Page 4 of Shiver
Then I go in the opposite direction. Jockstrap. Compression pants. Compression shirt. Pads. Pads. Pads. And so on.
While I undressed, I imagine each layer shirking off one more stressor. With the shirt goes the stress of my new failing grades. My shoes take the knowledge that I am close to losing my scholarship. Then, with my pants go the disappointed words that I know I’ll hear from my parents if they find out.
And with each new layer I put on, I concentrate on breathing in hockey. Speed. Accuracy. Calm. Strength.
By the time I turn around and stand up, waddling toward the ice as anyone in skates on uniced surfaces does, I let each silly looking step pull away the doubts until my head is clear.
When I step on the ice, it’s a freedom I can’t describe. As if I become weightless, I glide around in a loose figure eight as I let the frosty air coat my lungs. The sounds of blades on ice, sticks slapping, and the excited chatter from my teammates replace all the fear and dread this semester has brought me over the last three weeks.
Three weeks and already I’m failing.
I shake my head. No. No time to think about class. Right now, it’s all about hockey.
Coach blows his whistle, and we gather around for drills. We begin with shooting pucks at the goalies, one on either end. Hart is our star. He had so many shutouts last year; it was a crime that he hadn’t actually broken any records. Yet, we still didn’t win the Frozen Four. Of all nightsnotto get a shutout.
Then again, we hadn’t managed a shutout the two times we’d played the Newark Nets in the regular season, either. The funny thing is, no matter how many times I watch our matches with the Nets, including those during the championship, I can’t see anything sloppy on our end. The two scores against our goal were fucking sick.
As sad as it is, they were just the better team last year. Sucks, but there’s nothing to do except study their plays and players. Fortunately, their goalie, star forward, and beast of a defenseman graduated last year. The goalie was even drafted; though I think I heard he didn’t make the NHL, but the AHL.
I mean, professional hockey is professional hockey. He’s gettingpaid to playso that’s a win in my eyes, regardless of which league he made it to. I haven’t seen anything on their forward or defenseman, though.
Hart blocks my shot easily, which is fine because I didn’t put in a lot of effort. My mind is still swimming. Slow and foggy.
We go through some keep away and corner drills. We spend a lot of time doing the continuous backcheck, bombarding our goalies. And true to form, Hart blocks every damn one. Although it's not a game, we still make sure to congratulate Hart.
Demsey, our backup goalie, gets a few pointers from Coach. He’s not bad and in all honesty, he stops more than half the goals sent his way. But when he doesn’t stop mine, I know he needs some work. Simply because I know without a doubt that I’m not in it tonight.
So much so that Coach is yelling at me to hustle. I rarely get that command.
I know it’s bad when I head back into the locker room and hockey hasn’t even pulled me from the funk. There’s just too much dread weighing me down. Making me eighty pounds heavier, which is saying something when I’m already nearing two-hundred on my six-foot-two frame.
Wordless, I strip down and head for the showers, turning my face into the water. Chatter from my teammates drifts through the showers while I close my eyes and try to wash away my worries. I couldn’t hockey them away. Maybe I can rinse them away instead.
“Wolf!” Coach’s voice makes me wince.
“Yes, Coach?” I call back, my teammates falling silent around me.
“Office when you’re dressed.”
This time I cringe. “Yes, Coach.”
Silence remains heavy around me. I’m not sure that anyone really knows that I’m failing. But it feels like all eyes are on me. They probably are. I rarely get called into Coach’s office.
Caulder steps into the stall next to me and flicks on the water. He rinses in silence before lathering his hands in the soap that actually smells like hockey. I can only think of hockey when I catch the scent.
“You okay, Egon?” he asks after a minute.
I shrug. “Yep. Classes are stressing me. That’s all.”
“Ah.” He doesn’t say anything further until I turn off the water. Then he grabs my arm so I’ll look at him. “Want to study?”
I smirk. “We’re not taking the same classes, Caulder.”
He purses his lips. “I suppose not, but sometimes I find it’s easier to concentrate if there’s someone there. You know, accountability and shit.”
Nodding, I run my towel through my hair before dragging it down my chest. He lets go of my arm. “Yeah, maybe. I need to do something. Just don’t know what.”
Caulder smiles and turns back to his shower as I head out, drying on the way. I dress quickly and head for Coach’s office.
