Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
NATHAN
“You’ve got to be kidding me!” The disgruntled outburst is followed by a string of expletives. “This is bull!”
I hear the distinct thud of an object crashing to the ground.
I linger in the hallway, wondering if I should head into the locker room or wait for the ruckus to subside. After clearing the air with Riley this morning, I’m in a great mood and whoever’s in there is… not. I’d rather not bring my energy down on a good day.
“Price, calm down, man. You got other teams.”
Oh. It’s Price.
That clears up a lot.
He must have been cut this week, which anyone with sense could have predicted.
Price’s voice gets loud. “It’s not about that. It’s plain disrespect. Nobody knows about this town or this team, but I could have put it on the map. I came all the way from Ironvale. Ironvale.”
“You’ve mentioned it,” someone says dryly.
“Oakley, Vanderbene, even Scavinsky graduated from there. Hockey legends. And I’m not too shabby either. I had the most scores on the roster.”
“Not the most scores,” another person says. “You’re under Campbell.”
Price curses loudly again. “Why do I have to go and Campbell gets to stay? The guy’s basically a cripple.”
The word ‘cripple’ echoes in my brain.
A tense, black knot forms in my gut.
Thick and uneasy.
But then I feel someone step up behind me.
I pivot and smile, pretending I have no idea what’s just been said.
Chance McLanely moves forward. He has his duffel swung over his shoulder and his head is slightly lowered as if he doesn’t want to make eye contact with me.
“Hey, Chance.”
McLanely gives me a curt nod, then he hurries past me and into the locker room.
Well, I might as well go in now.
Putting a pep in my step, I grin at the guys in the locker room. “Morning, everybody.”
Grim stares. Guilty expressions. Awkward smiles.
What a party.
My chest tightens, but I keep my tone upbeat. “Hey, Price.”
“This is bull,” Price says again. He slams his locker shut, wrenches his duffel across his shoulder and stomps past the trainees.
As he passes McLanely, the hockey legend steps into his way.
Price screams to a stop and tilts his head up. Veins are popping out of the kid’s neck and his eyes are bulging.
“You’re a good player,” McLanely says. “When you calm down, I hope you look back on your time here and consider it a lesson.”
Price’s fingers tighten on the backpack and he gazes past McLanely to the wall of hockey sticks.
“And here’s a lesson from me personally,” McLanely says. “Instead of dragging other people, you should focus on improving your game.”
Price’s eyes shoot up to the taller man and his nostrils flare.
McLanely waits right there, staring at him. I watch them closely too. Price might be stupid enough to swing on McLanely and then I’ll have no choice but to get involved.
However, it doesn’t come to that. Without another word, Price sidesteps McLanely and shoots out the door.
No one moves or breathes for three full seconds.
McLanely is the first to break the silent spell. He tosses his gear in his locker and hits the showers. Slowly, people return to business as usual, but a strained energy lingers. I notice some of the guys watching me and when I look back, they quickly avert their gazes.
And now I’m a spectacle.
My smile dips.
Clumsily, I wrap my leg, then change out of my clothes and into my hockey gear.
I’m the first on the ice and doing warm ups helps bring me back to the zone. As I fly between the cones, guiding my stick exactly where I want it to go, I remind myself of why I’m here.
Hockey is the love of my life.
My passion.
My reason.
The drama behind the scenes doesn’t matter. As long as I’m out here, on the ice, making myself and my team proud, I can handle anything they throw at me.
Everyone slowly fills in beside me and Coach runs us through drills from hell until we’re sweating buckets.
The Lucky Strikers are looking to hit the league qualifiers and they have specific qualities in mind.
I heard they tanked most of the legacy team to make room for fresh blood.
However, doing drills all the time instead of playing the game can get tiring.
So when Coach rewards us with an end-of-practice scrimmage everyone lets out a cheer!
“Finally, we get our hands dirty,” someone says.
I nod and grin in agreement.
