Chapter 31 It’s Only a Scrimmage
Thirty-One
It’s Only a Scrimmage
Beck
I drive toward the highway, trying to remember the sensation of Forest’s hand on my chest. Breathe. When I have myself under control, I dictate a reply to Coach Powers’s message.
Beck
I’ll be there. Flying towards Boulder like a greyhound who heard the treat bag rattle.
Coach:
Awesome. We’ll be skating drills when you get here. Just head into the dressing room and Banks will sort you out with a practice jersey. Warm up and stretch all you need.
And drive safe, okay? We’ll wait.
I take another deep breath and try to visualize the next couple of hours, but it only makes me more nervous. So I ask my phone to text Forest with a couple of thoughts.
Beck
Question for you. Would it be bad karma to steal the Cougars jersey after this practice?
Related: is it bad luck if I throw up beforehand?
Forest
You’re not going to throw up. And don’t steal the jersey, because only a guy who doesn’t think he’s ever going to be invited back would need to take it.
That’s not you, Beck. This is just Thursday for a professional athlete who’s on his way to the top.
That seems like a generous interpretation. Still, it calms me down.
It’s only a scrimmage, I remind myself. Besides—the Boulder rink has good juju. It’s where I skated with Forest for the first time when I practiced with the Stickhandlers.
By the time I pull into the lot—parking in the farthest row so my hunk of metal doesn’t stand out beside all their luxury cars—I’m calm enough. Sort of.
The lobby is empty when I walk in, except for a young woman in a sharp suit who’s perched on a bench, typing furiously on her laptop. She looks up at me with a serious frown. “Becker James?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“I’m Liana, Coach’s assistant. Thank you for coming in on short notice.”
“Happy to help,” I say, as more nerves swirl through my bloodstream.
She rises from her seat, closes the laptop, and grabs a file folder out of her briefcase. My name is on the label. “Has any of your personal contact information changed since development camp this past summer?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Same address. Haven’t even repainted the mailbox. It’s still puke green.”
She gives me a strange look, but let’s face it—we’re both lucky I didn’t say something even weirder. “Okay, then you’ll receive a check in the mail for today. Now, off you go.”
She leads me to a door that says PLAYERS ONLY and pushes it open. “Banks?” she calls. “He’s here.”
The young equipment manager appears a moment later. “Oh hey, Mr. James. I put you over here.” He waves me toward a stall near the door. There’s a grey practice jersey hanging there with the Cougars logo right on the chest.
Luckily, practice jerseys don’t have names on them, because if I saw JAMES on that thing, I’d probably stroke out.
I drop my bag and start pulling out my base layers.
“Just let me know if you need anything at all,” Banks says. “And go see the trainer when you’re ready.”
“Thanks.” I hang up my jacket and start the long process of gearing up. This part is the same no matter who you’re playing for, and the familiar procedure calms me down.
Thirty minutes later, I’ve warmed up my body on an exercise bike, I’ve stretched, and I’ve had my ankles taped up by a nice trainer named Kevin. He didn’t even blink when I started babbling about the luckiest colors of tape.
At long last, an assistant coach sticks his head into the room. “Scrimmage in ten.”
Gulp. Then I’m strapping on pads and tying my laces and internally saying a prayer that contains only four words: don’t fuck this up.
The equipment guy hands me my stick and a water bottle, and I trundle out the door and down the black rubber path toward the ice.
Coach Powers waves me toward the bench. “Hey, Beck! Thanks for your hustle. You’re doing us a favor.
We just needed to rest one guy for the weekend. That’s in the vault, of course.”
“Of course,” I agree. They don’t want me yapping that something is wrong with Volkov.
“Thanks, man. Strap in. Take the far end, okay?” He waves me toward one of the nets.
“Yessir.” I step onto the ice, feeling like the new kid at school. The team is on a water break. Guys stand in twos and threes talking about whatever. This is just an ordinary Thursday for them, while my heart is doing laps around my ribcage.
I skate toward my net and drop my water bottle onto it. Then I drop to the ice for a couple more stretches, while surreptitiously glancing around at the players.
All the big names are here. I spot the team captain talking to defenseman Tommaso DiCosta. And there’s Hudson Newgate chatting with Dougherty.
I’ve shared ice with a few of these guys before. In fact, now the backup goalie—Zack Walcott—is skating toward me, which is kind of surprising. I’m not a fan of this dude. He’s always been way too smug.
So I’m not prepared for him to greet me with a friendly smile and say, “Beck! Great to see you. Gonna stop some pucks for us today?”
“That’s the idea.” I pick myself up off the ice so we’re eye to eye.
“Cool, cool,” he says, sounding ten degrees warmer than I ever thought him capable of. “Gotta guess that your first time getting called up can’t possibly go as bad as mine. So you might as well relax.”
“Wait, really?”
“Really.” He thumps my shoulder pad. “I’ll tell you sometime. Good story.”
We’re interrupted by David Stoneman, one of the alternate captains and a fan favorite. He arrives with a spray of ice and a smile. “Hey, dude. I’m Stoney. You like burgers?”
Just be cool, Beck. “Doesn’t everyone?”
“Well, no. Vegetarians exist. Not usually in this building, but still. And—this is even harder for me to process—not everybody drinks beer, either. Hale doesn’t.”
He points, and I spot Jethro Hale—my idol, and Coach Powers’s boyfriend—taking a seat in the bleachers. He’s not dressed to work out. He’s holding a clipboard and a pen.
“Hale’s first night with the team, I invited him to get drunk. But he doesn’t drink any alcohol, so I’ve learned to ask.”
