time off. He was always conservative when it came to preventing injury; it wasn’t worth wrecking some of the main prospects, i.e. Robbie.
Any break from hockey was nice, but this particular break corresponded with the miracle of Mom agreeing to watch Robbie so I could go into the city with Heather and see a show, her treat. In fact, they even said I could stay there for the weekend, like it was some sort of prize for good behavior. I was pretty sure the real reason was that they had made plans with Robbie, probably involving scouting, or a road trip to see the Devils take on the Sabres up in Buffalo.
That didn’t matter. They could do whatever the hell they wanted to if that meant going to Heather’s for the weekend and seeing a mysterious show, aka she hadn’t bought the tickets yet and would text me her decision.
This was probably the best practice of my life, even though I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Yesterday’s practice ended up with one-timers, today we’d be racing. I made it halfway through the one-timers yesterday before I got out. Durrell beat Robbie at the very end, at which point Robbie over-dramatically dropped his stick to the ice, pressed his hands to his face, and belted out, “WHYYYYY, GOD? WHYYYYYY???? AY DIO MIOOOOOOO!”
“All right, boys!” Coach yelled as he divided us in teams of two, starting with the goalies, then the defenders, and finally the forwards. When Robbie and Raiden started jawing each other, Coach shook his head. “Not today, boys. Margarine versus Butter.”
Immediately, I cringed. Admittedly, I was damn fast, and definitely had won my fair share of matches, but pitting me up against Robbie was just cruel. Especially when Raiden snickered, “Already know that outcome.”
“Knock it off,” Robbie said, shoving him. “He’s fast.”
“But you’re faster.”
Coach blew his whistle, instructing us to get set. I watched Janek and Ray-Ray line up, crouched forward with their sticks and heavy goalie pads. When Coach blew his whistle and they were off, we couldn’t keep from laughing and cheering. There was always something hilarious about goalies whenever they raced, or fought, or did anything “fast.” Especially when those goalies were Janek and Ray-Ray. Maybe from all the pucks they take to the head, or the absolute joy they had in taking off, skidding wildly around the ends of the ring. Ray-Ray hustled to pull ahead of Janek, skating backwards for the last few steps as he gestured toward his crotch and yelled, “Suck it!”
Coach blew the whistle again, not giving anyone time to celebrate as our next duo took off—Durrell against Smitty—then the next and the next. Robbie and I were dead last. As the pair before us moved out and we took our spots, I glanced at my twin. We had an identical stance. I crouched forward, toe digging into the ice. If I wasn’t prepared to spring, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
The second the whistle came, we were flying. We pumped our arms for more momentum as our legs shoved off in fast, hard skates. Our bodies fell in near perfect alignment. Our teammates screamed and I pressed on, ignoring the sting in my lungs as I leaned into the corner, sliding fast on the last stretch back as everyone cheered wildly. My heart pounded faster than from adrenaline alone. Robbie wasn’t in my line of sight.
As I skated hard, maybe eleven strides from the finish, I saw it. A flash of jersey fabric. Robbie came out of nowhere, charging on the end rush. I kept my head low, my lungs burning as I stretched out, elongating my body, and crossed the finish line a step-and-a-half before Robbie. I doubled over, hands pressed to my thighs as I tried to catch my breath, grinning ear to ear.
“Damn it!” Robbie swore, slamming down his stick hard enough for it to snap.
My grin disappeared. I shrank back until Coach Benoit said, “Good job, Butter.”
“Man, if I were a fraction as fast as you,” Beau said, shaking his head with rare
Any break from hockey was nice, but this particular break corresponded with the miracle of Mom agreeing to watch Robbie so I could go into the city with Heather and see a show, her treat. In fact, they even said I could stay there for the weekend, like it was some sort of prize for good behavior. I was pretty sure the real reason was that they had made plans with Robbie, probably involving scouting, or a road trip to see the Devils take on the Sabres up in Buffalo.
That didn’t matter. They could do whatever the hell they wanted to if that meant going to Heather’s for the weekend and seeing a mysterious show, aka she hadn’t bought the tickets yet and would text me her decision.
This was probably the best practice of my life, even though I couldn’t wait for it to be over. Yesterday’s practice ended up with one-timers, today we’d be racing. I made it halfway through the one-timers yesterday before I got out. Durrell beat Robbie at the very end, at which point Robbie over-dramatically dropped his stick to the ice, pressed his hands to his face, and belted out, “WHYYYYY, GOD? WHYYYYYY???? AY DIO MIOOOOOOO!”
“All right, boys!” Coach yelled as he divided us in teams of two, starting with the goalies, then the defenders, and finally the forwards. When Robbie and Raiden started jawing each other, Coach shook his head. “Not today, boys. Margarine versus Butter.”
Immediately, I cringed. Admittedly, I was damn fast, and definitely had won my fair share of matches, but pitting me up against Robbie was just cruel. Especially when Raiden snickered, “Already know that outcome.”
“Knock it off,” Robbie said, shoving him. “He’s fast.”
“But you’re faster.”
Coach blew his whistle, instructing us to get set. I watched Janek and Ray-Ray line up, crouched forward with their sticks and heavy goalie pads. When Coach blew his whistle and they were off, we couldn’t keep from laughing and cheering. There was always something hilarious about goalies whenever they raced, or fought, or did anything “fast.” Especially when those goalies were Janek and Ray-Ray. Maybe from all the pucks they take to the head, or the absolute joy they had in taking off, skidding wildly around the ends of the ring. Ray-Ray hustled to pull ahead of Janek, skating backwards for the last few steps as he gestured toward his crotch and yelled, “Suck it!”
Coach blew the whistle again, not giving anyone time to celebrate as our next duo took off—Durrell against Smitty—then the next and the next. Robbie and I were dead last. As the pair before us moved out and we took our spots, I glanced at my twin. We had an identical stance. I crouched forward, toe digging into the ice. If I wasn’t prepared to spring, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
The second the whistle came, we were flying. We pumped our arms for more momentum as our legs shoved off in fast, hard skates. Our bodies fell in near perfect alignment. Our teammates screamed and I pressed on, ignoring the sting in my lungs as I leaned into the corner, sliding fast on the last stretch back as everyone cheered wildly. My heart pounded faster than from adrenaline alone. Robbie wasn’t in my line of sight.
As I skated hard, maybe eleven strides from the finish, I saw it. A flash of jersey fabric. Robbie came out of nowhere, charging on the end rush. I kept my head low, my lungs burning as I stretched out, elongating my body, and crossed the finish line a step-and-a-half before Robbie. I doubled over, hands pressed to my thighs as I tried to catch my breath, grinning ear to ear.
“Damn it!” Robbie swore, slamming down his stick hard enough for it to snap.
My grin disappeared. I shrank back until Coach Benoit said, “Good job, Butter.”
“Man, if I were a fraction as fast as you,” Beau said, shaking his head with rare
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