“You’re with me, Campbell,” Kinsey says, pointing from across the ice.
I give him a thumbs-up with my gloved hand.
Coach blows the whistle and I take off across the ice.
The scrimmage has that loose, end-of-practice energy and the moment the puck drops, I know this is going to get dirty.
Kinsey passes to me and I cut down on the left side, aiming to pass it quickly. But I’m the only one thinking of sharing the puck. The rest of my teammates are greedy with it and the little black disc never returns to me.
Our team takes the shot.
Laughter breaks out when number six not only misses completely, but nearly eats ice.
The puck falls into our opponents’ possession.
We’re on defense.
Up ahead, there’s movement in the bleachers. It’s the team manager. He’s a giant, building of a man, so it’s pretty hard to miss him and he’s standing with someone from admin, pointing to his clipboard.
That darn clipboard…
A fire burns in my heart.
A switch flips in my brain.
This scrimmage is no longer a friendly one. I go after the puck at full throttle, my stick extended. With an expert flip of my wrist, I commandeer the puck away and make a quick turn.
At that very moment, my opponent lunges.
Our skates tangle for half a heartbeat and the ice rips from under me. I spread my hands out to block my fall, but my opponent falls on top of me.
Right on top of my leg.
The breath knocks right out of me, but apart from that I’m fine.
Unfortunately, the trainee who collided with me seems to think he bludgeoned my limb.
“Oh no. Oh no! Man, are you okay? Campbell?”
The game screeches to a stop.
Players turn to face me, their skates sliding listlessly rather than cutting through the ice on a mission.
Sticks tap ice. Kinsey skids to a halt beside me. “You good?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Campbell!” Coach roars.
To my surprise, Max launches onto the ice. He slips and slides in his sneakers, but somehow keeps his balance until he’s kneeling beside me.
Max grunts as he checks me over with a serious expression. “Do we need to call an ambulance?”
“What? No, I’m fine.” I laugh shakily and lean back on my hand so I can propel myself up.
“Careful,” Max barks.
“Let me help.” Kinsey grips me under my armpit.
“I’m fine,” I wrench my arm away and get up on my own.
Everyone is staring.
I’m a spectacle for a second time today.
Renthrow skates up to me, his eyes glued to my leg. “Can you make it to the boards, Campbell?”
McLanely approaches me too.
Heat burns my chest all the way up to my face.
I’ve never felt this… awkward on the ice.
Hockey is a game of strategy, force and pushing forward even when all seems lost. I can’t remember a time an entire game stopped just because one person went down.
I’ve said I’m not hurt. There’s no reason for all the glum, concerned faces.
I glance at Max. The team manager has risen to his feet now and he’s staring at my leg as if he’s rethinking the decision to let me into his arena.
Kinsey looks seconds away from throwing me on his back and giving me a piggyback ride all the way to the town clinic.
With all the fortitude I can muster, I slap Kinsey on the back. “We getting back to the game or what?”
“Game’s over,” Max declares.
Groans of disappointment break out from the other players.
My heart lodges in my throat.
Great, Nat. You ruined it for everybody.
I feel like I should apologize.
Sorry for getting into an accident. Sorry for doing rehab. Sorry for existing.
‘You might as well start apologizing for world hunger and climate change while you’re at it.’ Riley’s words from earlier this morning fill my head.
As Max leaves the ice, the guy who clipped me skates closer, guilt written all over his face. “Sorry, man. I was going for the puck, I swear.”
I give him a reassuring pat on the back. I’ve fielded some dirty hits before and this didn’t feel like that. “It was clean. Just bad timing.”
He gives me a grateful smile and skates off the ice.
I look across the rink where Max and Coach are speaking in hushed, urgent tones. Are they discussing my leg?
Campbell’s a cripple.
It seems Price is not the only one who thinks that.
The way everyone stopped playing when I went down—
The way Max shut down the entire game—
Maybe Price was right.
Maybe I don’t deserve to be here.