Page 1 of Faking It with the Forward

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Twyler

There’snothing more pungent than a locker room full of hockey players after practice. The scent is foul. A mix of new and old sweat, feet, and whatever body spray the guys think they can mask it with.

Trust me, nothing works.

“How was that?” I push my fingers between the tape and his sweaty ankle, barely able to get them in. “I feel like that is as tight as we should go if you want to keep up your mobility.”

The size twelve foot shifts. The man it’s attached to, a player for the Wittmore U varsity team, nods slowly. “I don’t know. It feels a little wobbly.”

“Okay, we can wrap it a little tighter next time, but you need to let me know if it’s giving you problems.”

“Thanks, Twy.” Pete slides off the table and yanks my ponytail before offering me his fist. I bump it in return.

“That’s what I’m here for.” I’m in my second year working with the trainers for the men’s hockey team, but it’s my first as the official intern. My days are spent taping and wrapping sprains, bandaging broken noses, and checking for concussions. Pete suffered a sprained ankle last season and always feels better with it wrapped tight on the ice.

“Everyone gather around,” Coach Bryant steps out from his office into the locker room. He taps his clipboard on a nearby locker to get the attention of the players. The guys have just come in from the rink, filing in the door that leads to the ice, loud and talking trash, tossing pads and their blue and silver jerseys into the laundry bin. “That wasn’t too bad,” he smirks, then adds, “for a bunch of guys who took the summer off.” His tone hardens, the team logo, Bluto the badger, painted behind him on the wall. “Playtime is over. From here on, it’s about focus and determination. About hard work and who wants it the most. We have two months until the season starts.” His eyes ping from player to player. “Can I expect a hundred percent from each and every one of you?”

As a group, the guys call out their affirmative, some louder than others, but all sincere. Badger hockey is the number one sport at Wittmore U, even football takes second place, which is blasphemy where I’m from. Failure isn’t an option for anyone in this room, especially after last year.

“Because if not, I’ve got a long list of men who didn’t make the roster this year, and each and every one of them is eager for a shot.”

A voice booms from the back, “We’re ready, Coach!”

“Cain,” Coach gestures to the back of the room, “step up here.”

From my spot near the training room door, I watch a shirtless Reese Cain rise from the bench and push through the other guys to stand next to Coach Bryant. It’s not like he’s hard to miss. Six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, with dark hair and intense blue-gray eyes. He’s got that look that’s usually reserved for quarterbacks or underwear models. That kind of genetic superiority that eludes the rest of society. The only visible imperfections are the slant of a formerly broken nose and a thin white scar under his bottom lip.

Neither make a dent in his looks.

I know Reese isn’t perfect. There’s the fact he knows exactly how good-looking and talented he is. Or how ever since he broke up with his long-term girlfriend, he’s used his power to seduce and conquer every female, and possibly a few males, on campus.

Not that I’m keeping track of Reese Cain’s life or anything. Everyone knows about his breakup. It was hot gossip for months last year. The rest? Well, it’s just part of my job to know the injury histories of our players. I spent the summer going over the roster and their charts, familiarizing myself with each player. Reese Cain, and his broad shoulders, happens to be one of those players.

That’s all.

“After three years of stellar performance on the ice, and showing great leadership during last year’s tournament, Cain’s earned the title of Captain of this years’ Badgers.”

“Yeah, boi!” A shout from the locker room calls. Jefferson Parks. Cain’s best friend. The rest of the room claps and cheers, happy with the announcement. It’s not a surprise that he got the position or that his teammates are pleased about it.

“Thanks, guys,” he grins with those straight, white teeth. “Last season was rough. We made it to the big time, and didn’t get the trophy, but this year, under my leadership, I promise you, we’ll get back and take the whole damn thing.”

“Hell yeah!” Axel Rakestraw, the team goalie, pumps his fist, and the rest of the guys clap. Our head sports trainer, Coach Green, whistles his support next to me and I catch a dose of the enthusiasm, clapping with the others.

Coach Bryant nods his approval and adds, “Get some rest and I’ll see you at morning skate. If you need to stop by Coach Green’s office, he and his staff will be available.”

Coach Bryant turns and heads into his office while Coach Green, my boss, steps over to talk to one of the players nursing a bruise he got during practice. “Twyler,” he calls, “grab me one of those ice packs.”

“Yes, sir.”

I step toward the training room and hear, “You should let Twy check out your injury, Reid.”

I look back when I hear my name. “You have an injury?”

Reid frowns and glances at his buddy. “Nothing you can help with, Twyler.”

“Are you sure?” I step closer to Reid. He’s a sophomore on the offensive line. “I can take an assessment and—”

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