12. Riggs
Riggs
I 'm running on fumes and spite, and Coach can fucking smell it.
“Rhodes! You with us or taking a goddamn vacation in your head?”
I snap my eyes up from where I've been staring blankly at my skate laces for the past five minutes.
The locker room is a chaos of pre-game rituals—Dawson taping his stick for the fifteenth time, Martinez blasting his shitty music through earbuds, the freshmen looking like they might puke from nerves.
“I'm here,” I grunt, straightening up on the bench.
Coach narrows his eyes. “Could've fooled me. St. Andrews defense isn't going to roll over because you're tired. Get your head out of your ass.”
He's right, but I'm not about to admit it. I've been off all day, dragging through morning practice, zoning out during team meetings, nearly falling asleep in my protein shake at lunch. All because I couldn't stop reading those texts from Maren over and over like some lovesick teenager.
“Earth to Captain Dipshit,” Keller says, snapping his fingers in front of my face. “You good, man? You've been weird as fuck all day.”
“I'm fine,” I mutter, shoving his hand away. “Just focused.”
Keller snorts. “Yeah, right. Focused on what? Because it sure as hell isn't hockey.”
I give him my best death glare, the one that usually sends freshmen scurrying. Keller just laughs, immune after three years as my linemate.
“Seriously, what's up with you? You've been checking your phone every two minutes like you're waiting for a kidney donor to call.”
“Nothing's up,” I say, but even I can hear the defensive edge in my voice. “I just didn't sleep great.”
“Uh-huh.” Keller's not buying it, but Coach is back at the whiteboard, so he drops it. For now.
I finish lacing up my skates, the familiar routine settling my nerves a bit. Fifteen minutes til game time. The arena's already filling up. I can hear the low rumble of the crowd through the walls, the occasional cheer when the pep band strikes up.
“Rhodes? You with us?” Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts.
“Yes, sir. St. Andrews defensemen play aggressively at the blue line but leave the corners exposed. We exploit that with cross-ice passes and quick transitions.” The words come automatically. I've been playing hockey long enough to fake attention.
Coach narrows his eyes but nods. “Good. Make sure your wingers understand that.”
My phone buzzes in my locker. I know better than to check it, but my eyes flick over, anyway. The notification's right there on the screen.
Good luck today, Captain Golden Boy. I'll be watching.
Fuck.
I slam my locker shut before anyone can see the message. My heart's suddenly hammering like I just did suicide sprints, and I have to force myself to breathe normally. She'll be watching. Somewhere, those dark eyes will be fixed on me while I play.
“Alright, gather up, assholes!” Coach bellows, and the locker room quiets as everyone circles around. “St. Andrews thinks they're coming into our house and walking out with a win. You gonna let that happen?”
“No, sir!” the team shouts back in unison.
“Damn right you're not. Rhodes, you're up. Say something inspiring before these idiots embarrass me.”
And just like that, all eyes are on me. Captain's speech time. The tradition I usually live for. My moment to fire up the boys, get the blood pumping. But my brain's stuck on loop, playing her texts over and over.
I clear my throat and stand, feeling the weight of the C on my jersey like it's made of concrete.
“Okay, listen up,” I start, scanning the circle of faces. Some eager, some nervous, all waiting for me to give them something to cling to. “St. Andrews goalie has a weakness on his glove side. He drops his shoulder before he commits. Watch for it, exploit it.”
Coach gives me a look that says, 'That's it?' and I realize I'm bombing this. Captain Rhodes, always good for a speech that makes you want to run through walls, suddenly dishing out technical observations like some assistant coach who never played the game.
“But that's not why we're going to win tonight,” I continue, finding my rhythm. “We're going to win because, unlike those trust fund pricks from St. Andrews, we actually give a shit.”
A few chuckles ripple through the group. Better.
“Look at Paulson's ugly mug,” I say, pointing to our defenseman whose face looks like it was rearranged by a lawn mower. “You think he got that beautiful by accident? No, he got it blocking shots with his face because he'd rather eat pucks than let this team down.”
Paulson grins, showing off the gap where his front teeth used to be.
“And Johnson here,” I continue, slapping our goalie on his pads, “this crazy bastard sleeps in full gear the night before games because he's that committed to stopping anything that comes his way.”
“That was ONE time!” Johnson protests, but he's laughing along with everyone else.
“Look, we've put in the work. We know their systems; we know their weaknesses. But none of that matters if we play like twenty-five separate guys instead of one team.” I pause, forcing myself to focus.
