Page 78 of From Coast to Coast

I show up to practice the following morning in a mood fouler than I thought possible for myself, bags under my eyes, and a throbbing ache behind my left eye. I ignore everyone as I walk through the locker room to my stall and toss my bag inside. Zolkov hasn’t arrived yet, so I go through the motions of changing without talking to a single soul until Gordon takes a seat next to me.

He’s fully dressed in his goalie gear other than his helmet. His stall is on the opposite side of the room from mine, which means he probably came over for something specific. I wait.

“How was California?” he asks.

“Perfect.” There’s a slight bite to my tone that I can’t seem to control. I honestly have no idea which of my teammates follow me on socials, but if they do, then they saw I was visiting home, and that I was with Grayson. He was in every single picture I posted, and only an idiot could look at those pictures and not connect the dots. “You did good at All-Star.”

“Thanks. It was my first time being invited; mostly I was just trying not to embarrass myself.”

“You didn’t.”

I wait, wondering if there is a point to this conversation or if he’s just trying to be friendly. Zolkov joins us before anything more is said, slapping me on the back as I get my chest guard adjusted.

“Stoney. Gordo,” he greets us, rolling his head like he’s got a neck ache and sitting down to pull off his shoes.

“Hey, Z.”

“Did you miss me, while you were gone?” he asks. Gordon snorts.

“Like a hole in the head,” I respond, using one of my mom’s favorite idioms. Gordon chuckles and Zolkov grins at me, winking. He knows exactly why I didn’t miss him—or anyone—while I was in California.

Practice ends up being exactly like every first skate back after break. Half of the guys are well-rested and fired up to play, while the other half are still nursing hangovers from the weekend and have shitty attitudes. I fall somewhere in the middle, as my shitty attitude has nothing to do with hockey, really, and I’m happy to be back on the ice even if I do wish I could be doing it literally anywhere else.

Gordon, without any break at all since he was participating in All-Star Weekend, is on fire. He shuts down every attempt on his goal during scrimmage, and I can see the wide smile on his face even through the mask.

“You’re bad for morale,” I tell him, skating up to him as he pushes his mask up and waits for Coach to finish rotating a few of the lines.

“Not my fault you all forgot how to play.”

“Keep this up tomorrow, yeah? I don’t want to have to work too hard.”

We restart play in Gordon’s defensive zone, which means my team is on the attack. I take the face-off across from Petterson, who seems to be taking the scrimmage a little too seriously, if the sneer on his face is any indication. I win the draw and move into position on the wing. Zolkov takes a shot, but Gordon clips it with his blocker—of course, the fucking All-Star—and I move to intercept the rebound.

Before I can, I’m slammed off of my feet so hard, my head cracks against the ice and pain lances through my shoulderand chest. Disoriented, I roll onto my back and try to get air back into my lungs. Contact practice means we are allowed to play rough and simulate actual gameplay. It doesn’t mean we actively try to bring down our teammates.

“What the fuck,” I manage to gasp, still unsure of who hit me, but pissed about it nonetheless. Rolling up onto my knees, I lock eyes with Petterson, who’s standing next to me, stick held loosely in both hands.

Just as Zolkov skates over, Petterson says: “Forget this is the big leagues, faggot?”

A whistle blows two sharp reports as our assistant coach skates toward us, yelling about the rules of engagement in practice games. I tune him out, eyes locked on Petterson. He spoke quietly enough that only he and I, and possibly Zolkov, heard him. He smiles benignly at me.

“Stone!” The AC puts a hand on my shoulder. “You good?”

“I’m good,” I tell him, even though it hurts to breathe and there is a simmering heat burning low in my gut. Coach stands up, pointing a finger at where the captain’s C would sit on Petterson’s chest if he was wearing his game jersey. I tune out the dressing-down Coach gives him, keeping my gaze on his and not bothering to hide the smoldering anger.

I try to stand up, but a firm hand on my shoulder pushes me back to kneeling.

“Catch your breath,” Zolkov says.

“I’m fine.”

At least, I think I am. Getting hit that hard when you’re not expecting it is worse than when you can see it coming. I’d collided with a teammate on the ice during a game once, and felt like I’d run myself straight into a brick wall. Both of us were pulled from the game, and my teammate ended upbeing sent to the hospital. The burning in my neck and the sharp pain in my ribs has me wondering iffineis truly the best descriptor.

Eventually, Coach decides Petterson’s had enough and he skates off, red-faced and pissed. He yells at us to reset in Gordon’s zone. Instead, I push to standing and skate into Petterson’s personal space. He grins like this is exactly what he was hoping for.

“Looking for an apology, princess?” he sneers.

I bring my hands up and shove him roughly back. He stumbles a bit, so I do it again until his back comes up against the boards. Immediately, I press a forearm to his neck and shove his head back against the glass. Without turning my head, I can feel the presence of someone behind me, but something tells me it’s Zolkov and I don’t need to worry. Petterson tries to throw me off, but I dig my skate in and put a knee into the inside of his leg where there is light padding. He grunts and slips a little, leg buckling.

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