Page 3 of Playing Rough

This place carries some serious baggage for me. Hollowgate, home of the elite. Where kids drive quarter-million dollar sports cars like it’s nothing and the rest of us scrape by on hand-me-downs and part-time jobs.

But prejudices aside, their hockey program is one of the best. That rink has churned out more pros and Olympians than any other college team. And it could be my ticket to a real future, if I've got the guts to go all in.

Doesn't mean I have to like it here, though.

I adjust my snapback and throw my hood over it, keeping my head down as I walk. The last thing I need is some preppy bastard recognizing me on day one. Not until I get the lay of the land.

The campus is straight out of a brochure, all manicured lawns and ivy-covered brick buildings with white columns out front. Student sprawl on the grass, playing frisbee and tossing footballs, laughing like they’re in some commercial for acne medicine. The air smells like possibility and old money.

I hate it already.

At least Ravenloft had character. Graffiti on the stairwells, worn down lecture halls with squeaky seats. Sure, we didn't have private gardens or computer labs with 3D printers, but we had heart.

This place seems sterile. Soulless. But I don't have to like it to use it. I'm here for one reason—to go pro.

The sports complex looms up ahead, all smooth lines and floor to ceiling windows. Inside there is not one but two NHL regulation-size rinks, a world-class training gym, and more high-end equipment than I've ever seen.

No more duct-taped sticks or hand-me-down pads. No more hour long commutes just to get some practice time at the run-down municipal rink back home. Here, hockey is priority number one, and the facilities prove it.

Too bad they have shit taste in banners, though. I scowl up at the Hollowgate team photos lining the halls, showing off past championship wins. Seven national titles in the last decade alone, thanks to players like golden-boy Kensington leading the pack.

Well, those days are about to end.

I'm halfway to the administrative wing when a pack of girls strolls by, all California tans and tiny shorts despite the autumn chill. One glances up from her phone and does a double take at me.

"Oh my god, Becca look! Isn't that the guy who put Hollowgate's star sophomore in the hospital last season?"

The blonde—Becca, I guess—looks me up and down. "The one from the rivalry game? Thought he got expelled or something."

I keep walking, refusing to acknowledge them, but heat prickles the back of my neck. I specifically chose a later transfer date to avoid shit like this. I guess there’s no avoiding the gossip mill now that I'm here.

"Do you think he actually got recruited?" hisses a third girl, not bothering to lower her voice. "Why would Coach Willis want some thug like him on the team?"

Thug. There it is. Easier to put me in a box than see me as anything more than a Hollowgate caricature of Ravenloft. Just a street punk who got lucky and doesn't belong in their shiny privileged world.

Their whispers follow me all the way to the administrator's office. Nice welcome to my new home away from home. Nothing like walking a mile in someone else's judgments to start the day off right.

The secretary prints out my schedule and student orientation package without even glancing up. I keep my head down, shoulders tense until I'm back out in the open air.

Christ. If random girls already know enough to gossip, the team's reception isn't gonna be warm and fuzzy. Not looking forward to walking into that viper pit.

Warren Decker I’m not worried about. We've actually hung out a few times at regional tournaments, even though technically we've been rivals since Juniors. He's a good guy—solid player, loyal, cultivates team chemistry like a pro. The anti-Kensington, which is probably why we get along.

The rest though... That's a question mark. All I know is Kensington's their leader, and where he goes, the team follows.

I glance at my watch. Practice doesn't start for another hour. Time to clear my head.

I find an empty courtyard tucked between academic buildings. Mature trees offer camouflage from prying eyes. Settling on a stone bench etched with generations of initials, I pull out my phone.

My thumb automatically opens my direct messages, scrolling until I find FrozenFire's icon. My chest loosens just seeing it. In the chaos of everything changing lately, his messages have been one constant. A lifeline to sanity.

Me: Made it to campus in one piece. So far, it's like I stepped through a damn portal to a world inhabited entirely by Abercrombie models. You should see this place—it's unreal.

I shift, glancing around to make sure no one's in earshot. Text bubbles appear as Frozen types back.

FrozenFire: That shiny and pretentious, huh? ;) I'm sure you'll bring some much needed edge to the scene. Change can be good, though. A chance to reinvent yourself, right?

I snort under my breath. Leave it to Frozen to find the silver lining. He’s been my voice of perspective since we started talking years ago. Started as just mutual bitching on a hockey forum, but it's grown into something more. A real friendship, closer than what I have with most people in real life.

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