Page 7 of Fresh Ice
The first game of the season was a rush from start to finish.
Alonso stood in the hallway leading to the ice, listening to the crowd roar in their home arena. The feeling was electric, a buzzing taking over his head.
He didn’t realise how tense he was until Gabby grabbed him by the shoulders and shouted in his face, “Let’s go!”
Alonso laughed, shoulders loosening. He wasn’t alone—he was going out there surrounded by his team, part of something bigger.
Because NHL loved drama, the opening game was against their biggest rivals, the Brooklyn Cats. Gabby didn’t waste time before he began to chirp the opposing captain, Orion Young. Young gave back as good as he got, setting the stage for the rest of the game, a chippy clash between the two teams.
Alonso tried to maintain a winning mindset at all times, but deep down, he hadn’t exactly expected to win. The Cats had dipped into mediocrity after being a playoff contender for years, but they were still consistently better than the Hounds, who hadn’t made it to the postseason in six years.
Something must have been in the air, however, Gabby scoring a goal off an odd bounce in the starting minutes of the first period. They went up another point five minutes later, a neat one-timer by one of the first-line defencemen during a power play.
By the end of the first period, they had been outshot fifteen to five and yet were still up by two. It didn’t feel great to leave their goalie, Davie, out to dry, but at least they were winning.
The Cats rallied in the second. Young’s face was set in a determined scowl as he flew by the bench, stick-handling through a Hounds defenseman with that notorious ability to keep the puck on his stick. A moment later, the puck hit the cross-bar and went into the net, top cheese.
It was fucking annoying when opposing teams scored such beautiful goals.
Luckily for the Hounds, the Cats’ push wasn’t enough. In the third period, Alonso’s line added to the scoreboard, Levy pulling off a neat play right in front of the goalie to put it in.
The final score was 5-2, the Hounds winning handily.
Alonso sat heavily in his stall, watching the guys surround Levy and pat him on the head in celebration of his first NHL goal. Levy’s dark skin was glowing with sweat and happiness as he stood holding the puck from his first goal for a photograph.
Alonso managed to unstick his jaw enough to say, “Congrats.”
Levy beamed at him and collapsed in the stall beside him. “Thanks, man. Yours is right around the corner.”
Alonso tried not to frown at the condescending assurance and concentrated on taking off his gear.
Despite Levy’s empty attempts at comfort, Alonso didn’t score. One game, two games, three—he was getting assists but seemed incapable of scoring.
His parents had been there for the first game, so he got to listen to his dad’s disappointed speech in person. The following instances of beratement were delivered via a tediously long phone call after each game. Alonso’s dad would detail everything Alonso was doing incorrectly, comparing him to his teammates—toLevy.
Alonso knew that it was good for him to listen to his shortcomings, but that didn’t make it any less exhausting. He’d shut himself in his room even after his dad hung up, staring at the ceiling and replaying his failed plays.
He tried to spend as much time as possible at the rink practising his shot, so much so that the other guys started teasing him for it. Alonso tried to take everything on the chin, laughing it off even if it stung inside. It wasn’t lost on him that a lot of people were expecting him to be one of the solutions to the Hounds’ constant losing.
To add to the weight crushing him, Coach had practically told Alonso that maybe he just wasn’t as productive as everybody thought he would be.
As if that would be a comfort.
Alonso was pretty sure he was managing not to show how much it was affecting him. He’d joke with the rest of the team as much as possible, try to go out with them after games. It was at home where the mask was difficult to keep up, especially with Levy strutting around, having already scored three goals.
Alonso arrived home late one night, kicked out of the rink by the Zamboni driver. His muscles ached, and he had cramps from his stupid suppressants, and his stupid apartment was absolutely saturated with Levy’s stupid scent.
Alonso dropped his bag by the door, going straight to the kitchen and banging a few cupboard doors open.
He needed some goddamn Pop-Tarts.
Alonso refused to turn when he heard Levy’s bedroom door open. He could not deal with anything else right now.
“Hey, dude. You good?” Levy asked.
“Yep,” Alonso replied, still staring at the shelves. He realised that he was chewing on his nails, making them bloodier than they already were, but couldn’t seem to stop himself.
“Whoa, whoa,” Levy said, and then he was pulling at Alonso’s hand, getting his fingers away from Alonso’s anxious teeth.
