Page 66 of Ice Mechanic

The team we’re practicing with is way less experienced than us and yet we win over them by too close of a margin. If this week’s been any indication of how we’ll function during official games, we don’t have a fart’s chance in a gas chamber of making it to the playoffs.

More winded from irritation than actual exhaustion, I puff out a smoky, white breath and return my attention to the puck. It skids into the pocket and I head there. A blur to my left catches me off-guard and I swivel just as Gunner cuts me off to attack the defense.

I grit my teeth, fighting to hold my temper. Gunner may have given up the center position to appease Max, but he still plays like he’s waiting for a breakout pass. This is the second clash this week.

My head whips around to the coach who starts whistling and, suddenly, finds something on his shoes way more interesting than our game.

I bite back a groan. Playing on this team is like paddling upstream with nothing but a palm leaf while surrounded by man-eating sharks.

The opposing team steals the puck and shoot past me, heading for our goalie. I skate close to Gunner and make a back and forth caper. He narrows his eyes, sweat dripping from beneath his helmet.

I make the gesture again.

He shakes his head and shrugs.

Argh!

Up ahead, Watson is on his knees at the goal, preparing for a scramble. He narrowly deflects the shot. The flash of sheepish realization on his face tells me he knows, if they’d been a little more aggressive, the net would have eaten the puck.

Exhaling again, I assess my teammates. There’s no way we should be battling this hard for the puck. Both I and the WWW are extremely competitive. In the game, at least, we should be able to set aside our differences.

“They’re attacking our zone in the middle,” I yell at Renthrow as we skate to the boards.

He gives me a quick nod and I take off toward the puck, but it’s not easy to break the pass. After having their butts handed to them all week, our opponents are giving it their all.

The coach starts noticing the other team’s determination and he makes constant substitutions. I hate every second I’m on the bench and I catapult out of the box when I’m put back in the action.

We play down to the wire. Even I’m winded by the time the last buzzer sounds.

The scoreboard declares that it’s our win, but neither I nor the WWW are smiling.

After high-fiving our opponents, my teammates shrug out of their gear and head to the showers. That’s when Bobby appears, wearing his usual flannel over a white undershirt, khakis and heavy work boots.

“Bobby?” Gunner checks his phone. “What are you doing here so early?”

His eyes nervously meet mine before darting away. “We, uh, the bus needs to leave now.”

I mentally face-palm.

Note to self,never ask Bobby to lie again.

Gunner narrows his eyes in suspicion, but Bobby grins nervously and keeps talking in that cajoling tone of his. “Ithought you guys would be eager to get back? If not, I can leave and come back in an hour or two… or three…”

Roars of disapproval break out from the other players.

I can’t blame them. While the hospitality of the team here has been impeccable, it hasn’t been fun sharing three run-down bathrooms with twenty men or sleeping in a bunk bed that was built for someone under six feet.

“I wouldn’t mind showering at home and crashing on my own bed,” Gunner admits with a shrug.

The other WWW members nod along.

Bobby and I both breathe out in relief.

“Gunner, Renthrow, Watson, and Theilan,” he calls. I try not to make it obvious that I’m lingering while he takes the WWW aside. “Before you get on the bus, I’d just like to confirm the schedule. I was told to take you four to the arena. Did you get the email from Max?”

The email he’s referring to is a dud account that I created on my phone while the other guys were asleep two nights ago.

“Yeah, I got it,” Theilan says.

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