Chapter 9 Some Strings Attached
SOME STRINGS ATTACHED
KNOX
I’ve never been this nervous before a game before. Not when a scout was watching, not when my dad attended for the first and last time. But Staten is here, somewhere in the stands, and I feel a strange responsibility to make her proud. To make her see me.
Was I thinking clearly when Leif showed his stupid face in the library, interrupting my precious tutoring session? No, not really.
I was all for watching the fender bender of a disaster waiting to happen between Leif and Staten, but the look on her face when he publicly friend-zoned her made my soul sink into quicksand.
Watery eyes, a pouty bottom lip, sadness so palpable that it left this rancid taste on my tongue like I’d just chugged battery acid.
It was clear that she wasn’t going to go after what she wanted, so I, being the good Samaritan I am, decided to put a wrench in Leif’s plans and instigate some friendly competition.
Sure, it was a reckless decision made by a single party, but it was worth it to see Leif’s jaw practically dislocate in shock.
I mean, seriously, who invites a friend to go to a mathematics competition just to take advantage of the concession stand?
Staten is worth more than a cheap, gas station-quality hot dog.
If Leif can’t see that, then he doesn’t deserve a second of her time.
Since this…arrangement…came on rather quickly, I haven’t told my teammates about it. I don’t want to make this a huge, flashy thing. It’s not real, and if Staten wasn’t so disgustingly head-over-heels in love with Leif, she wouldn’t even consider taking part in it.
God, what does she see in this guy? Other than the fact that his teeth are so straight he probably never has to wear his retainer ever again, he reads to the blind and elderly in his free time (allegedly), he helps families of ducks cross the road during rush hour traffic (allegedly), and he’s so smart that he already has enough credits to graduate as a junior (allegedly).
I bet it’s all for show. Nobody is that perfect.
The brisk air in the arena chills me to my core, ice shavings whisking across the tempered surface as streaks of black and maroon bullet around the rink.
The announcer’s voice reverberates off the concrete-padded walls sequestering us—a beacon to the restless bodies that itch for a clean fight.
The floodlights blur my vision like a flashbang, my belly roils with an uncharacteristic anxiousness, and I have to pickpocket confidence from the rest of my teammates.
Calm down, Knox. The Mustangs are ten times better than the South Carolina Sabertooths. This will be an easy win. Just…focus on the game.
I don’t know how to explain it, but for the first time in my life, I want to stick to the shadows.
The shadows are secure, a failsafe where I can still flaunt my skills yet evade the overbearing spotlight.
I’m usually the first to jump at the chance to score a goal, but I know that my brain’s current stopover—in Staten city—jeopardizes the team, and I’m not going to be responsible for lending our opponents the upper hand.
The puck is in play not a moment later, ricocheting off Crew’s blade and rocketing over to our side of the rink. An orchestra of shouts follows closely behind, movement rustling beyond my peripheral and gearing my reflexes into high drive.
Harlan zips down the frozen runway, directing the disc with a strategic sleight of his hand, keeping up what looks like one hell of a shell game as orange adversaries careen after him at a speed unbeknownst to the normal population.
I skate parallel to Harlan—offering myself as an option if he needs to pass—and a bigger guy with a permanent death stare gains on his tail, poke checking at the puck to try and reroute its course.
Harlan has the advantage with an agility that can’t be matched by anyone in the league (much less the Sabertooths), and he thinks quickly before flip passing the coveted prize in my direction.
Determination untucking between my ribs and thighs burning from an uptick in exertion, I zigzag past the defense to gain possession of the disc, heading straight for the opposing goal with a precision I’ve been honing for years.
Another defenseman stands in my way, all sinew and horsepower as he lunges to impede my trek, becoming the sad aftermath of a deke that manages to accelerate me a few good feet in front of him.
I know there’s a stampede behind me; I know that my energy will dry up if I stop.
The Sabertooths’ goalie readies himself for my shot, taking a wide stance to cover every inch of the goal, and I sacrifice some well-loved praise to prevent a turnover, chucking the puck over to Crew’s advancing silhouette.
