodes, you're up. Say something inspiring before these idiots embarrass me.”
And just like that, all eyes are on me. Captain's speech time. The tradition I usually live for. My moment to fire up the boys, get the blood pumping. But my brain's stuck on loop, playing her texts over and over.
I clear my throat and stand, feeling the weight of the C on my jersey like it's made of concrete.
“Okay, listen up,” I start, scanning the circle of faces. Some eager, some nervous, all waiting for me to give them something to cling to. “St. Andrews goalie has a weakness on his glove side. He drops his shoulder before he commits. Watch for it, exploit it.”
Coach gives me a look that says, 'That's it?' and I realize I'm bombing this. Captain Rhodes, always good for a speech that makes you want to run through walls, suddenly dishing out technical observations like some assistant coach who never played the game.
“But that's not why we're going to win tonight,” I continue, finding my rhythm. “We're going to win because, unlike those trust fund pricks from St. Andrews, we actually give a shit.”
A few chuckles ripple through the group. Better.
“Look at Paulson's ugly mug,” I say, pointing to our defenseman whose face looks like it was rearranged by a lawn mower. “You think he got that beautiful by accident? No, he got it blocking shots with his face because he'd rather eat pucks than let this team down.”
Paulson grins, showing off the gap where his front teeth used to be.
“And Johnson here,” I continue, slapping our goalie on his pads, “this crazy bastard sleeps in full gear the night before games because he's that committed to stopping anything that comes his way.”
“That was ONE time!” Johnson protests, but he's laughing along with everyone else.
“Look, we've put in the work. We know their systems; we know their weaknesses. But none of that matters if we play like twenty-five separate guys instead of one team.” I pause, forcing myself to focus. “Martinez, stop hogging the fucking puck every time you cross the blue line. There are four other guys on the ice wearing the same jersey as you.”
Martinez flips me off, but he's grinning.
“Dawson, if you tape that stick one more time, I'm going to shove it up your ass. Sideways.”
“It's not right yet!” Dawson protests, but he's laughing too.
“And you freshmen—” I point to the row of wide-eyed first-years sitting together like they're at a slumber party “—stop looking like you're about to shit yourselves. Yes, the crowd is loud. Yes, there are scouts watching. Yes, your dicks might fall off from performance anxiety. Get over it.”
The team is nodding along now, the energy in the locker room shifting from pre-game jitters to focused intensity. This I can do. Hockey. The one thing in my life that makes perfect sense.
“Look, we're seven-one at home for a reason. This is our fucking ice.” I gesture around the room. “Every inch of this rink belongs to us. Every board, every face-off dot, every crease. St. Andrews is just visiting, and we're going to make damn sure they don't enjoy their stay.”
A few whoops and hollers rise up from the group. Coach nods approvingly from the corner.
“Johnson,” I point to our goalie, “you've got two shutouts in the last three games. Make it three in four.”
I lead the team in our traditional pre-game chant, a string of profanities that would make a sailor blush, and Coach pretends he can't hear.
