Page 7 of The Charlie Method

BECKETT

Thinking is overrated

WE LOSE TONIGHT’S GAME, BUT WE’RE NOT ALLOWED TO ACT LIKE IT, because we’ve been ordered under threat of death-by-coach to be positive. Instructed to visualize radiant waves of energy shooting joy all over the locker room like we’re in a positivity gang bang.

In other words, the team building and morale consultants who wreaked havoc on the Briar U men’s hockey team last season? They’re back to torment us.

As my teammates and I trudge out of the tunnel and into the locker room, Jordan Trager, our resident hothead, glares daggers at a freshman left winger.

“Fuckin’ hell, Ingram! You fucking blew—”

“Hey!” The sharp rebuke comes from Assistant Coach Maran, who frowns at us from the doorway. “Be positive, assholes.”

Trager quickly backpedals. “You blew…a bubble of hope when you took that shot on net and missed instead of passing it to the Kansas Kid who—”

“Who was joyously calling out that he was wide open,” finishes Patrick Armstrong, the wronged party.

Our co-captain, Case Colson, turns to Maran with a pained expression. “Come on, Coach. How long do we have to do this sunshine and rainbows routine for? Why are Sheldon and Nance doing this to us?”

“Don’t blame those goofballs. You can thank UCS for the administration bringing Sheldon and Nance back into our lives.”

Goddamn UCS. It’s only October, and the season’s barely started, yet the University of California, Sacramento Campus has completely imploded. Their entire men’s hockey program was shut down due to a dangerous hazing incident that ended with a rookie falling off the roof of their rink.

To his death.

The scandal has so many he-said, he-said, they-said elements, it’s hard to know what the real story is anymore. But considering the endless parade of aggro douchebags I’ve encountered during my hockey career, I tend to believe that the freshman who died was absolutely being hazed.

With their program suspended, UCS is forced to forfeit every game, and while their college and the Sacramento police investigate, the NCAA isn’t taking chances with any of their other Division I schools. They’ve been sending reps to every program, casually popping in to say hi and observe. You know, make sure we’re not daring drunk kids to jump off buildings. The usual.

Our head coach, Chad Jensen, held a team meeting last week and told us in no uncertain terms that he wants us looking, sounding, and acting like choirboys for the rest of the season. Apparently even trash talk now qualifies as potential bullying and/or hazing.

I doubt it was Coach’s decision to bring back Sheldon and Nance to morally guide us, though. Jensen hates those dumbasses as much as we do.

I peel my sweaty jersey off my shoulders, grumbling when it snags on my chest protector. I can already feel a bruise forming on my left side, right below the rib cage. I took a nasty hit in the second period when the Yale defender smashed me into the boards.

With Shane Lindley and Luke Ryder on my tail, I head for the showers and push open the waist-high partition of the nearest stall. My buddies duck into stalls to the left of me, while Trager and Colson veer to the right.

“Okay, here’s a great one,” Shane says to me as he cranks the shower on. “You’re approached by a mysterious British man in a trench coat—”

“What’s his name?” Trager asks from my other side.

Oh, look who’s suddenly invested in our thought experiments. Last season, when Eastwood College, my former school, merged with Briar, Trager was the first to mock us Eastwood guys about our dumb traditions. Now he’s hanging on Shane’s every word.

“His name’s Albert,” one of our d-men pipes up. “That sounds very British.”

Shane rolls his eyes. “Sure, whatever. Anyway, he’s like,G’day, my name is Albert, and then makes you an offer. He’ll give you a thousand bucks a month for the next twenty years—”

“Dollars or pounds?” Trager asks seriously.

“Yeah,” Colson says, not as seriously, “what’s the exchange rate?”

“Dollars,” Shane replies. “One g a month, twenty years total.”

On Shane’s other side, Ryder ducks his head under the spray and drags his dark hair away from his face. His voice is muffled by the rush of water filling the steamy space. “What’s the catch?”

Shane looks mighty pleased with himself as he reveals, “To receive the cash, you have to watch your parents have sex once a year.”

The entire room breaks out in laughter, loud snorts bouncing off the tiled walls. I work the soap into a lather and start rubbing my chest as I consider Shane’s scenario.

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