times and slip my gloves on before pounding each fist in the other palm over and over. I’m mad now, really mad, and that’s good.
I hear the whistle and I skate to my position.
The puck drops and the twenty minutes of our scrimmage whiz by. I can feel my blades shredding the ice, hear the thwack of the puck as it connects with my stick, taste the icy air I drag into my lungs past my minty mouth guard, see the black-and-white shirts of the refs as they zoom next to me along the boards. I can smell the fear of teammates and opponents who try to get between me and the puck.
I’m not usually a puck hog, but this morning I am on fire. Every player who’s ever gone past the peewee leagues knows what it looks like when a fellow player is in the zone. You know better than to mess with it or water it down with thoughts of teamwork and good sportsmanship; you just get out of his way and let the magic happen.
All too soon, the final whistle sounds and the scrimmage is over. I realize I’m standing at center ice, clutching my stick and panting like a wild animal. Alone. Dad’s not sliding across the rink to lift me off my feet in a bear hug. Charlotte’s not cheering from the stands. Jacob and Brig aren’t hollering for me. The quiet hurts my ears.
So…no celebration. No bonding. No victory lap. I called this wrong.
I stare at the puck between my skates. The cold of the ice zings through me from the bottom of my feet to the top of my sweat-soaked head and I start shaking. I’ve shivered from cold before, but this is different. I stagger off the ice and head to the locker room.
No one speaks to me and I don’t speak to anyone as I shuck my gear and let the hot water of the shower rinse away all my sweat. Guilt and dread stick around.
I towel off, get dressed, and shove my gear into my hockey bag, heading to the lobby. I don’t see anyone from the van.
An official from the academy hurries over to me and hands me a stack of papers: the judges’ comments on my performance. The reason I snuck here in the first place. The key to my future. I thank her and hurry out of the rink without catching anyone’s eye or glancing at the papers. I can’t wait to get away.
I thought I just wanted to go to the academy; I didn’t realize until now that I wanted Dad’s approval and support, too.
I scour the parking lot.
No van.
I drop my bag and try to catch my breath. This feels exactly like getting the wind knocked out of you by a high-sticking wingman.
I can’t make my brain work, can’t even begin to figure out how I’ll get home from here or make things right with Dad. My eyes burn.
As I stare vacantly at the parking lot, a team bus pulls away. Behind it is a ratty van with a gigantic ice cream cone on top.
Dad is still here, waiting for me. I swipe at my eyes, grab my bag, and trudge to the van.
Atticus: When my boy rolled out of the van—which I didn’t like at all—and then came back and spoke to the boss, it wasn’t a good thing.
The boss didn’t say anything after my boy walked away. Then he said “No!” when the muffin girl tried to get out and follow my boy. She looked scared, and that’s bad—the boss never scares people. So I barked at him and he apologized. But he didn’t move, just sat staring at his phone. So I barked again. And again. And again. Until he finally looked up and said, “Oh, all right!” and went after my boy. I followed him and made sure he went in the building. I barked at the muffin girl and her boy and the boy who works for the boss until they went inside, too. I stayed outside, but I watched through the glass doors.
They all came out and got in the van, but things still aren’t right; the boss and my boy aren’t talking, but at least they’re together.
Conor: I bit the boss’s elbow. There’s a little spot on the back of the arm where, if you nip real fast and sharp, it’s enough to make them move. My boy wanted the boss to follow him, and Atticus was barking and
I hear the whistle and I skate to my position.
The puck drops and the twenty minutes of our scrimmage whiz by. I can feel my blades shredding the ice, hear the thwack of the puck as it connects with my stick, taste the icy air I drag into my lungs past my minty mouth guard, see the black-and-white shirts of the refs as they zoom next to me along the boards. I can smell the fear of teammates and opponents who try to get between me and the puck.
I’m not usually a puck hog, but this morning I am on fire. Every player who’s ever gone past the peewee leagues knows what it looks like when a fellow player is in the zone. You know better than to mess with it or water it down with thoughts of teamwork and good sportsmanship; you just get out of his way and let the magic happen.
All too soon, the final whistle sounds and the scrimmage is over. I realize I’m standing at center ice, clutching my stick and panting like a wild animal. Alone. Dad’s not sliding across the rink to lift me off my feet in a bear hug. Charlotte’s not cheering from the stands. Jacob and Brig aren’t hollering for me. The quiet hurts my ears.
So…no celebration. No bonding. No victory lap. I called this wrong.
I stare at the puck between my skates. The cold of the ice zings through me from the bottom of my feet to the top of my sweat-soaked head and I start shaking. I’ve shivered from cold before, but this is different. I stagger off the ice and head to the locker room.
No one speaks to me and I don’t speak to anyone as I shuck my gear and let the hot water of the shower rinse away all my sweat. Guilt and dread stick around.
I towel off, get dressed, and shove my gear into my hockey bag, heading to the lobby. I don’t see anyone from the van.
An official from the academy hurries over to me and hands me a stack of papers: the judges’ comments on my performance. The reason I snuck here in the first place. The key to my future. I thank her and hurry out of the rink without catching anyone’s eye or glancing at the papers. I can’t wait to get away.
I thought I just wanted to go to the academy; I didn’t realize until now that I wanted Dad’s approval and support, too.
I scour the parking lot.
No van.
I drop my bag and try to catch my breath. This feels exactly like getting the wind knocked out of you by a high-sticking wingman.
I can’t make my brain work, can’t even begin to figure out how I’ll get home from here or make things right with Dad. My eyes burn.
As I stare vacantly at the parking lot, a team bus pulls away. Behind it is a ratty van with a gigantic ice cream cone on top.
Dad is still here, waiting for me. I swipe at my eyes, grab my bag, and trudge to the van.
Atticus: When my boy rolled out of the van—which I didn’t like at all—and then came back and spoke to the boss, it wasn’t a good thing.
The boss didn’t say anything after my boy walked away. Then he said “No!” when the muffin girl tried to get out and follow my boy. She looked scared, and that’s bad—the boss never scares people. So I barked at him and he apologized. But he didn’t move, just sat staring at his phone. So I barked again. And again. And again. Until he finally looked up and said, “Oh, all right!” and went after my boy. I followed him and made sure he went in the building. I barked at the muffin girl and her boy and the boy who works for the boss until they went inside, too. I stayed outside, but I watched through the glass doors.
They all came out and got in the van, but things still aren’t right; the boss and my boy aren’t talking, but at least they’re together.
Conor: I bit the boss’s elbow. There’s a little spot on the back of the arm where, if you nip real fast and sharp, it’s enough to make them move. My boy wanted the boss to follow him, and Atticus was barking and
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