“Uh, smart.” Where is this conversation going, by the way? I’ve never met someone with a conversation style that’s half as odd as my own.
Also…why is Hale here? It can’t be to watch me.
Can it?
“So you and beer are friends?” Stoney asks, oblivious to my rioting nerves.
“We’re more like drinking buddies who only see each other on weekends,” I chatter. “But burgers and I are tight.”
He grins. “Cool! We’ll get one after this, then.”
I sneak another glance at Hale and see an older man sitting down beside him. “So, um, does Hale come to every practice?”
Stoney glances at the retired goalie again and frowns, like he’s never thought about it before. “Nah, he’s a scout. We rarely see him. The goalie coach is here, too. Huh. Maybe that’s because of you? But hey, no pressure. See you after!”
He skates off, and I take a deep breath.
Our Father who art in hockey heaven, if you could get me through this without embarrassing myself, I’ll let my subscription to BoyzPorn lapse, and I’ll donate the money to a soup kitchen. Or an animal shelter. Or a soup kitchen for dogs. Is that a thing?
Coach blows his whistle. Every nerve ending fires inside me as I skate into the crease.
This is it. Time to prove I belong here, even if my stomach feels like it’s hosting its own scrimmage.
Coach divides the team into squads, while I do a couple more last-minute stretches. The forwards line up for a simple drill—shots from the slot. Nothing fancy. I bounce on my toes, trying to shake out the jitters.
First shot comes from Hudson Newgate. Clean wrist shot, low blocker side. I catch it square in the chest, absorbing the rubber with a satisfying thump. The rebound bounces harmlessly to the corner.
“Nice!” someone calls out. Maybe Stoney.
The second shot comes from a guy I don’t recognize—probably a fourth-liner. He winds up like he’s trying to put the puck through the back wall but telegraphs it so obviously that I’m already there before he releases. Simple glove save.
“Easy there, cannon,” I say, tossing the puck back to center. “Save some ice for the rest of us.”
A few guys chuckle, and I feel myself relaxing by degrees. This is just hockey. I know how to do this.
They start cycling through more complex drills. Two-on-ones, breakaways, screens in front. My glove starts to sing. My positioning feels crisp, and I stop more shots than I let in.
The last shooter is Kapski, and when he comes in alone and tries to go five-hole, I snap my pads together like a bear trap.
I get a weighty nod from Coach. Then he claps his hands. “Nice warmup! Let’s scrimmage!”
My heart hammers as they set up for a face-off, like I’ve watched them do on TV.
Don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up, don’t fuck this up.
The puck drops and chaos erupts. Bodies crash into the corners. Sticks clash. I follow it all like my life depends on it. The goalie’s job isn’t just saving pucks. I’ve got a view they don’t have, and I’m supposed to share the wisdom.
“Heads up, Stoney!” I call as an opposing forward sneaks behind him. “Ghost on your six!”
Stoney spins and picks up the man just in time, breaking up the play.
“Back door!” I bark when I spot Wheeler drifting toward the weak side.
The defenseman adjusts, closing off the passing lane.
Then suddenly there’s a loose puck sliding toward the slot where Dougherty is lurking like a vulture.
Time slows. He winds up for a one-timer. I slide across my crease, reading his eyes, his shoulders, the angle of his blade. When he releases, I’m already there. The puck smacks into my blocker and wings safely into the corner.
“Fucker,” Dougherty says, shaking his head.
“That’s Mister Fucker to you,” I mutter, and he snorts as he skates off.
I’m in it now. I’ve got this. I face shot after shot, each save building my confidence. A sprawling pad save on Wheeler. A glove robbery on some defenseman’s point shot. When Newgate tries to stuff a rebound past me, I slide post-to-post and swallow it up.
My inner voice finally shuts up. This is what I was born to do.
With five minutes left, they get a two-on-one. I stay patient, forcing the pass, and when it comes, I throw myself across to stop it. The sound of the puck hitting my pad echoes through the rink like a gunshot.
“Holy shit!” someone yells from the bench.
My thoughts exactly.
When Coach Powers blows his whistle, ending the scrimmage, I can’t believe it—nothing went in.
I have an honest-to-God shutout.
Holy shit.
As I skate to the bench, guys are tapping their sticks on the ice—the hockey equivalent of applause.
Stoney skates over and bumps my mask with his glove. “Dude, nice showing.”
“Thanks,” I say quietly. But inside, I’m dancing.
And my next thought is, I can’t wait to tell Forest about this.
Two hours later I’m climbing back into my Jeep after lunch with Stoney and a couple of his teammates, and I’m still feeling high on life.
I grab my phone out of the cupholder and look to see who’s messaged me. I’m hoping to see Forest’s name, but instead, I see my roommate’s.
Rigsy
Dude. I got a keg! Be home by seven.
I read it twice, but I don’t remember making any plans with him.
Beck
What? Did you meant to text me?
Rigsy
OF COURSE I DID YOU DUMBASS. We’re going to celebrate your rise to power!
Rigsy isn’t the smartest tool in the shed. Maybe he thinks I got called up for real.
Beck
Um it was one practice? I’m still your roommate. Don’t rent out my room.
Rigsy
Duuuuuude. And I thought I was the dense one. One practice in the big league is still one more than the rest of us got. You’re living my dream right now. So we’re doing this. Be home at seven for beer and gaming. Invite Forest over. He’ll want to celebrate too.
Will he, though?
I hold my phone against my chest and try to take all this in. Rigsy wants to celebrate with me? And he thinks Forest should join us.
Honestly, I can’t picture it.
But I text him anyways. Because hope is a megabitch.