Page 15 of Crossed Sticks

They all jumped to their feet, clapped once in perfect unison, and let loose a bloodcurdling yell. I jumped, making Jax laugh.

“That’s our battle cry, Harpy. May as well get used to it.”

“Go Harpy, go Harpy,” they yelled, followed by another bone-chilling shriek.

After everyone mussed my hair, knuckled the top of my head, or clapped me on the back, Logan led us down the tunnel to theice. We were skating laps when Gabe came up beside me. “You been out here before?”

“Nope. It’s bigger than I expected.”

“There are two rinks, but we almost always use this one.” Nodding at the far wall, he added, “They open the one over there to the public several days a week, and youth leagues use it to play.”

“What a great idea.” As we skated around for another lap, I jerked a thumb toward a different wall and asked, “What’s on that side?”

“Indoor lacrosse,” Logan said, appearing on my left. “Buffalo has a box lacrosse team, the Steamrollers, and they practice over there.”

“Couple of youth leagues use it, too,” Gabe added.

One wall had a wide window, revealing tall buildings in the distance. “What’s that?” I asked. “Don’t tell me Amherst has a skyline.”

“Not really,” Logan said. “It’s UB. SUNY Buffalo’s north campus.”

“All right, guys,” Jax yelled, “we gonna play or what?”

Logan and I skated to center ice while Gabe went to one of the goals and Björk headed for the other. Having goalies was unusual in shinny, but so what? I was on Team Crimson with Logan, Jax, Gabe, and Riley—a D-man who’d just finished his rookie year. Our opponents, Team White, were Holcomb, Mason, Blunt, Carson, and Björk.

“Ten-point game, boys,” Jax said. “May the best team win.”

We got started, and I immediately saw that the Warriors’ version of shinny was as aggressive as the Barracudas’. As the center on our team, most of the offensive responsibility was mine. I was rushing the goal, ready to shoot, when Blunt checked me so hard I’d probably have bruises. I lost the puck, but Logan slammed into Blunt with enough force to knock him off his feet.“Nice hit,” I yelled as Logan rescued the puck and knocked it into the net. We had a 1–0 lead two minutes into the game.

No refs meant no penalties, so fierce body checks, high sticking, cross checks, hooking, and even tripping were all fair game. At one point, Mason and Holcomb—Team White players—were passing back and forth in front of our goal, trying to get in position for a shot. Gabe, who’d been chirping them, poke checked the puck, which I captured before flying off toward Team White’s zone.

“Coming for you, Harpy!” Holcomb raced in from the left, too focused to notice Riley charging him from behind. As Holcomb opened his mouth for more trash talk, Riley crashed into him. Holcomb let loose a string of curses, and while he teetered, Riley stuck his stick under Holcomb’s skate and tripped him. While Holcomb’s teammates hooted, I took a shot so hard that Björk’s blocker didn’t stand a chance. After my goal, the score was Crimson 4–White 2.

When I finished my stupid, skating-on-one-foot celly, Riley helped Holcomb to his feet, and they traded a fist bump. All’s fair in love, war, and shinny.

Following a water break, the game went in a different direction. Holcomb was a center, like me, and he apparently needed to see how good the new guy was. The game became more like one-on-one, and while Holcomb did everything possible to get in my way, I returned the favor.

“What’ve you got, fucker?” he taunted as he danced in front of me to block their goal.

“Twelve inches, ten more than you!”

He laughed so hard I was past him before he realized what had happened. His cry of “sorry shit-eating bastard” echoed as I buried the puck in the net using what I called the Benny Caldwell wrister, a shot my college coach taught me.

We didn’t really have face-offs, so Björk sent the puck to Mason, one of his teammates. Mason rocketed toward our zone, and despite Jax and Riley’s best efforts, he remained on his feet. That left me to get in his way, so I did my best version of a war dance and yelled, “The fuck are you thinking? You’re such a bender my nana skates better than you.”

He kept the puck out of my reach and scoffed. “You’re ten-ply, bud. Go play with the other peewees.”

I glared at him. “Where’s your face paint, clown?” Then I stole the puck. The White Team’s goal was too far away for anything but a slapshot, and I was thrilled when it went in. While Mason told me what I could do to myself, I yelled out the score: “Crimson 7, White 6.”

Holcomb took possession of the puck and started down the ice toward our zone. Mason had gotten ahead of Holcomb—so much for off-sides—and called for the puck. I caught up to Mason just as the puck arrived, so I skated a quick circle to throw him off balance.

“You learn that in mini mites?” he asked, taking a shot. Men cheered, and Mason smirked. “White 7, Crimson 7.”

When the last man had been tripped, cross-checked, and boarded, and after goalie Björk had scored—a remarkable feat even in shinny—Team Crimson won, 10–9. We left the ice with far less decorum than we ever would in an arena, accusing each other of crimes ranging from wearing too much makeup to attempted murder. The raucous laughter might have seemed odd to an outsider, but to hockey players, it was how we let off steam. A minute later, we were gulping water in the locker room, blowing sunshine up each other’s asses and predicting a defeat-free season.

“You’re fucking sick, Harpy.” Holcomb patted my abs and curled an arm around my shoulders. “I’d kill to have your hands,and your skating is steezy. If Criswell doesn’t start you on the first line, I’ll eat my stick.”

That was an incredible compliment from a fellow center. I smiled and tried to think of something to say, but Gabe came over and gripped the back of my neck with one of his big hands. “Need to do some serious shooting drills though. Only eight out of ten goals? You’ve got to do better.”

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