Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 155203 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 776(@200wpm)___ 621(@250wpm)___ 517(@300wpm)
“I, personally, would love that,” Tristan Yoo says.
A couple of titters ring out.
“I don’t do speeches,” Coach states firmly. “I do enough talking during practice.” He looks around the locker room. “With that said—individually, every single one of you has the chops. As a team? Well, we’re about to find out.”
And find out we do. The game is fast-paced from the first face-off. Which is surprising because Northeastern isn’t typically as strong as either Briar or Eastwood. Not only that, but from the film I’ve seen, their new sophomore goalie is a sieve.
And yet we can’t shoot a single bullet past him.
I’m on the first line, skating with Colson and Larsen, and defensemen Demaine and Beckett. We’re the strongest players on the team and should be unstoppable.
And yet.
On our next shift, we try to make something happen. The chill in the rink suffuses my face as I skate hard past the blue line. We’re on the attack.
“On you,” I shout to Case, whose back is to the play when the opposing defenseman goes in for the forecheck.
He completely ignores the warning and proceeds to get slammed into the boards. Luckily, he manages to win that battle and get the puck.
Beckett shouts, “Point, point,” to indicate he’s open. Colson ignores our defenseman and tries to be a fucking hero. He takes a shot at net, it’s scooped up by our opponent, giving Northeastern a breakaway.
“What the hell was that?” Beckett shouts at Colson, utterly irate.
Beckett never loses his temper. Yet we’re only in the first period and he’s already snapped twice at our cocaptain. Our intrepid cocaptain who, apparently, thinks he’s the only one playing out there. I remember Rand Hawley’s warning at the beginning of the year about whether I can trust Colson to share with Eastwood.
Guess we have that answer now.
Coach calls for a substitution as the other team regroups behind their net. I fly back to the bench, while Shane, Austin, and the rest of the second line hits the ice. They’re equally good, and equally in trouble.
As an observer from the bench, I clearly see the issue.
There’s zero communication out there. At least not between anyone from Briar and formerly Eastwood. And that’s a massive problem, because you’re supposed to be able to rely on your teammates out there. They’re your second pair of eyes. You alone can’t be everywhere all at once, and during a game there are constant mini battles being fought on the ice. Your teammates are seeing plays you might not know are available to you. And they’re supposed to fucking tell you.
“Golden Boys,” Jensen shouts. “You’re on.”
Okay. I guess that’s the name of our line now.
We’re back on, and I win the face-off and snap a pass to Colson. When it comes to handling the puck, the guy is excellent at deception and throws off defenders left and right. He’s so good at what he does. Weaving and cutting through opponents, faking a shot only to cut away and fake another one. His patience is superhuman. But even with all that skill, we can’t seem to score on these damn guys.
After a dump and chase, I’m caught up behind the net fighting two Northeastern forwards. I use all the moves I’ve been teaching Gigi, pivoting hard and creating confusion until I hear Demaine shout, “Open slot,” and get a quick pass to him.
He goes for the one-timer.
It’s denied.
“Motherfucker,” the French-Canadian growls as we scramble for the rebound.
The ref’s whistle suddenly pierces the air.
I groan when I see Beckett took a penalty for slashing. The Briar fans scream their outrage, and then our line is off the ice and the penalty kill team takes over. Trager and Rand are both on that line. They’re two of the best penalty killers in college hockey. But they’re not in sync at all. They’re so busy encroaching on each other’s territory that they both somehow lose sight of the puck.
The Northeastern left winger easily scores, drawing first blood in the game.
Coach throws down his clipboard.
He’s fuming when Trager and Rand return to the bench. “What was that?” he yells. “What in goddamn hell was that?”
You’d think they’d feel foolish enough to be shamefaced, but they’re too busy glaring at each other.
“That was a garbage goal,” Rand mutters when he catches me frowning at him.
I stare at him in disbelief. To even imply it was nothing but a lucky goal is insane. He and Trager screwed up and the other team capitalized on it. The end.
He sees my face and ducks his head, his own expression dark.
The buzzer signals the end of the first period. Coach reams into us in the locker room during intermission. It’s well deserved, and we take it without a word. Trager looks like he’s got something to say, but he blessedly keeps his obnoxious mouth shut under the face of Jensen’s wrath.