Second Shot (Mid-Florida University Hockey #1)

1. Colin

COLIN

T he notification sound from my phone cuts through my sleep like a foghorn, and I fumble for it on the nightstand, nearly knocking over the empty energy drink can from last night’s packing marathon.

Briggs:

First day of college hockey, captain. Try not to embarrass Florida.

I squint at the timestamp. 6:47 AM. Of course he’s already awake—probably finishing his morning workout before heading to practice with the Spitfires. While I’m stumbling around a dorm room that smells like industrial cleaner and regret, my best friend is living his junior hockey dream in Canada.

Me:

Says the guy who cried when he had to leave his mommy

Briggs:

That was ONE tear. And it was allergies.

Me:

Sure it was. How’s the great north treating you?

Briggs:

Like I’m a hockey god. You know, the usual. How’s... checks notes ...Mid-Florida University treating you?

I look around my shoebox dorm room. My roommate Tyler is still dead to the world, mouth open, drooling on his pillow. There’s a motivational poster on the wall that says “REACH FOR THE STARS” with a picture of a cat hanging from a tree branch. Real inspiring stuff.

Me:

Living the dream

Briggs:

Translation: you’re already questioning your life choices

Me:

I haven’t even gotten on the ice yet

Briggs:

That’s what I’m worried about

I set the phone down and scrub my hands over my face. Briggs isn’t wrong to be worried. We both know I took the safe route, the one that comes with a backup plan and parental approval from at least one parent. The one that doesn’t involve betting everything on making it to the NHL.

Tyler rolls over and cracks one eye open. “You’re up early for someone who doesn’t have class until ten.”

“Hockey practice.”

“Right. The thing you’re good at.” He sits up, his sandy hair sticking up in different directions. “Nervous?”

“Should I be?”

“I don’t know, man. You tell me. You’re the one who turned down junior hockey to come here.”

Everyone’s an expert on my life choices. I grab my shower caddy and head for the bathroom, where I’m greeted by a mirror that’s seen better days and lighting that makes me look like I’m dying of something.

I study my reflection while I brush my teeth.

Same brown hair, same blue eyes, same face that’s been described as “Florida pretty” by every hockey scout who’s ever watched me play.

Whatever that means. I’m not particularly tall at 5’10”, but I’ve always been fast and I’ve always been able to score.

Those were my two defining characteristics: speed and goals.

Were being the operative phrase.

The shower water is lukewarm at best, but it helps wake me up. I think about the last conversation I had with my coach.

“You’ve got talent, Colin,” he’d said, standing in the empty locker room after our final game. “But talent only gets you so far. The question is: how badly do you want it?”

At the time, I thought I wanted it pretty badly. Now I’m not so sure.

I get dressed in my practice gear and check my phone again.

Briggs:

Seriously though, you’re going to be fine. Remember when we were twelve and you scored that hat trick against Tampa Bay Elite?

Me:

You mean when YOU got three assists on my hat trick?

Briggs:

Details. Point is, you’ve always been clutch when it matters.

Me:

That was six years ago

Briggs:

Hockey IQ doesn’t have an expiration date

I want to believe him, but as I’m walking across campus toward the arena, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m about to find out just how much I don’t know about hockey.

The Swamp Cats Arena is legitimately impressive, I’ll give them that. It’s not some rinky-dink college rink thrown together with duct tape and hope. This is a proper facility with modern everything, the kind of place that makes you feel like you’re supposed to be playing high-level hockey.

I’m early—a habit drilled into me by my father since I was eight years old—so I sit in the stands for a few minutes, looking down at the pristine ice surface.

My phone buzzes.

Dad:

First practice today. Remember what we talked about.

What we talked about. Right. The lecture about not letting academics interfere with hockey. About how college is just a stepping stone to bigger things. About how I need to dominate from day one if I want to get noticed by scouts.

Me:

I know, Dad

Dad:

You sure you’re ready for this? It’s not too late to make some calls. I still have contacts.

The contacts. The junior hockey connections that could theoretically get me a spot somewhere if I decided college was a mistake. Dad’s been dangling that safety net since the day I committed to Mid-Florida.

Me:

I’m good. Gotta go.

I put my phone away and head down to the locker room, where I’m greeted by the familiar sounds of guys getting ready for practice. Tape being ripped, skates being laced, the low hum of conversation peppered with the occasional chirp.

“You must be Grant.”

