Page 25 of On His Mind

Percy

Everybodyinthisroomknows where their bag goes but me. The upperclassmen come in loose and loud, peeling off toward their stalls without looking, dropping their gear in spots they’ve known for years. Two of them are arguing over a video game. One’s eating a banana and scrolling on his phone without turning down the volume. I stand just inside the door with the strap of my bag biting into my shoulder and my heart going like I ran here, waiting for somebody to tell me where I’m supposed to go.

That’s when I notice that there is a sweater hanging on a hook at the far end with CAMDEN across the chest and a wolf at the center with its teeth out. My number is taped above it in black marker.

Cole comes in without a word, and I know he’s the starter before anyone tells me. There’s no rush to him. He drops his bag and starts pulling gear out. I have to make myself quit staring.

Stanley’s already going. I can’t tell who he’s talking to, and it doesn’t seem to matter — he’s got one shin pad on and the other in his fist, halfway through a story about a trainer named Goose who fell asleep standing up, and three guys are telling him to shut up, which only makes him louder.

Benson tapes his stick in the corner. Black tape, slow wraps, eyes down. He looks up long enough to give me a nod, and then he goes back to it. I hang onto the nod the rest of the day, and I have no idea why.

I find the stall under my sweater and sit. Blue drops down beside me a minute later, bag thudding against the bench, and starts gearing up at my left.

Nobody introduces themselves, and I don’t expect them to. They’ve been in this room together for years, and freshmen are not all that important. So I keep my head down and pull my pads on the way Josh drilled into me in a garage that smelled like sawdust — ten thousand times, the same order, until the weight of them settles onto my legs like the only thing in here that’s actually mine. I’m dressed before most of them, so I sit there in everything but my mask and gloves, and I watch.

The tunnel opens onto the ice, and I almost stop walking. I’ve been on plenty of ice. Cold community sheets with one working scoreboard and a snack bar that only sold hot dogs. Beer-league barns Josh borrowed at six in the morning so nobody could watch how bad I was. I don’t know what this is. Banners hang off the rafters, conference titles and retired numbers stitched in gold, up there longer than I’ve been alive. The seats climb into the dark on every side. Somebody’s Camden sweater is folded over the glass by the bench. The ice is so clean it looks wet.

I stop at the boards with my mask under my arm and just stand there. Fourteen-year-old me is soaked through in secondhand pads in a freezing little rink, listening to a man with a beard saythey’ll pay you to stand right there,and not believing a single word of it.

Josh wasn’t lying. I got myself the fucking scholarship, and I’m here. This is it. This is home ice.

I step onto the ice before the thought can get any bigger than that. The cold comes up through my skates, my legs remember all the hours I put into skating, and the whole cathedral of the place shrinks back down into a job I know how to do.

Three nets out for warm-up, and there’s no question which one is mine. Cole takes the first. Hutch takes the second — he’s a junior that rocks a chipped tooth and has a laugh like a slap shot. I take the third, down at the bad end where the boards have a dent in them and the light’s a half-shade dimmer.

Coach Dunne works mostly with Cole. He’s wiry, walks like his knees quit on him years back, and he talks low and close the way goalie guys do, half of it not meant for anybody else. He runs Cole through tracking drills, feeding pucks short and sharp, watching his head the whole time. He glances down my end twice and doesn’t come over.

That’s fine. I run the drill anyway. I take what Cole does, and I copy it. There’s a lot to copy. He doesn’t fight the puck, he lets it come to him. He sets his depth early, stays patient, and seals the ice with his pads before the shooter’s even picked a corner. When he goes post to post, he doesn’t lunge. He glides, like the crease tips under him and he just rides it where he needs to be. His body solved all of this a long time ago, and now he doesn’t even have to think about the movement, he just does it. I steal the hands and the patience. I steal the way he takes one off the mask on the high glove side and squeezes. I flinch on the high ones, but I move on.

When the drills start, I get lit up. The first wave comes down three-on-two, and the puck moves across the slot faster than my eyes can keep up, so I’m reading the pass a half-second after it already happened. The shots are behind me before my glove’s halfway there. Next rep, low blocker side, gone. These are men who are going to the NHL, and they’ve had a lot more ice time than I have. The net behind me keeps catching their pucks, and I start shitting my pants. I’m not embarrassed. I know this is what it’s supposed to feel like. Josh told me the last week before I left, sitting in the truck outside the rink with the heat blasting.You’re gonna be the worst guy out there for a while,he said.That’s good. It means you’re finally in the right room.

So I plant in the crease and let them shoot. The advantage they have is that they’re good. It doesn’t reflect shit on me because I’m the new guy here, and this is their turf. So I let myself watch. Every shooter lies a different way. Benson tells the truth, more or less — his game isn’t tricks, it’s getting there first and being stronger than you when he arrives, so he’ll show you where it’s going and dare you to stop it anyway. I read him. I get two of his, and on the second, he taps my pad with his stick on the way past, doesn’t say anything, and skates off. Blue’s quiet on the ice the way he’s quiet everywhere, but his release is flat and fast and the puck’s gone before his shoulders tell you it’s coming. He beats me clean, and then I set earlier, and the next one I get a pad on it. He nods like he wanted me to.

Then Stanley. Stanley’s a liar. He looks glove side and goes blocker. He stares down the far post and roofs it near. The first three reps, he beats me with nothing but his eyes, and I hate him for it, but behind my mask, I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. Becausefinally.For years, it was just high school kids who did this for a hobby and the nameplate. Now there’s a whole line of players out here who all lie differently, and every one of them wants something I’m in charge of. They all want to makethe shot, and I’m the man standing in front of it. I don’t think anything’s felt this good in years.A little better every day,Josh says, somewhere in the back of my skull.Not all at once.

I quit reaching, and I start reading. By the end of it, I’m looking Stanley Ermington dead in the eyes and ignoring every word they tell me. I heard the guy’s talking about him the other night. He’s named after the Stanley Cup. His last name is well-known among the hockey world because his dad is some big shot hockey player. It’s a privilege to practice with him, but playing on the same team? Living in the same house? How the hell did the stars align my life to intertwine with a guy like him? This is my opportunity to get better and to take notes. A kid like him is going well beyond anything I can fucking imagine, that’s for sure.

He notices me staring and skates a slow loop past my net.

“First day luck,” he says.

I raise my brows once. “Twice.”

He’s laughing the whole way back to the line. And just like that I know my college hockey career is going to be a blast, just like Josh promised.

As long as I don’t fuck it up.

Cole comes by while I’m getting water. He stands next to me looking out at the ice like we’ve been doing this for years.

“You dropped early on the three-on-two.”

I look at him. “Yeah.”

“You’ll do it all month. Everybody does. Game’s faster than your eyes right now.” He drinks. “Your eyes catch up before your body does. So you’ll know you’re beat a second before you can do a thing about it. That part’s the worst part.”

I look at him.

“Watch his hands, not the puck.” He tips his head at Stanley down the ice. “He lies with his eyes. Whole team knows it and they still bite. Don’t bite. And don’t chase the pass — let it get tohim. You go early, you give him the whole net.” He shoves off the boards. “You read it, though. Half these freshmen can’t read it. You just gotta survive long enough for the rest of you to catch up to your eyes.” Then he’s gone, back to the line for more reps.