Page 15 of The Play

Con’s a self-proclaimed fuckboy, but he’s not as douchey as you’d expect. He’s actually quite decent, with a dry sense of humor that I appreciate.

“S’up, captain,” he says before yawning hugely. He rakes a lazy hand through his sun-streaked blond hair, drawing my attention to the purple hickey on his neck.

He reminds me of Dean, the older brother of my roommate Summer, and a good friend (and former mentor) of mine. Dean was unapologetically sexual when he attended Briar. He didn’t care if everyone knew he was constantly hooking up. And his manwhore ways didn’t hurt his reputation either, because every chick who met him wanted to get naked with him. But his girlfriend Allie is the only one to ever steal his heart. They’ve been living together in NYC for the past couple of years.

Conor sits beside me. A few seniors stride in and settle in the top row. “Yo,” they greet us, nodding hello.

We nod back.

Matt Anderson enters next. With Fitz and Hollis gone, I guess Matty’s my best friend on the team now. He’s the only black player on the roster, drafted by LA last year. I hope he officially signs with them, because it’s a great franchise to play for.

“Hey,” Matt says.

The room begins to fill up. We’ve got about two dozen starters, and then the rest of the roster is made up of benchwarmers and guys who still need a lot of development. And although Mike Hollis graduated, there is always, without fail, a Hollis type on every team. The lovable idiot, as Brenna calls him. The honor this year goes to asophomore named Aaron, except everyone calls him Bucky because he looks like that character from the Marvel movies.

Bucky hates it, but the thing about nicknames is, they stick—whether you want them to or not. Just ask our senior left-winger Treeface, sometimes shortened to Tree or T, who one time four years ago got drunk and lamented how sad it is that trees don’t have faces and can’t see the birds who make nests on them. I’m pretty sure John Logan is responsible for that nickname.

Munching on a bran muffin he probably grabbed from the team kitchen, Bucky approaches the front row. “Did you talk to Coach about it?” he demands while chewing with his mouth open.

I play dumb. “About what?”

“The pig, dude.”

“The pig,” echoes Jesse Wilkes, a fellow junior. He was on his phone, but now he’s focused on our conversation.

Fuck. I was hoping the subject would quietly be forgotten.

“No, not yet.”And I don’t plan on it, I want to add, but I haven’t found a way to finagle out of this one yet.

The guys are insisting we need a team mascot, while I personally don’t see the point. I mean, if we were somehow able to strap a pair of skates on a polar bear and have him perform double axels on the ice between periods, then, sure, great. Bring it on.

Short of that, who the fuck cares.

Coach’s arrival spares me from humoring my teammates. He strides in and claps his hands sharply. “Let’s not waste time,” he barks. “Eyes on the screen.”

Chad Jensen is a total hard-ass—he doesn’t mince words or indulge us. When we’re in this arena, we’re required to be all business or else GTFO.

“Pay attention to Kriska on this first play,” Coach orders as a hi-def video pops up on the projection screen. He’s at his desk, using his tablet pen to circle Eastwood’s goalie, Johan Kriska.

The freshman is rumored to be one of the best college goalieson the east coast. I’ve been studying the handful of his high school games that were televised, as well as all of Eastwood’s preseason games. I need to be prepared when I face this kid. Not to sound cocky, but I’m the best forward on the team. And the top scorer, for sure, judging by last season’s stats lines. Nate and I were tied for goals, but my former captain had me on assists. I guess that’s another captainly requirement—Don’t hog the glory.

I’m slowly compiling a list of captain dos and don’ts.

Despite his stellar rep, I’m not overly concerned about Kriska. I’ve already found a weakness. “His glove is slow,” I pipe up. “Kid has trouble with the high shots. Maybe a thirty percent save rate, if that.”

“Yes,” Coach confirms. “That’s why we’ve been running those concentrated shooting drills this week. But I’m sure they’re prepping just as hard, and Kriska knows his own weaknesses. I want to see a shit ton of low shots on goal tomorrow. He’ll already be overcompensating for the weak glove, and he may be so focused on stopping those shots that we’ll catch him off guard and push one through the five hole.”

“Good point.”

We watch more of the tape. Someone whistles when Kriska makes one of the most gorgeous stick saves I’ve ever seen.

“Look at that,” Coach says, pausing the game. “No desperation on his face at all. He’s diving back into position to try to deflect the puck after getting completely hammered by those shots, and he’s cool as a cucumber.”

It is kind of impressive. Goaltenders don’t use their sticks to make a save if they can help it. Pads, gloves, even their own bodies, are preferable. A stick save tends to be the result of pure luck, with the goalie scrambling like mad. But with Kriska, it appears effortless.

“We just need to find a way to rattle him,” Matt speaks up.

I nod in agreement. I’m feeling confident, though. Last season we were killing it. It wasn’t lack of skill that cost us. It was a fluke injury, along with Nate’s ejection while defending my honor.

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