Page 2 of His Fairytale Princess
Chapter Two
“Get your asses going, ladies! We don’t have all day.”
I lace up my skates, adjust my pads under my practice jersey and head out of the locker room to the rink toward the sounds of the other team members and the coach, who just made that announcement.
My buddy, Roman, knuckles me on the shoulder as he passes. “Jesus, not sure what’s up Coaches’ ass today, but hurry up, Dahl.”
I’ve played for the Oak Ridge University Bears hockey team since I was a freshman. It’s my life during the season, which means that everything else takes the bench when I’m training, practicing and playing, including girls and sometimes even school. Which is what got me in my current predicament.
Well, that’s not altogether accurate. But nonetheless, for me to graduate in the spring and continue to play the game I love, I need a tutor to help me get through English and American Lit 200. We’re barely a month into the semester and I’m struggling like Sisyphus with his stupid rock. Every step I move forward, the rock slips back down and I can’t get the leverage I need to push it uphill.
It doesn’t help that I have a difficult time reading. Much less comprehending all the gibberish in literature. Give me aSports IllustratedorESPNmagazine and I’m a much happier camper. Maybe that makes me a dumb jock; I don’t know, and I don’t really care. I’m great with numbers and working with my hands. If I hadn’t gotten a full-ride scholarship to Oak Ridge U, I would’ve been working in my dad’s autobody shop back home in Pittsburgh and running the place.
I step out onto the ice and breathe in a big whiff of the chlorine-scented air. It’s the one constant in my life. No matter where I go or where I play, it always smells the same.
Coach blows his whistle and has us skating sprints before getting us started on drills to warm up our legs. Sprints blow but are a necessary evil to avoid injury and muscle soreness after practice.
We break out into pairs and do some one-touch passes, getting our hands involved and keeping low on the ice. We move in circular motions around the rink, one at a time, and then take shots at the goal, getting our goalie, TJ Collins, warmed up, too.
TJ is a sophomore and I don’t know him too well yet except that this is his first year starting. Johnnie Dortson was our starting goalie last year but graduated, leaving the spot open for TJ.
I’m a playmaker on the ice – a center. I make things happen and set up teammates to make goals. I’m not necessarily the best goal scorer like Ludwig who is our sniper, but I’m dependable and I see things on the ice and make solid plays. I’m smart with the puck and play well in all three zones.
As the drills come to an end, we begin practicing and running through our strategic plays in preparation for a season full of wins. Being in the northeast Division II, we don’t have the strong competition like they do at Yale, Boston College and Penn State. Last year we won our conference championship – by the skin of our teeth – and are touted to win this year, as well. If we can get our shit together.
Practice concludes with a rousing speech from Coach Hensley and we hit the showers. As I’m soaping down, I overhear Blake Conrad in the stall over talking to TJ about some sorority event.
“Dude, it’s the prime opportunity to get a half-clothed, drunk-ass chick into a dark secluded room and make her howl like a ghost.”
The obnoxious asshole cackles and makes an impression of a howling ghost. I can’t help but jump in.
“Hey Conrad, you’re a prick. Don’t you have a girlfriend?”
I throw this in because I know for certain he’s been dating some chick from Princeton for the last six months.
He peers over the tiled wall of the shower, flipping me his middle finger.
“What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Plus, sorority chicks love a hockey player and don’t care if we’re single or not.”
“Jesus, Conrad, shut the fuck up already.” That was from Roman across the bank of showers from us. “Not only are you a douche nozzle, but you’re a cheating one at that.”
A few of the guys chuckle and chortle at this, but they know it’s true. Blake Conrad is the worst and biggest sleaze I’ve ever known. It makes me nervous that some of the under-classman sorority girls will so easily buy into his swarmy shit.
Some guys just don’t know how to treat women. I may have never had a girlfriend, per se, so I can’t be all that judgmental, but I do know that cheating and sleeping around is disrespectful as fuck. And I do know how ladies should be treated, even if I’m not able to commit to any serious relationship.
I just found early on in college that it wasn’t fair to a girl when I had so many other priorities. Plus, I know once I graduate I’m moving back to Pittsburgh to be close to my family. They mean everything to me and I literally wouldn’t be here in this world without them.
That is, if I end up graduating. The nagging dreaded feeling washes over me just like the soapy suds down my back. My anxiety level is at an all-time high right now, which reminds me of two things I have to do this week. One is to go to the campus counselor and get a new script for Xanax. I’d never admit it to any of my teammates, but I struggle with anxiety. I know it’s nothing to be ashamed of, but it makes me feel inferior when it seems all my other friends and players have no problem juggling school, hockey and life.
The other thing I need to do as soon as I get back to my apartment is to contact my new English tutor and set up our first session.
Having to lean on crutches like anxiety meds and tutors to get by isn’t what I would call winning. But it sure beats hanging up my skates and failing my classes.
Choose your battles, my dad would say. And these are mine to conquer.
