Page 12 of Fresh Ice
“Oh, my God.” Levy yanked them out of Alonso’s hand in an amazing show of rudeness and took the treat out easily.
“Stop showing off,” Alonso accused as he put the Pop-Tarts into the toaster.
Levy started flexing obnoxiously in the middle of their kitchen, making little grunts every time he changed positions.
Alonso felt himself flush at the objectively ridiculous display, and he kicked at Levy’s thigh until he stopped.
They ate their Pop-Tarts right there, still choking on laughter, burning their tongues on the hot filling but too hungry and drunk to wait.
“More,” Levy pleaded once they’d finished.
Alonso complied, putting another pair in the toaster.
He’d keep the night going as long as he possibly could.
CHAPTER THREE
Everything didn’t magically become perfect, but it was definitely better. It was as if scoring that first goal finally allowed Alonso to relax enough to concentrate on his play as a whole instead of criticising himself for that one thing.
He and Levy were getting good minutes on the third line, and they were clicking on the ice, most of their assists for each other. Alonso would check their defensive numbers too, and the goals allowed while they were on the ice were firmly lower than the goals scored.
The team started piling up the wins as they neared the New Year. The mood in the locker room was buoyant, morale high after so many seasons of losing.
And then the Brooklyn Cats arrived in Queens again, and the Hounds got absolutely crushed in a 7-1 game.
It was frustrating to suffer such an embarrassing loss—to see Orion Young, the opposing captain, look casual in his post-game presser as if it were no big deal that his team had slaughtered them.
Alonso had suffered humiliating losses before, but it felt so much worse in the NHL. The team was held responsible by the Hounds’ intense fanbase, and not only that, Alonso felt it as a personal failure too. He was a fourth-overall pick—he should be able to help avoid collapses like the one that night.
Alonso brooded in the passenger seat as Levy drove them home, the radio filling the dull silence between them. He startled as his phone buzzed in his pocket, stomach sinking as he took it out.
It was his dad. Who else would it be after a loss?
The last thing Alonso wanted was to have this conversation with Levy right beside him, but it would be so much worse if he rejected the call.
“Hey, Dad,” he greeted.
“Alonso.” It was amazing how much disappointment one word could be filled with.
Alonso was lucky he barely had to contribute to the conversation, simply listening to his dad’s clipped voice as he went through the game step by step, detailing all of Alonso’s failures.
Alonso didn’t know why the chastisement was so frustrating. He was lucky to have a parent who watched his games so closely, who was so invested in his success that he’d take time to help Alonso get better. He should be grateful for the feedback—wasgrateful.
He was also just so tired.
“You should consider asking them to send you down. You’re obviously not developing as you should,” his dad said.
Alonso gritted his teeth. Everybody had heard of nightmare scenarios in which players had been played too hard and fast in the big leagues, ruining their progressions. But…Alonso didn’t think that was applicable to him.
There was no way he was going to ask to be demoted to the farm team.
“I’ve been doing okay,” Alonso defended himself quietly.
His dad scoffed. “Okay? You’re going to settle for okay?”
“No,” Alonso mumbled.
“That’s your problem right there. Your attitude is one of mediocrity. You’re unwilling to sacrifice and put in the work needed to be the best.”
