would have been flashy, highlight-reel goals.
Even Riley got into the trash talk in that game, and he yelled cheerfully at the defensemen from the Renegades who were trying to screen him. The Storm won the game 4-2. Riley got booed by the home crowd and it was great .
Right when the road trip seemed to be on the way to a four-game winning streak, Sunday’s matinee game happened.
Ethan skated up to Riley during warm-ups while Riley was getting settled in goal. “Who are you talking to?” he asked, rocking on his skates. “You’re saying stuff. To the posts?”
“Lane asked me that once,” Riley said, calmly. He squirted his water bottle three times, then took two drinks, and scratched his left skate on the ice to make a triangle. There. “I’m not talking to anyone. And I’m centering myself. You know. Going from Riley Hunter to the goalie. Make sense?”
Ethan blinked at him. “Maybe? No. I’m pretty much the same person all the time. On the ice. Off. Always Ethan.” He rocked on his skates again. “I wonder if I should try that too.” Before Riley could say anything, Ethan kicked with his skate and made a mark next to Riley’s on the ice. The buzzer sounded to send the teams to their bench for the anthems, so there wasn’t time for Riley to start his pregame ritual again. Riley grabbed his water bottle from the top of the net, and when he dropped it, he knew it was going to be a bad game.
Thirty seconds into the first period, Riley let in a goal.
One minute and thirty-five seconds after that, he let in another one.
By the time Spence finally pulled him in the second, Riley had let in five goals and was serenaded off the ice to the chant “Lose-er, lose-er, lose-er.”
The coach came to talk to him during intermission. “Happens to everyone, Hunter. Shake it off. It’s going to be fine. You played three games before this, and this schedule is insane. What the hell do they think we are? Robots? Are you a robot, Hunter?”
“No, Coach.”
“Me neither, Hunter. Me neither. Now you’re gonna put on one of those ugly-ass teal hats with that stupid, angry water thing, and show your support to Vazov, since this is his first professional game. And our team is gonna go play like tired motherfuckers who are not—who are not what, Hunter?”
“Robots, Coach.”
“Right. Robots. If we were, we’d be killer robots, and they’d all be in trouble, ’cause we’d have badass space guns. With lasers.” Spence gave him an encouraging slap on the back. “Let’s go.”
Ethan moved down to sit next to him the second the teams were back on the benches to start the third period. “That was my fault, huh,” Ethan said, eyes wide. “I messed up something. Didn’t I? Oh man, Hunter. I’m sorry.”
He looked so sincere that Riley wanted to tell him it was okay. But he couldn’t, because it wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. It would be. That’s how the game went, and that’s how Riley was . He’d get over it. He’d be back on the ice, and it’d be a learning experience. Just not yet.
It wasn’t Ethan’s fault. But Riley was superstitious for a reason, and clearly it was a sign he needed to change up his pregame ritual. That was last year’s, and they were playing last year’s champions. He should have known better.
The Storm lost, 6-2. It was a rousing defeat, and the bus was quiet for the three-hour trip back to Jacksonville.
Vazov handed Riley his headphones. “In Russia one time. The goals, of nine I gave up. This is part of game. I know.”
Riley took the proffered headphones gratefully, giving his backup a tired smile of gratitude. “Sorry I left you with that hole, though.” He was too. No one wanted to make their professional debut down by five. It sucked.
“Is okay. I see before game. The one who has fists, the loud one. He kicks at your marks. This is not good.” Vazov nodded, his icy eyes determined. “I will tell him. You are goalie. The crease. This is yours.”
Riley watched
Even Riley got into the trash talk in that game, and he yelled cheerfully at the defensemen from the Renegades who were trying to screen him. The Storm won the game 4-2. Riley got booed by the home crowd and it was great .
Right when the road trip seemed to be on the way to a four-game winning streak, Sunday’s matinee game happened.
Ethan skated up to Riley during warm-ups while Riley was getting settled in goal. “Who are you talking to?” he asked, rocking on his skates. “You’re saying stuff. To the posts?”
“Lane asked me that once,” Riley said, calmly. He squirted his water bottle three times, then took two drinks, and scratched his left skate on the ice to make a triangle. There. “I’m not talking to anyone. And I’m centering myself. You know. Going from Riley Hunter to the goalie. Make sense?”
Ethan blinked at him. “Maybe? No. I’m pretty much the same person all the time. On the ice. Off. Always Ethan.” He rocked on his skates again. “I wonder if I should try that too.” Before Riley could say anything, Ethan kicked with his skate and made a mark next to Riley’s on the ice. The buzzer sounded to send the teams to their bench for the anthems, so there wasn’t time for Riley to start his pregame ritual again. Riley grabbed his water bottle from the top of the net, and when he dropped it, he knew it was going to be a bad game.
Thirty seconds into the first period, Riley let in a goal.
One minute and thirty-five seconds after that, he let in another one.
By the time Spence finally pulled him in the second, Riley had let in five goals and was serenaded off the ice to the chant “Lose-er, lose-er, lose-er.”
The coach came to talk to him during intermission. “Happens to everyone, Hunter. Shake it off. It’s going to be fine. You played three games before this, and this schedule is insane. What the hell do they think we are? Robots? Are you a robot, Hunter?”
“No, Coach.”
“Me neither, Hunter. Me neither. Now you’re gonna put on one of those ugly-ass teal hats with that stupid, angry water thing, and show your support to Vazov, since this is his first professional game. And our team is gonna go play like tired motherfuckers who are not—who are not what, Hunter?”
“Robots, Coach.”
“Right. Robots. If we were, we’d be killer robots, and they’d all be in trouble, ’cause we’d have badass space guns. With lasers.” Spence gave him an encouraging slap on the back. “Let’s go.”
Ethan moved down to sit next to him the second the teams were back on the benches to start the third period. “That was my fault, huh,” Ethan said, eyes wide. “I messed up something. Didn’t I? Oh man, Hunter. I’m sorry.”
He looked so sincere that Riley wanted to tell him it was okay. But he couldn’t, because it wasn’t. Not yet, anyway. It would be. That’s how the game went, and that’s how Riley was . He’d get over it. He’d be back on the ice, and it’d be a learning experience. Just not yet.
It wasn’t Ethan’s fault. But Riley was superstitious for a reason, and clearly it was a sign he needed to change up his pregame ritual. That was last year’s, and they were playing last year’s champions. He should have known better.
The Storm lost, 6-2. It was a rousing defeat, and the bus was quiet for the three-hour trip back to Jacksonville.
Vazov handed Riley his headphones. “In Russia one time. The goals, of nine I gave up. This is part of game. I know.”
Riley took the proffered headphones gratefully, giving his backup a tired smile of gratitude. “Sorry I left you with that hole, though.” He was too. No one wanted to make their professional debut down by five. It sucked.
“Is okay. I see before game. The one who has fists, the loud one. He kicks at your marks. This is not good.” Vazov nodded, his icy eyes determined. “I will tell him. You are goalie. The crease. This is yours.”
Riley watched
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