1. Colin #2
By the time Hoyt blows the whistle, I’m exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with being tired and everything to do with being thoroughly humbled.
“Conditioning at six AM tomorrow,” Hoyt announces. “Regular practice at four PM. Questions?”
No one has any questions. We’re all too busy trying to breathe.
In the locker room, I sit in my stall and stare at my skates. Ezra drops down next to me.
“Rough first day?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You looked like a deer in headlights out there,” he says, but his tone isn’t mean. “It happens. College hockey is a different game.”
“Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”
“You’ll adjust,” he says again. “But you might want to work on your feet. And maybe hit the gym a little more.”
He’s trying to be helpful, but all I hear is: you’re not strong enough, you’re not fast enough, you’re not good enough.
I change out of my gear slowly, partly because I’m sore and partly because I’m in no hurry to face the rest of my day. My shoulder is definitely unhappy, it’s not screaming, but definitely not right.
Briggs:
How’d it go?
I stare at my phone for a long moment. How do I explain that I just got schooled by a bunch of guys who deserve to actually be here? How do I tell my best friend that I’m starting to think I made the biggest mistake of my life?
Me:
About what you’d expect for a first practice
Briggs:
That bad, huh?
Me:
Just different. Faster.
Briggs:
You’ll figure it out. You always do.
I wish I had his confidence.
I grab my bag and head out of the arena, my legs still shaky from the workout. The campus is starting to come alive with students heading to classes, and I check my schedule. Biology at 10 AM in the Science building.
At least academics should be easier than getting destroyed on the ice.
I find the building and make my way to room 203, where I discover that Biology 101 is apparently where pre-med students go to die. The lecture hall is packed, and I have to scan for an empty seat.
There’s one near the back, at the end of a row where a girl is sitting by herself. She’s got dark hair pulled back in a ponytail and she’s already taking notes even though the professor hasn’t started talking yet.
There’s something familiar about her that I can’t quite place, but right now any friendly face feels like a lifeline.
“Excuse me,” I whisper as I squeeze past her. “Sorry.”
She looks up, and for a second, something flickers in her eyes. Recognition? That’s impossible. I don’t know anyone here except for the guys who just spent two hours making me look like an amateur.
Wait. Do I know her? There’s definitely something familiar about her face...
“No problem,” she says softly, moving her bag so I can get by.
I settle into the seat and pull out my laptop, trying to ignore the fact that my shoulder is still throbbing and trying to figure out where I might know her from. The professor drones on about cellular respiration and photosynthesis, and I find myself zoning out, still replaying practice disasters.
“The mitochondria is the powerhouse of the cell,” the professor says, and I dutifully type it into my notes even though I’m pretty sure I learned this in high school.
I glance sideways at the girl who let me past. She’s still taking notes by hand, her handwriting neat and precise.
There’s definitely something familiar about her, but I can’t place it.
Maybe it’s just that Florida thing—we’re probably the only two people in this class who don’t think 70 degrees requires a winter coat.
My phone buzzes with a text.
Dad:
How was practice?
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. How do I explain that I just got a reality check about my hockey abilities? How do I tell him that maybe he was right about the juniors route?
Me:
Good. Adjusting to the pace.
Dad:
You sure you made the right choice? Cameron Henderson just got called up to the AHL from Windsor. That could’ve been you.
There it is. The reminder that I chose the safe route while kids like Cameron Henderson are getting legitimate looks from pro scouts. The implication that I’m wasting my talent on a college degree.
Me:
I’m sure. Gotta focus on class right now.
Dad:
Don’t let school get in the way of hockey. That’s not why you’re there.
I put my phone away without responding, but I can feel the girl next to me glancing over. Great. Nothing like airing your family drama in Biology 101.
The professor is going on about ATP and cellular energy when my phone buzzes again.
Mom:
How was your first day, sweetheart?
Thank God. A text from someone who actually cares about my education.
Me:
Good. Practice was tough but expected. In Bio class now.
Mom:
I’m proud of you for sticking with college. Your father means well, but education is important.
Me:
I know. Thanks.
Mom:
Are you eating enough? And taking your vitamins?
Me:
Yes, Mom.
Mom:
Don’t roll your eyes at me, Colin Michael Grant. I’ll find out.
Despite everything, I smile. Mom’s been threatening to find out about my eye-rolling for eighteen years. So far, her intelligence network has been surprisingly effective.
Class is wrapping up, and I’m packing my laptop when the girl next to me turns slightly.
“Good luck with hockey,” she says quietly.
I look up, surprised. “How did you?—”
But she’s already gathering her things and heading for the door, leaving me sitting there wondering how she knew I played hockey and why her voice sounded so familiar.
I make my way back to the dorm, my shoulder still aching and my ego thoroughly bruised. Tyler is at his desk, actually doing homework, which is more than I can say for myself.
“How was practice?” he asks without looking up.
“Humbling.”
“That bad?”
“I got schooled by a bunch of guys who probably learned to skate before they could walk.”
“And now you’re questioning your life choices?”
“Pretty much.”
Tyler finally looks up. “You know what your problem is?”
“Enlighten me.”
“You’re thinking too much. You’re Colin Grant. You scored forty-seven goals in high school. You were recruited here for a reason.”
“Forty-seven goals against Florida high school kids,” I point out. “These guys are different.”
“So adapt.”
“Easier said than done.”
“Is it, though?” Tyler leans back in his chair. “Look, I don’t know anything about hockey. But I know something about being good at stuff. I was valedictorian of my high school class, right? Thought I was hot shit. Then I got here and realized I was just a big fish in a small pond.”
“So what did you do?”
“I got better. Studied harder. Asked for help when I needed it. Figured out what I was missing and fixed it.”
“Hockey’s different than academics.”
“Is it? They’re both about preparation, execution, and learning from mistakes.”
I consider this. Maybe Tyler has a point. Maybe I’m overthinking this.
My phone buzzes.
Briggs:
Seriously though, how are you doing?
I look at the message for a long moment. Briggs knows me better than anyone. He’ll know if I’m lying.
Me:
Honestly? I’m starting to wonder if I made the right choice.
Briggs:
You did. Trust me.
Me:
How can you be so sure?
Briggs:
Because I know you. You’re not the type to back down from a challenge. You’re going to figure this out.
Me:
What if I don’t?
Briggs:
Then you’ll still have a college degree and options. But you will figure it out. You always do.
I set my phone down and stare at the ceiling. Tomorrow’s another practice, another chance to prove I belong here. Or another chance to prove I made the biggest mistake of my life.
The girl from Biology keeps popping into my head. There was something about the way she looked at me, like she knew something I didn’t. And that voice...
I shake my head. I’ve got bigger problems than mysterious classmates who somehow know I play hockey.
Like figuring out how to not get destroyed in practice tomorrow.
But as I’m drifting off to sleep, I can’t shake the feeling that this is just the beginning. That everything I thought I knew about myself, about hockey, about my future, is about to change.
The question is: am I ready for it?