12. Van

12

Van

P ete stands before us at the whiteboard, marker in hand while Booker clicks his way through a PowerPoint. I'm not a captain because my grades would never have allowed it, but I'm standing stoically at the door, my arms folded across my chest. This is a serious meeting, after all.

I've heard every detail before, but the new guys haven't, and we need to get them up to speed.

Our biggest rival is a small university in the middle of nowhere, Pennsylvania.

Sure, Coleridge is a bigger school.

And Claybrooke has won the Frozen Four twice.

But Woodcock University has become a threat over the last few years, and our freshmen need to know what they're up against.

Booker clicks a button on his laptop and the screen turns lime green. One more click, and neon purple letters appear.

Woodcock University

Nickname : School of Cock

Colors : Lime Green and Purple

Location : Pennsyltucky

Mascot : Bushtit

Battle cry : (We're) Tough Titties

Santos reads the words, and to his credit, he doesn't crack a smile. This is serious business. But the freshmen aren't having it.

Deano's shaking his head. "Hold up. The school's name is Woodcock, and their mascot is the bushtit?!? False. There is no way either of those things is real."

"Oh, they're real alright. And what's worse is they're fucking good. They're fierce competitors and we need to dismantle their game and take them down." Ollie's channeling his inner preacher, but the guys still aren't biting.

"Lemme get this straight—the bushtits are fierce?"

Will can't stop laughing, but Ollie's dead serious. "No, they're fucking songbirds. But the team? The team is fierce."

"Honestly, they're not that good," Norris says, pushing off the back wall. Every head turns to look at him. "I'm just saying their roster is not that deep."

"So, then, what's with the whole presentation?" Will wants to know. "If their team's average and all we need to talk about is the fact that their colors are ugly as hell and their mascot sounds dirty, then why are we here?"

"This is why," Pete says, clicking to the next slide and pointing to the two pictures on the screen. "Wags and Blue."

"They sound like dogs. Those are dog names. I still don't think this is real." Dean's eyes are darting around the room like he's looking for a hidden camera.

"Oh, it's fucking real. Wags is the biggest asshole I've ever met. I hate that fucking guy." Mickey's never quiet, but if you want to get that guy to talk all night, just drop Dutton Wagner's name.

Norris pipes up. "Bradford's worse—he barely scores, he just plays dirty. He's their biggest D-Man and he's a total dick."

Ollie grabs a chair and slides it over to where the new guys are sitting. He straddles it backwards and steeples his hands under his chin. "I know what you're thinking. You're about to call bullshit because the bushtit is not indigenous to PA. You're right, but these bastards don't care. The school's founder was the cousin of the man who discovered and named the bird. He relocated from Cali for his bride in 1851."

Dean stares at Ollie. "That's not what anyone was thinking."

Will's still laughing. "This is a joke, right?

"I wish," Ollie says, shaking his head.

Dean looks at the screen, then at each one of us. "Wait, are you for real? Are you hazing us? I don't think you're allowed to haze us."

"Trust me," I tell him. "We're not fucking with you. But Blue and Wags will be. And Bradford will be right behind them, dishing out hits that are borderline illegal."

"So we should fear the Bushtits?" Got it." Deano says, still a little unsure.

I shake my head. "We're the Bainbridge Wolves. We fear nothing."

Will's nodding. He gets it. "I don't think we fear the Bushtit. I think we own it. We need to own the Tits."

Will's words echo through the room and that's how we all end up chanting "Own the Tits!" at the top of our lungs.

Coach gives us the nod and we hop over the boards, taking the ice for another shift. Will's on fire tonight with two goals, and I've got one of my own. Booker's been feeding us gems and we've been cashing in. The home crowd is roaring, and the arena is filled with fans hungry for a win.

We're going to give it to them.

