Chapter 4
Provisional Start
Luke
The puck cannoned off my blocker and ricocheted to the near-side corner, exactly where Coach Harper wanted it. Whistle. She pointed her stick down the ice.
“Reset, Carter. Five-puck sequence. Same shooters.”
I shuffled back across the crease, edges biting through the frost-fogged blue paint.
Breath crystallized inside the cage of my mask; sweat soaked the neck of my base layer.
Six hours ago I’d been in a dorm room the size of a parking spot, taping a “roommate constitution” to a mini-fridge.
Even though we were three weeks into the semester, twenty pairs of eyes waited to see if the transfer kid could keep the net.
Javier Morales circled at the top of the left dot, puck on his tape, visor clouded with condensation. He didn’t talk trash; he stared glove side, daring me to flinch. Ryan lined up beside him, stick blade flat, humming something off-key that sounded like early-2000s pop punk.
Harper’s whistle shrieked.
Javier snapped first—low blocker. I kicked it wide.
Second puck: Ryan, quick release, looking five-hole. I closed the pads, smothered, popped it out for the manager collecting rebounds.
Third: Javier again, this time high glove. He’d beaten me there yesterday in film, and he knew I knew it. I pushed forward, cut the angle, felt the sting in my palm as the puck slammed leather but stayed out.
Fourth and fifth blurred—shoulder save, then a desperation toe on a deflection. Harper blew the drill dead.
“Better,” she called. “Still leaving snow up the middle on your recoveries. Clean it or get used to chasing loose change.”
“Yes, Coach.” I sucked air through the cage, heart hammering.
She didn’t nod, didn’t smile—flicked her whistle toward the boards. “Water. Three minutes.”
I glided backward, tapping blocker to post before turning. Habit. Post-check, angle, rhythm. Control what’s crease-sized.
Ryan coasted beside me as we headed for the bench. “Nice robbery, Carter. Javier’s starting to pout.”
“Morales doesn’t pout,” I said, popping the helmet strap and chugging water. “He recalculates trajectories.”
Ryan snorted. “Nerd.”
I wiped sweat off my brow with the back of a soaked glove. “You skate with the math major, you pick up vocabulary.”
“Roomie treating you okay?”
“Taped a rules list to the fridge,” I said. “Color-coded. Even signed by yours truly.”
“That’s either adorable or serial-killer stuff. Jury’s out.”
Javier slid to a stop in front of us, spraying a sheet of ice at our skates. “Glove looked sharp,” he said, voice even. “But you’re still late on push-outs when I shade right.” He shoved his mouth guard between teeth and skated away before I could answer.
Ryan lifted his brows. “Translation: You’re earning respect.”
“Or I’m a science project.”
“Science projects don’t dress for Friday’s home opener.” He nudged my elbow. “Relax.”
Easy advice when you weren’t the newest transfer wearing borrowed expectations like a too-tight chest protector.
Harper whistled again. “Full-ice scrimmage. Two fifteen-minute run-time periods. Carter and Decker split.”
Decker—last semester’s backup—tapped my pads as he passed. “You start?”
“Coach hasn’t said.” But every cell in my body prayed for it.
We took positions. First unit against first unit. Crowd noise would be triple Friday, but right now the rink was quiet except for the Zamboni exhaust lingering from the morning cut and the smack of sticks on ice.
Faceoff. Puck dropped. The rush built quick—Morales scooping possession, cutting inside our rookie defenseman, flipping to Ryan streaking down the wing. Ryan ripped a snapshot glove side. I snared it clean. Play whistled dead.
I tossed the puck to the ref stand-in, heart rate steadying. Felt good. Felt right.
Next shift, Javier deked our captain, toe-dragged forehand, and fired low blocker. I read it, dropped, paddle down. Rebound kicked out too far. He shoveled it upstairs before I could recover.
Ping. Water bottle off.
Harper’s whistle. “Keep the rebound inside the blue paint!”
My chest burned. I’d let anger torpedo games before; couldn’t now. Dad’s voice hissed somewhere beneath the mask—“don’t let them see weakness, kid”—but I ignored it, dialed in.
When the first period ended 2–1 red squad, Harper waved me over. She didn’t raise her voice; she never had to.
“Carter, you’re tracking well, but your weight transfer is slow when you reset after a high shot. Less pop-up, more edge-load. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Show me.”
Second period: I focused on staying loaded, shoulder down, nose on puck. Javier kept testing glove high, but I met him every time. Ryan scored on Decker at the other end, cackling loud enough to echo. The horn sounded—scrimmage tied 3–3.
Harper blew her final whistle. “Bag skate tomorrow morning; film this afternoon. Weights at sixteen-hundred. Hit the showers.”
Players scattered. I crouched, tapping both posts again before sliding out. My shoulder throbbed where yesterday’s scrimmage had clipped me, but adrenaline masked most of it.
