Page 14 of Penalty Box
“Fuck yeah!” Tucker punched the air, and started skating like mad to keep up to the pounding rhythm of Led Zeppelin’s Immigrant Song tearing through the speakers. A war cry that was all wailing guitar and driving drums.
And there she was.
Standing just beyond the sound booth, arms folded, a smug smile on her perfect face. She lifted one hand and gave the tiniest wave.
1-0 to Firestarter.
I was so deep under her spell that I didn’t hear Coach call the next drill until Shawn nudged me with his elbow.
“Snap out of it.”
Right. The drill.
I took my spot on the ice for slap shots. My favorite. I skated the loop, and caught the feed. But the puck came off my blade a fraction late, and it hit the boards with an awkward thunk before it skittered off wide.
I cursed under my breath.
Coach’s whistle cut through the music. “Again, Calder! And stop messing around this time.”
I shook it off, reset.
The second shot was better, but not as crisp as my usual work. Grayson knew it. I heard him grumbling to Hunter.
I glanced up, and my stomach churned to see that she was still up there. Watching me fuck up a simple drill.
“Let’s go,” Coach barked. “This isn’t figure skating, Calder. Show me your balls.”
On my third try, I was too in my head about it. My blade caught the edge totally wrong. I stumbled, not into a full fall, but enough to kill the shot and leave me flailing like a preschooler in his first pair of skates. A few sticks tapped the ice behind me, but not in applause.
“Bench, now!” Coach snapped. “You can do nothing from there for the rest of practice.”
My heart sank.
I coasted to the side, pulled off my gloves, and sat with my back against the boards. The music still pulsed overhead, beating through my chest as if it wanted to replace my pulse completely.
A few seniors skated by and jeered at me, but it was Tucker who called out, “Still got those rookie legs, huh, Calder?”
“Bite me.”
But it was just as Grayson came up to the bench. He gave me a clipped look. Not angry, or mocking, but I could tell what he was thinking. It was the way a surgeon might study an intern with a shaky hand.
That stung more than anything else.
I ripped off my helmet and let the cold air hit my neck. Immigrant Song faded into something else, probably another one of her picks but I couldn’t even hear it anymore. The only thing in my head was my own blood rushing, loud and fast and angry.
5
Cass
The hall outside the Surge locker room buzzed with leftover adrenaline and victory. Even with the final whistle blown over an hour ago, the echo of celebration still lingered. Shouts, stick taps, and good-natured ribbing chased its way up the cinder block walls around me.
I stayed just outside the line of sight, a towel slung over my shoulder, earbuds in but silent. I’d finished my shift a few minutes ago and should’ve been out the door already, but I caught my dad’s voice from inside and couldn’t help myself.
“This is it, boys,” he was saying, his voice full of that intensity he usually saved for third periods and broken penalty kills. “I don’t give a damn about last season. That’s done. Over. You want to lift that Cup? It starts with Los Angeles.”
There was a shuffle of gear, a few muttered affirmatives.
“The games leading up to the playoffs decide home-ice advantage, and we want it. Do you want it?”