The sudden change in ownership confuses the goalie just enough to lower his right guard, and Crew doesn’t waste another second before slap shotting that sucker into the nylon, favoring the undefended side of the net.
If he had waited another moment, he wouldn’t have made it.
Even with a torque of the goalie’s leg, he’s too slow to block the projectile, and the goal lights submerge the rink in a haze of victorious red.
“With sixteen minutes and fourteen seconds left on the clock, scoring for the Minnesota Mustangs is number twenty-eight, Crew Calloway, assisted by number six, Knox Mulligan!” the announcer roars over the speakers, inciting a ground-shaking rumble of satisfaction from the crowd.
Screams and shouts pinball around the subzero arena, warring with the busy noise of the rink’s ground level and forcing my thoughts on standby.
1-0, and we’re only four minutes in.
Sweat forms on my hairline like a crown of thorns, my heated breath snaking through the metal grid of my helmet and dissipating into the charged ozone.
It feels as if every one of my senses has been thrown into a crockpot and left on simmer—muddied, directionless.
I’m hot, I’m cold, my attention is torn between every moving obstacle.
I don’t bid a glance at the audience; I don’t try to look for Staten.
My heart is already one strained beat away from soaring into the mid-hundreds.
The game resets, and the Sabertooths drive the puck toward our defensive zone, all piling on one another for added reinforcement.
I drag behind the swarm, as if I’m watching the progression of a wildfire from the safety of a lookout tower, complicit in the wide-reaching scorch of a thousand pine trees.
Hockey plays are getting smothered beneath miniature versions of Staten dancing in my head.
She’s just like me, and I’ve never…I’ve never met anyone who craves acceptance like I do.
This isn’t some guilty attraction because she almost popped my tire, and I almost popped her skull.
We both deal with self-doubt when it comes to not being good enough.
That means something. She understands me.
I’m knocked off my game when my own teammates pass me and charge for the opposition. If we can somehow trap the disc before the Sabertooths reach the goal, their chances of scoring decrease by a respectable percentage.
Sutton takes out a few players like bowling pins, crushing them against the plexiglass and fanning the flames of the hysterical mob that yearns for bloodshed. There’s cursing, indistinguishable yelling, and hundreds of eyes analyzing our every move.
I need to speed up. I need to stay focused.
A single glance at the clock—twelve minutes and counting.
A single glance that costs me beneficial distance.
Axel is only a few feet away from me, shadowing a finnicky Sabertooth as a wisp of worry pours over his face.
Crew is holding up the rear on the other side.
And when number thirty-seven hurtles headfirst toward our net, he evades Harlan’s forecheck and pulls a one-timer, sinking the puck with a full-body twist. Foster is mere centimeters away from diverting the shot, but its velocity trumps his versatility.
I don’t need to look at the scoreboard to confirm our failure—the furious booing of our school’s horde does that for me.
The buzzer that blares into the all-seeing night is just the nail in the fucking coffin.
A growl localizes in my throat, and my grip on my stick tightens at the sight of our competition hooting and hollering in a half circle.
We have plenty of time to get ahead of them, but if I keep playing like ass, the score will be too close for comfort.
I crack my jaw as if righting the sting from a deserved uppercut.
It’s like you’re not even trying, Knox. What would your father think? You could’ve cut him off; you could’ve capitalized on their scattered defense and fronted a breakout. The Mustangs are on a winning streak right now. Don’t be the reason to tank their reputation.
Defeated, the Mustangs straggle on the ice before assuming their positions for the next face-off, disappointment building in the stands like a tempest with no silver lining.
There’s a metaphorical darkness that falls over the rink, and I force myself to break free from the self-doubt lassoed around my ankles, one swell move from dragging me into the fiery depths of internal loathing.
The game doesn’t stop. Not for a second. And suddenly, I find myself at center ice, squaring off with a lithe player that lacks brawn but makes up for it in pure rage. There’s something feral about the way he shakes—something wicked about the curl of his mouth.
With a centering breath, I ready my stick, waiting for the referee to blow his whistle as adrenaline blots out the critical voice in my head and the surround sound of avid sports goers.