Does anything sound worse than the sound of someone throwing up? And I subjected Finn and all of Finn’s friends to the sound. And I’m pretty sure Finn cleaned up my sickness too because I didn’t make it the first time.
My stomach churns. Guilt ravages me.
I’ve never gotten hungover before. I didn’t know it would feel like this. I wish I could huddle in the corner of the locker room, but of course that’s impossible.
Today the locker room is full. I guess a lot of the guys opted for working out at home yesterday, since it was a rare nongame day and early enough in the season for the coach not to insist they all come in.
Now they’re all here.
All staring at me, and I think whispering about me.
How quickly will I be sent back to Providence? How soon will it take my new coach to call Providence, and say, I need someone better?
Because these guys, in one of the top-ranking NHL teams in the country, got into the NHL straight away.
I’m here because someone was injured, and I haven’t even stepped on the ice yet, and people are questioning me.
After some training, trying unsuccessfully to sweat out the alcohol, I put on my skates and wobble through the tunnel. It’s time to practice on the ice with the others.
I feel dirty and ill at ease, and everyone avoids me.
Finn shoots me some worried glances, but he doesn’t approach me. I don’t blame him.
God, he set up a party for me. How could he have been any more welcoming? Then I occupied his time, chased away his chance at getting laid to the hottie he was interested in, and threw up all over his lavish bathroom. Worst guest ever.
My stomach still churns, and I don’t think skating will be the calming action it demands.
I fling my gaze around the ice, despising all the bright lights. The sound of skates scraping on ice feels like skates scraping against my ears.
Coach joins us on the ice. “Everyone, let’s welcome Noah Fitzpatrick. Some of you already met him.”
Some snorts and stifled laughs sound, and Coach’s eyes widen.
I stare at the painted lines beneath the ice and wish I could join them.
Evan, the captain, skates up to me. He holds out his hand and flashes the All-American smile I’veseen grace hundreds of magazines and sports shows for the past decade. “Welcome to the Blizzards, Noah.”
I take his hand. This is one of those moments I dreamed of all my life, but now that it’s here, my fingers tremble, and my handshake is probably too limp or whatever it is that makes a handshake bad.
How long will it take Evan to learn what happened last night?
His gaze turns strange, and I realize I haven’t answered him.
“Hi,” I say finally, my voice rough from last night’s unpleasant activities.
Evan gives a curt nod, then skates away. He speaks to Vinnie, a dark-haired defense guy. Vinnie always looked scary on TV, but he laughs and smiles with Evan.
But then I guess TV and dreams don’t teach you everything.
We practice puck handling and positioning, but I don’t even hit the puck every time, even though there’s no rival team barreling toward us. This is supposed to be easy.
I spot Coach’s disappointed look. He’s whispering to the captain, Evan, and from their frequent glances at me, it’s about me.
Evan is a real adult. He has a daughter and a townhouse in Boston. He would never be hungover on a game day. He probably never would be hungover at all.
We get off the ice at 10:00, and some players disappear to get massages. I stretch in a corner. More looks are directed at me. Yes, people are discussing me. And not in a good way.
All that time saying no to going out, all that time focusing on the game, will all of it end with me being sent home early? Tonight needs to go perfect.