“Martinez, stop hogging the fucking puck every time you cross the blue line. There are four other guys on the ice wearing the same jersey as you.”
Martinez flips me off, but he's grinning.
“Dawson, if you tape that stick one more time, I'm going to shove it up your ass. Sideways.”
“It's not right yet!” Dawson protests, but he's laughing too.
“And you freshmen—” I point to the row of wide-eyed first-years sitting together like they're at a slumber party “—stop looking like you're about to shit yourselves. Yes, the crowd is loud. Yes, there are scouts watching. Yes, your dicks might fall off from performance anxiety. Get over it.”
The team is nodding along now, the energy in the locker room shifting from pre-game jitters to focused intensity. This I can do. Hockey. The one thing in my life that makes perfect sense.
“Look, we're seven-one at home for a reason. This is our fucking ice.” I gesture around the room. “Every inch of this rink belongs to us. Every board, every face-off dot, every crease. St. Andrews is just visiting, and we're going to make damn sure they don't enjoy their stay.”
A few whoops and hollers rise up from the group. Coach nods approvingly from the corner.
“Johnson,” I point to our goalie, “you've got two shutouts in the last three games. Make it three in four.”
I lead the team in our traditional pre-game chant, a string of profanities that would make a sailor blush, and Coach pretends he can't hear.
“Let's fucking go!” I shout, and the guys start filing out, banging their sticks against the walls, the floor, each other's pads—anything to make noise, to build the frenzy.
Coach gives me a nod as he passes.
I take a deep breath, alone in the suddenly quiet locker room. The smell of sweat and athletic tape and that weird minty shit Dawson rubs on his legs hangs in the air.
Time to play hockey.
I grab my stick and follow the tunnel toward the ice, the roar of the crowd growing louder with each step. Our home arena isn't the biggest in the conference, but what it lacks in size it makes up for in acoustics. Three thousand screaming fans sound like ten thousand when they get going.
The moment I step onto the ice, the crowd erupts. The announcer's voice booms over the speakers: “And here comes your captain, number thirteen, Riiiiiggs Rhooooodes!”
I raise my stick in acknowledgment, my skates cutting smooth arcs into the fresh ice as I join the warm-up.
The arena's packed tonight, a sea of red and black with pockets of St. Andrews gold scattered throughout.
Our school band is cranking out our fight song, the cheerleaders are doing their pre-game routine near the student section, and the familiar smell of stale beer and popcorn wafts down from the stands.
Tiffany, the head cheerleader, catches my eye and gives me a little finger wave. We hooked up last season before?—
Before Maren.
ESPN3 has a camera crew set up at center ice. Our games have been getting more national attention since we cracked the top fifteen rankings, and tonight's matchup is streaming live. I catch a glimpse of myself on the jumbotron as I skate past.
I line up for the face-off, eyes locked with St. Andrews center—a lanky asshole named Prescott. The ref holds the puck between us, and I can smell Prescott's gum and expensive cologne. Who the fuck wears cologne to play hockey?
“Ready to get embarrassed, Rhodes?” he sneers.
I don't answer. Just dig my skate edges deeper into the ice, coiling my body. The ref's hand drops, and I'm moving before the puck even hits the ice, swiping it clean back to Keller at the point.
Game on.
The first shift is always a blur. I chase the puck into the corner, feeling St. Andrews defenseman closing in fast. I brace for impact, knowing he's going to try to paste me to the boards.
His shoulder drives into my back, just above the numbers—a textbook boarding call—but the whistle stays silent. I absorb the hit, legs churning to stay upright, and somehow manage to flip the puck to Martinez streaking toward the net.
“Keep your fucking head up, Rhodes,” the Andrews fucker growls in my ear.
“Thanks for the advice, princess,” I shoot back, shoving him off me.
The shot rings off the post with a metallic clang that echoes through the arena. The crowd groans in unison.
Back on defense, I'm scanning the ice, tracking St. Andrews forwards as they try to set up their cycle game.
I spot a St. Andrews winger telegraphing a cross-ice pass and pounce, intercepting it and turning up ice in one fluid motion. The crowd surges to its feet as I hit the neutral zone with speed, St. Andrews defense scrambling to get back.
Their defensemen are big motherfuckers, but they're slow. I slip past their blue line, finding the seam between their coverage. Martinez sees it and threads a perfect pass through traffic. The puck hits my tape with a satisfying thwack, and I'm suddenly alone with their goalie.