14. Tyson
fourteen
Tyson
I’m last to step off the team bus, trailing behind everyone as we file into the practice facility. The cold air hits my lungs like it always does. It feels amazing, especially since it’s over a hundred degrees outside, and I’m here to play the best hockey of my life and earn everyone’s respect.
The guys chat as we travel down the hall. My mind reels, and I stay quiet. I’m three steps into the locker room when the chattering turns to chirping—trash-talking and taunting. It doesn’t seem aimed at anyone in particular, but after yesterday, goosebumps dot my spine.
Avoiding all distractions, I focus straight ahead. Yesterday was my turn to be humiliated. I took it and forced myself to laugh it off. There’s no way they’d go for me twice in a row. Even pranksters have a sense of balance. Right?
My gaze sweeps the room.
Hartman is leaning back on the bench, his shiny new helmet dangling from his fingers. When my eyes meet his, he suddenly finds the ceiling fascinating. I don’t know if it’s guilt or what, but my intestines tangle.
I shake it off and keep walking.
My stall comes into view, and that’s when I see it—my jersey. It’s hanging where it should be, but something is wrong. It’s clearly inside out with little stickers all over it.
Rocket shaped stickers with a zoomed in photo of Taz’s face!
Groaning, I step closer. My fingers brush the fabric, and my heart sinks straight through the concrete floor. The snickering isn’t subtle anymore. Bryce is standing next to me, his face split into a full grin as he chuckles. “Bruh.” He throws his hands up defensively. “It wasn’t me.”
“Nope. This sure wasn’t your work.”
This stunt has Taz Houlihan’s face all over it.
Literally. Rocket is his nickname, and I hate how clever he was to put these cutesy little stickers all over my jersey.
I hate even more that I know I’ll be laughing about it in six months.
He must have been behind yesterday’s trick too—this is his thing, trying to make me crack.
My hands feel clumsy as I pick at the stickers, reliving all the panic from yesterday. Of course they’re super sticky—glued on or something—and I have to scratch at the edges as they peel off slowly.
This is taking forever!
Houli is so lucky we’re friends, or I’d kill him for this.
The heat of everyone’s eyes warms my cheeks. My fingers tremble no matter how many times I curl them into fists and tell them to stop. It’s not a big deal—they’re just stickers—but I’m so nervous, my fingers don’t work fast enough.
The room snaps to attention as the door swings open and Coach Badaszek strides in. All the laughter evaporates, and my chest locks up. I’m nowhere near ready—I’m still picking stickers off like it’s my first day of preschool.
Coach’s gaze pins me. “I—” My voice doesn’t cooperate. I swallow and try again. “Hey, Coach. I’ll be ready.”
I’m sure he’s seen the splattering of stickers over my jersey, but he doesn’t acknowledge them.
He lowers his voice, but somehow it feels louder when he says over my shoulder, “You’re wearing a letter for a reason, Lane.
Leadership isn’t just what you do on the ice.
You’re not getting these guys on your side by playing with craft supplies. ”
My jaw tightens. I nod because arguing won’t help.
Explaining would sound like I’m making excuses.
He turns away and takes a spot near the front of the room.
I barely hear what he says, which I know is not very captain-like, but I’m stressing to clean my jersey.
Coach says what he needs to say, and one by one, the guys file out.
I’m alone.
Again.
I stare at the jersey in my hands, and I let out a slow breath, swallowing my pride along with it. These stickers won’t come off. I’m going to miss practice if I stay stubborn about it. Instead of fighting it, I turn my jersey right-side out, slip my arms in, and pull the jersey over my head.
Houli will skate with me today.
And then I’ll kill him later!
When I stand, my hands steady. With my chin held high, I stride out, shoving the door open with both hands, ignoring how stiff my jersey feels.