Page 32 of Her Name in Red
“Let's fucking go!” I shout, and the guys start filing out, banging their sticks against the walls, the floor, each other's pads—anything to make noise, to build the frenzy.
Coach gives me a nod as he passes.
I take a deep breath, alone in the suddenly quiet locker room. The smell of sweat and athletic tape and that weird minty shit Dawson rubs on his legs hangs in the air.
Time to play hockey.
I grab my stick and follow the tunnel toward the ice, the roar of the crowd growing louder with each step. Our home arena isn't the biggest in the conference, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in acoustics. Three thousand screaming fans sound like ten thousand when they get going.
The moment I step onto the ice, the crowd erupts. The announcer's voice booms over the speakers: “And here comes your captain, number thirteen, Riiiiiggs Rhooooodes!”
I raise my stick in acknowledgment, my skates cutting smooth arcs into the fresh ice as I join the warm-up. The arena's packed tonight, a sea of red and black with pockets of St. Andrews gold scattered throughout. Our school band is cranking out our fight song, the cheerleaders are doing their pre-game routine near the student section, and the familiar smell of stale beer and popcorn wafts down from the stands.
Tiffany, the head cheerleader, catches my eye and gives me a little finger wave. We hooked up last season before?—
Before Maren.
ESPN3 has a camera crew set up at center ice. Our games have been getting more national attention since we cracked the top fifteen rankings, and tonight's matchup is streaming live. I catch a glimpse of myself on the jumbotron as I skate past.
I line up for the face-off, eyes locked with St. Andrews center—a lanky asshole named Prescott. The ref holds the puck between us, and I can smell Prescott's gum and expensive cologne. Who the fuck wears cologne to play hockey?
“Ready to get embarrassed, Rhodes?” he sneers.
I don't answer. Just dig my skate edges deeper into the ice, coiling my body. The ref's hand drops, and I'm moving before the puck even hits the ice, swiping it clean back to Keller at the point.
Game on.
The first shift is always a blur. I chase the puck into the corner, feeling St. Andrews defenseman closing in fast. I brace for impact, knowing he's going to try to paste me to the boards.
His shoulder drives into my back, just above the numbers—a textbook boarding call—but the whistle stays silent. I absorb the hit, legs churning to stay upright, and somehow manage to flip the puck to Martinez streaking toward the net.
“Keep your fucking head up, Rhodes,” the Andrews fucker growls in my ear.
“Thanks for the advice, princess,” I shoot back, shoving him off me.
The shot rings off the post with a metallic clang that echoes through the arena. The crowd groans in unison.
Back on defense, I'm scanning the ice, tracking St. Andrews forwards as they try to set up their cycle game.
I spot a St. Andrews winger telegraphing a cross-ice pass and pounce, intercepting it and turning up ice in one fluid motion. The crowd surges to its feet as I hit the neutral zone with speed, St. Andrews defense scrambling to get back.
Their defensemen are big motherfuckers, but they're slow. I slip past their blue line, finding the seam between their coverage. Martinez sees it and threads a perfect pass through traffic. The puck hits my tape with a satisfying thwack, and I'm suddenly alone with their goalie.
Time slows. The crowd noise fades to a dull roar. I can see the goalie's eyes widen behind his mask as he drops into butterfly. He's favoring his right side—just like we studied on film. I fake a shot, watching him commit, then pull the puck to my backhand and lift it over his outstretched glove.
Top shelf. Where mama hides the cookies.
The red light flashes. The crowd erupts. My teammates crash into me, thumping my back, screaming in my ear. Forty-two seconds into the first period, and we're up one-zero.
Coach nods approvingly as I hit the bench, gulping water and trying to slow my racing heart.
“Fucking beauty!” Coach bellows. “Now do it again!”
The adrenaline high from scoring doesn't last long. By the second period, my lungs are burning, legs heavy as concrete. St. Andrews adjusted their defense after my goal, clogging the neutral zone, forcing us to dump and chase. We're still up, but they're pressing hard.
“Rhodes, Keller, Martinez, you're up!” Coach barks as I gulp down water on the bench.
I hop over the boards, my skates hitting the ice with that satisfying crunch. The crowd roars like they always do when I take the ice.
