Page 1 of Shutout
CHAPTER 1
BROOKLYN
Ileave my heart on the ice because I don’t need it anywhere else. That’s why it’s extra shitty when my teammates don’t even half-ass it. At this point they’re just quarter-assing it.
“Tatum!”
I shift my eyes toward Bloom right in time to intercept a pass mid air as like I’m playing baseball instead of hockey. A Bulldog tries to barrel through me to steal the puck. Tries—and fails, because I’m not the biggest defenseman the St. Cloud Thunder Bolts have ever had for no reason. Dude tries to shoulder check me and hits my chest pads light as a feather. I just let him think he’s won and right when he’s sure he has the puck, I check him against the boards all proper. Enough to get a nice littleoofout of him.
I carry the puck away from our zone and once again, I’m reminded that the only ones who seem to give a shit about this game are my defensive partner, Bloom, and I.
Yeah, I get it. We’re down by five goals in a qualifier game. There’s only a minute and a half left in the clock. But you’d think the seniors would be less eager to end their college hockey career so soon.
Worse, you’d think the juniors wouldn’t want an embarrassing showdown like this one to weigh on them next year. But they’re honestly the worst crop this team has ever seen in its history. I’m seriously dreading them taking over leadership next year. Does this mean I’ll have to wait another stinking year after they graduate for my college hockey career to finally bloom?
Hah, my partner would’ve appreciated that pun. Especially because he’s just as frustrated with the guys two years older than us.
“Do something, Blondie!” he shouts as I zoom by.
From the bench, I can hear Coach Green screaming his throat raw. “Pass! Pass the damn puck, Tatum!”
Nope, no sire. I don’t trust any of these lazy suckers to do anything but burn the rest of the time off.
Fortunately—I think?—we’ve been so easy to jerk around that the Bulldogs don’t try very hard to steal the puck from me. Or maybe they’re running out of steam after spending the whole game skating circles around the Bolts. I take advantage of whatever the hell this lull is, my legs pumping all the power I have left into my muscles to eat the ice. One of our seniors literally gets out of my way. Two Bulldogs close in on me and I lean as low as I can to bowl through them. I’m not even close enough to the Bulldog’s crease when I fire the puck like a cannon. My stick splinters in my hands but I ignore it.
Instead, I raise my fist in the air.
The puck sails through the air. The Bulldog goalie makes a swipe for it. It doesn’t matter, that slapshot made my heart come back to life. Nothing in this world can stop it.
The alarm blares with the goal right as the net comes loose and slides back.
“Well, shit.” My teammates are so far from me, it’s actually one of the Bulldogs who speaks. “I’m glad the rest of your team isn’t like you.”
Wow, that’s some classy heckling. Hurt them with the truth instead of yo momma jokes, huh?
That’s legit the highlight of my last game as a sophomore, though. We lose five to one and even though it’s not a shutout, it’s an especially rankling loss when the only Bolts goal was scored by a defenseman. You’d think the Bulldogs just won the Frozen Four with how they’re celebrating after the final buzzer, but that’s probably to rub it on our faces. After all, they won on our home ice.
Inhaling deep from my lungs, I take one final look at the arena during the last official game of the season. The Bulldog heckler gives me a smirk as I skate away and I make a vow to myself.
I don’t give a rat’s ass about the to-be-seniors. They won’t drag me down for another season.
“Good effort,” Assistant Coach Thomas says as I walk into the locker and I bob my head in acknowledgment. We both know it wasn’t good enough to merit agood gameinstead, but I’m not the kind of guy to shun a compliment.
Coach Green steps in last. His face is redder than a stop sign, which is also a sign in and of itself. I discreetly seek Dane Bloom’s eyes. He and I make the team’s top defensive pair, and after two wretched years of being under the yoke of self-entitled seniors and juniors, he can read my mind. Mine sayswe are so damn screwed, and his mind totally projects back saying, andwe deserve it. I shift my weight and pin him with asurely not usgaze. He shrugs.
We both turn our attention back to the head coach as he stands in the middle of the locker room. I don’t think I hallucinate the way he grows even redder when he catches sight of the seniors.
Especially because one of them is unaware as he says, “Hey, so what are we gonna do about all the booze and snacks we got at the Bolt House?”
“We’ll put them to good use,” the dipshit beside him responds. “Let’s have a literal pity party. Get pity laid.”
“You’re a genius, bro.”
I almost want to throw my skates at them if it’ll get them to shut the hell up, before Coach picks them up like ragdolls and throws them at everyone else who also lives at the Bolt House. Like me.
But something worse happens. Coach Green takes a deep breath—which helps his complexion, he looks less like an overfried shrimp now—shakes his head, and walks back out.
Like he’s given up on this crop, just like they gave up on him and the team.