I turn to find a guy about my size extending his hand. He’s got kind eyes and the calloused hands of someone who’s been playing hockey for a long time.

“That’s me. Colin.”

“Ezra Lawson. I’m a sophomore, left wing. Coach told us to expect you.” He gestures toward an empty stall. “That’s yours. Fair warning—Hoyt likes to throw new guys in the deep end.”

“Noted.”

I start getting dressed, trying to ignore the way my shoulder twinges when I pull my practice jersey over my head.

It’s been bothering me since spring, a nagging ache that comes and goes.

My parents know about it, but I’ve been downplaying it because the last thing I need is Dad freaking out about my health affecting my performance.

“So you’re from Florida?” Ezra asks, lacing up his skates.

“Orlando area. You?”

“Boston. Been playing hockey since I could walk.” He grins. “Don’t worry, I won’t hold the Florida thing against you. We had a kid from Arizona a couple years back who turned out to be pretty decent.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Just messing with you. Coach says you can score.”

“I used to be able to score.”

Ezra gives me a look. “Used to be? What happened?”

I shrug, testing my shoulder again. “Growth spurt, I guess. Everything feels different than it did in high school.”

It’s not entirely a lie. I did grow two inches between junior and senior year, and my timing has been off ever since. But the real issue is that high school hockey is a completely different animal than what I’m about to face.

“You’ll adjust,” Ezra says, standing up. “We all did.”

Coach Hoyt appears in the doorway, and the room goes quiet. He’s exactly what you’d expect from a college hockey coach—graying hair, weathered face, the kind of presence that makes you sit up straighter without him saying a word.

“Gentlemen,” he says, his voice carrying easily through the room.

“Welcome to another season of Swamp Cats hockey. Some of you have been here before. Some of you haven’t.

” His eyes find mine for a split second.

“Regardless, you’re all starting from zero today.

I don’t care what you did in high school, juniors, or prep school.

The only thing that matters is what you do on my ice. ”

He pauses, scanning the room.

“We’ve got a good group this year. Maybe even a great group. But good and great are separated by about six inches.”

“Six inches?” someone asks.

“The distance between your ears,” Hoyt says. “Hockey is a thinking man’s game played at a stupid pace. The guys who succeed are the ones who can think fast and react faster. The guys who don’t...” He shrugs. “Well, they usually find other interests.”

Message received.

We file out of the locker room and onto the ice, where I immediately notice two things: the ice is perfect, and everyone else looks like they belong here.

“Line up for suicides,” Hoyt calls out.

I take my place on the goal line next to Ezra, trying to ignore the way my heart is already racing. Suicides are exactly what they sound like—skating sprints that make you want to die. We did them in high school, but something tells me these are going to be different.

“Go!”

I push off hard, trying to keep up with the pack. The first few reps feel okay, but by the fourth one, I’m starting to fade. By the seventh, I’m struggling to keep up. By the tenth, I’m definitely in the back half of the group.

“Grant!” Hoyt’s voice cuts through my heavy breathing. “You train at all summer or just work on your tan?”

A few guys chuckle, and I feel heat rise in my cheeks. I try to push harder on the next rep, but my legs are already burning.

We move into passing drills, and I start to feel a little better. This is where I can showcase my vision, my ability to see the ice. I take a pass from Ezra and thread it through traffic to a winger streaking down the boards. Perfect tape-to-tape.

“Nice pass, Grant,” Ezra says as we skate back.

Maybe this won’t be so bad after all.

Then we move to scrimmage, and reality hits me like a freight train.

The first time I get the puck, I’m planning to do what I always do—use my speed to create space and look for a scoring chance. But before I can even process what’s happening, I’m on my back, looking up at the arena lights, and the puck is going the other way.

“Get up, Grant!” Hoyt yells. “This isn’t nap time!”

I scramble to my feet, testing my shoulder. It’s definitely not happy with me, but I don’t think anything’s broken. The defenseman who hit me—a kid who looks like he bench presses small cars for fun—skates past.

“Welcome to college hockey, rook,” he says, not unkindly.

The next twenty minutes are a blur of getting out-muscled, out-skated, and generally out-played by guys who make me look like I learned to play hockey last week. Every time I think I have space, someone closes it. Every time I think I have time, someone takes it away.

My shots are off when I can even get them off. My passes are intercepted. I’m half a step behind on every play, and that half-step might as well be half a mile.