Page 22 of Shiver
Although, while he has a ‘first’ included in that sentence and I have a period at the end, he rarely attends any of our social functions. At least, not over the last two years. I wouldn’t know about this year as I haven’t either.
Classes are kicking my ass.
I’m doing much better. I’ve pulled my grades up in all my classes, but the fear is still there. If I slip at all, it won’t take much for me to avalanche downhill. These classes are killer. I know, without a doubt, that without Rakesh, I’d have already been sent packing.
The thought of him makes me hide a smile. I left his notification up on my phone, just so I can see it when I make the screen come to life.
Rakesh Aahnu
Win tonight and we’ll celebrate tomorrow.
I can see the words flashing before my eyes, making my gut flip. Is he here? Is he watching? Biting the inside of my lip, I give one last look at my phone before grabbing my helmet and stick and heading for the chute.
The stands are already filling. It’s not the largest college arena, but it seats 5,000. More times than not, it’s bordering capacity. There’s something exciting about your community rallying behind you, even when you’re not a professional team. There’s a sense of pride.
Although it could be considered patriotic, seeing the crowd in our red, white, and blue colors is intoxicating. Especially as we begin pouring out onto the ice. The coyote calls are like an injection of adrenaline and pride into my blood.
Sure, it also sounds like a wolf howl, but there’s something higher pitched about the coyote’s call. I’ve heard on more than one occasion someone giving coyote call lessons, so another fan doesn’t sound like a wolf.
“We’re not North Dakota, Bess. We’re fucking Arizona! Coyote—ahwoooooo!”
The memory always makes me chuckle.
I skate a loose eight around the ice as Hart makes his way to the goal and takes his place between the posts. Setting his water bottle up, he taps both sides and welcomes our practice shots.
We’re playing the Cornell Hoots—lovingly known as the Hooters. They’re a decent team. Somewhere in the middle of the pack, as far as average scores per game goes. They have a single brilliant player that I’d love to play on a team with.
Maximus Latham, a wingman that I’m sure will go pro. If he had a team that could keep up with him, I’d have no doubt they’d make it to the Frozen Four.
A shoulder knocks against mine, dragging my attention away from studying Latham. “Head in the game, Wolf,” Haines says, grinning at me. I bet the agent is here for Haines. He’s got potential, and he plays hard.
We make our way to Hart for our habitual stick to stick tap of good luck. He’s got that typical goalie look—cold eyes and impassive expression as he stares ahead, nodding at each of us as we bless him with shutout vibes.
And then we’re lining up; backup lines heading into the box to wait their turn.
Win tonight and we’ll celebrate tomorrow.
Ignore the way my stomach rolls in anticipation. The way my mind races with barely contained excitement at what that possible celebration could be. Heat rises in my chest. On the tips of my ears.
Closing my eyes, I will time to slow down. I need to get out of my head and focus. Not on Rakesh, but on hockey. Opening my eyes, the coyote calls of the crowd dim. The lights overhead are blinding like the sun. The ice is smooth and ready. I meet eyes with Danny Miller, Cornell’s left defensemen across from me. He flashes me a smile, though it’s not friendly.
I’m not sure why he’s smug. Cornell hasn’t won against Eastern State in years. A lot of years.
The puck is dropped, and Jipson immediately passes it to Haines. I watch as he’s pushed into the boards by Miller but still manages to get the puck away, sliding it back to Jipson’s stick. Jipson passes it backward to Valenti, who makes a shot on goal. It goes in and the goal is called.
I’m flashing a smug look in Miller’s direction. Only a couple minutes in and we’re on the board.
By the middle of the third period, twenty-eight shots have been taken on Hart. Exactly zero have made it in. And Miller’s been binned twice for tripping.
I roll my eyes as I sit on the bench and take a drink. My chest is rising and falling with the cold air, though I’m not cool at all. It’s a good burn in my lungs, and I enjoy the bite of it on my overheated skin as I wait for the change out.
The game is 2-0 and while it’s not impossible for Cornell to come back, we know they won’t. They’re already moving slower, getting sloppier. They’ve given into defeat and we all know it. Coach is calling for the third line to replace the second. First might end the game, but while we’re comfortable, there’s no reason not to give the lesser played teammates a shot.
This turns out to be a good thing. Our third line center, a freshman named Santiago Cruz, scores with a spectacular chip shot, and Coach lets the third line play out the remainder of the game.
And just like that, we’ve won.
While I’d love to text Rakesh immediately, and fuck I do want to, I don’t. I’d also like to use the excuse that I need to study instead of going out for a celebratory dinner with the team and instead go to Rake to see if I can get whatever celebration he has in mind under way.
