Page 21 of Unlovable Player

I take the seat next to Gray and put my earphones in, looking out the window and trying to pump myself up for the game.

When we stop outside the rink, Coach stands up and gives us a pep talk. The cheer from the team is a little lackluster.

After changing in the away team’s locker room, I get up and attempt a rousing speech. I might not be as smart as Coach, but I know these guys. I’ve played beside some of them for the past three years. Drank with them, celebrated and commiserated with them. I’ve given them advice about their love lives, though I don’t know shit about it myself. The only face that’s unfamiliar when I get up to talk, is Yale’s. He sits on the bench and pauses lacing up his skates to give me his full attention. I try to block him out while I address the team.

“We’ve beat these assholes so many times,” I say. “We’re more than a team, we’re a family, and we’ve got this.”

I only get a bit more energy than Coach got back on the bus, but I’ve got faith we’ll go out there and crush it.

The game doesn’t quite goto plan from the get-go. Half-way through the first period, Harvard break through and score and I have to rally to make sure we don’t let it defeat us. We’re down, but not out.

Our communication is shit. Gray’s not communicating with Yale, even though he’s doing everything but standing on his fucking head. He wins eighty percent of the face-offs Coach sends him into, but it isn’t good enough.

Going into the second period, Coach reminds us of our practise drills and how smooth we’d been with our passing. He stands on the sidelines, shaking his head and saying;

“Just communicate for pete’s sake!”

If the guy ever cursed, I’m sure he would be doing it now.

I drag Yale in by the jersey and tell him what I’m planning to do before letting him go. He looks at me and nods and it’s the only time I think I’ve ever seen him look so serious.

I take the face-off at center ice and charge Harvard’s captain, sending the puck flying behind me, where Yale picks it up on his stick and barrels through the neutral zone with it.

I have to work to catch up, but I’m there, waiting when he taps it to me.

From the corner of my eye, I see Jordan ram one of Harvard’s defense out of my way and I shoot, score.

Yale comes at me, grinning through his cage, his body slamming into me. Expensive cologne and toothpaste radiating off him as ever.

When I slap hands with the rest of the guys, especially Hayes on the bench, I get the feeling they’re not as pumped as me and Yale are.

After that, things go more smoothly. I score with an assist from Gray and Yale scores on an empty net when Harvard’s goalie comes out.

Harvard get one more, but we manage to wrap the game up 5-2.

By the time we hit the locker room, everyone but Hayes is on cloud nine. Yale scored a goal and one wicked assist tonight. Hayes had an average game at best and spent more time on the bench than he’s used to.

“Not too bad for a rich boy ey?” Yale grins at me as we hit the showers.

“I thought it was easier when there was no goalie?”

He snorts. I think it’s the closest I’ve ever got to hearing his genuine laugh. It’s actually not the most annoying sound in the world.

SEBASTIAN

Icatch the tension when Captain invites me out with the team to celebrate our win. In the back of my head, that good conscience angel - who usually doesn’t have shit to say - is chirping up suddenly out of nowhere, telling me my presence there will only stir up trouble. But the little devil – who’s usually pretty loud – is telling me I want to go out and celebrate, and don’t I have every right? I scored a goal - empty net or not - and had surely the best assist in the entire game? Plus, I want to see what Austin’s like when he’s drunk.

Coach makes us wear suits to away games – to prepare us for the NHL – and most of the guys are wearing cheap, shiny grey suits and tugging at the lapel like they’re not used to wearing anything but jerseys and hoodies.

My Tom Ford fits like a glove and I’m used to dressing stuffy for my dad’s business parties. Parading me around in front of his associates like a prize pig.

Austin doesn’t exactly look comfortable in his suit, but at least it doesn’t look as cheap as the other guys’. I wonder why he seems to have such a hang-up about my family’s money if he’s not poor himself.

“I need to go home and change before we go out, this suit’s killing me,” Gray whines.

“You’ll have to get used to it if you’re gonna go pro next year,” Austin reminds him.

“I know, but not right now.”

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