Inside the tunnel, fluorescent lights hummed. The gear smell thickened—wet tape, rubber, ammonia crystals from sweat-soaked pads. Voices bounced off concrete. Ryan threw an arm over my helmet, steering me toward the stalls.
“Friday’s our house opener against Caribou State,” he said. “Stands’ll be packed, student section liquored up by warm-ups. You ready?”
“If Coach calls my name, yeah.”
“That glove side looked ready.” He bumped fists, then ducked into his stall.
I peeled off gloves, chest pad, jersey—steam curling off fabric. Equipment clanged into my locker. When the last strap cleared, I sat on the bench, elbows on knees. The pressure opened like a valve I’d been clamping shut since Harper first called my transfer meeting.
Dad’s career highlight reel flashed in my head—rookie year hat trick, then the slow fade after the ACL tear, beer cans on the coffee table. He never said it, but I knew: keep playing well, or life starts playing you.
I ground the heel of my palm into the ache in my shoulder.
“Carter.” Harper’s voice cut through the clatter. I jerked upright; she stood outside the trainers’ room, arms crossed over a down vest.
“Need a word,” she said.
I grabbed a towel, wiped sweat from my face, and followed.
The trainers’ room smelled like antiseptic and menthol. Harper leaned against a treatment table, studying something on her tablet. She thumbed the screen off before speaking.
“Good adjustment in the second period,” she said. “Still rough edges, but”—she exhaled through her nose—”you’ve earned the start Friday.”
Heat hit the back of my neck. “Thank you, Coach.”
“It’s provisional.” She fixed me with that x-ray stare coaches perfected. “Keep numbers tight in film and don’t dog weights, or Decker suits up.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Team needs stability in the crease. Think you can give it to them?”
“I can.”
She nodded once, pushing off the table. “Grab lunch, hydrate, see Dalton if that shoulder nags.”
“It’s fine.”
Her expression said she heard the lie. “Athletic training opens at eleven. Use them. That’s not a suggestion.”
“Yes, Coach.”
She left. I stood alone, the word starter pulsing behind my ribs like a second heartbeat—equal parts relief and threat. Opportunity and warning, same coin.
I returned to the locker room as Ryan—already out of the shower—was putting on deodorant. “You look like you got called to the principal’s office,” he said.
“Harper named me provisional starter.”
“Hell yeah.” He slapped my damp shoulder pad—hard. I winced.
He saw it. “Injury?”
“Bruise. I’ll get ice.”
“Hit Dalton for stim. Harper loves her data, but she loves healthy goalies more.”
“Noted.” I untangled the rest of my base layer and stepped into the showers.
Hot water hammered the knots in my back. I closed my eyes, letting the roar drown everything: Harper’s warning, Dad’s ghost stories, the mental whiteboard where I tracked save percentage.
When I came out, towel around hips, Javier sat lacing shoes. He glanced up.
“Good battle,” he said. That was it—no smile, no critique. Respect in two words.
“Thanks,” I said, and meant it.
He finished tying his shoes, then straightened. “Caribou’s first line loves back-door seams. Stick lifts, no whistles. Heads up.”
“Appreciate the scouting.”
He tipped an invisible cap and walked out.
I dressed quickly—compression leggings under faded jeans, team hoodie over a plain tee—and loaded gear into my stall to air. The shoulder throbbed as the adrenaline faded. I flagged down Dalton, the team trainer, as he moved down the aisle. He tossed me a heavy flex-pack of crushed ice.
“Twenty minutes,” he ordered. “Don’t freeze the nerve. I’ll see you on my table in twenty.”
I wedged the pack under my hoodie, hissing as the cold hit the bruise.
Ryan noticed the crinkle of plastic. “Cryotherapy already? We haven’t even hit the highway.”
“Dalton’s orders.” I adjusted the fit against my skin. “Said he doesn’t want me locking up before we get back to campus.”
“You know you’re a legend already, right?”
“Because of ice?”
“Because you’re the only guy here who walks in day one and posts a .920 against Morales.”
“It was practice.”
“Practice with Coach Harper filming every angle. Relax, Carter. Enjoy the dub.”
I didn’t correct him—because it wasn’t a win yet. Friday would decide that.
We headed up to the players’ lounge. Fluorescent lights flickered against trophy cases; smell of day-old coffee hovered. Ryan raided the snack shelf, tossing me a protein bar.
“You ditching afternoon weights to cry in an ice bath?” he asked.
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
He peeled open his bar. “You got time before film. Wanna grab real food at Buckman Grill?”
“Need to hit Dalton first.”
“Cool. Meet you after?”
“Yeah.” I checked my phone—8:57 a.m. Two missed texts, both from Dad. I didn’t open them.
“Everything good?” Ryan asked, nodding at the screen.
“Fine.” I shoved the device into my pocket. “See you in thirty.”