Booker gets the puck and powers down the ice, tipping it back to Will just after he crosses the centerline. Blue Halliday, Woodcock's biggest defenseman glides up like he's floating on air, and expertly nabs the puck—except it's not there. He's got nothing as I tear down the ice headed for the net. I can almost hear the big guy growl as he turns to chase me, but I've long since passed the puck. We're playing one hell of a long game of chicken out here and even though there's sweat dripping in my eyes, and I probably smell as bad as my teammates do, I could do this all damn night.

I feel alive. The ice is my domain. It's where I'm in control. There's no second-guessing, no self-doubt. It's not like a classroom where every answer in my head is the wrong one. The only test is endurance. I need to play harder and faster and smarter than the guys on the other team. That's all there is to it.

But damn, they're making us work for it tonight. Their best scorer, Dutton Wagner, has two goals on Norris and a guy named Knezic has the third. We're tied up with two minutes left, but my teammates are losing steam, and Blue's like a shark smelling blood in the water. My linemates and I are passing the puck with efficiency and speed, but he's right there at every turn. I send it over to Will so he can pop it in and get us one goal closer to ending this thing. The pass is smooth, and Will's got a perfect angle, but he hesitates for just a second, and that's all our opponent needs.

Blue swipes the puck and barrels down the ice. That guy's a beast, but he moves like a damn figure skater. We're all in pursuit, but not only does he have a head start, he's got his leading scorer just waiting to put that biscuit in the basket. Booker's caught up with Bradford, and Will's all up in his own head, I can feel it. Ollie and Santos are crowding their players, creating a diversion, but it won't work forever.

Norris is doing his best to fend them off, but Blue and Wagner are relentless. They resend every shot he blocks, pinging him from all sides. JT's been killing it tonight. He's not going down without a fight, and I'm not letting him take any more than he has to.

There's chaos in front of the net. They're crowding him, no doubt waiting to tip one of those beauties right back over the line. But the good thing about all the action in front is that they never see me coming. I manage to skate around the back of the net, putting myself in perfect position. Blue feeds Wagner the puck, and Norris blocks it easily. That's what they were going for. Just as Norris lifts his arm, Wagner stops the puck with his blade and leans back to send it right through.

The look on his face when the lamp doesn't light is probably priceless. I'll bet he's standing there, open-mouthed and fucking pissed. But I can't say for sure because as soon as my stick touches the puck, I start skating and I don't look back.

For a few glorious seconds, It's just me and the Woodcock goalie. He looks half-shocked to see me coming for him and I almost feel bad. Almost. I catch Booker on my left side and pass it to him only to get it back a second later. The game of chicken is officially back on, but we're not making the same mistake we did just a minute ago. I fake like I'm sending it over to Will, but at the last second, I shoot straight for the net and watch as the puck slides right under the goalie's leg.

I hear Santos howl our battle cry as the crowd counts down the seconds on the clock. We claim our win as the buzzer sounds.

"Meeting in two," Santos calls, his voice booming even in this crowded locker room. Half the guys are still in the shower, and I'm toweling off. It was a great game—a great win, and we're all feeling good. My mom's here with various aunts, uncles, and cousins, so I'll probably hang with them for a bit before heading back to the house. The guys will want to celebrate tonight, but we play Woodcock again tomorrow night, so I'm sure Santos is about to give us a lecture on beauty sleep.

We round up, half of us in towels and hair dripping wet. Coach stands before us and offers half a smile. "One down, one to go," he says before handing the meeting to the captains and heading into his office.

Booker's not one for the spotlight. He's a quiet, solid leader. He does his work out on the ice. But Santos? He's the heart of this team, and a hell of a hockey player. He won't go pro—that was never his plan. He's a big guy, but not big enough or fast enough for the next level, though he never lets that bother him. Most guys want to enter the draft or get looks from scouts, even if nothing ever comes of it. Not Pete. He's got his future all mapped out and instead of spending his senior year looking at scouting reports, he's spending it hyping the rest of us up.

His wolf whistle pierces the air and all eyes are on him, probably because he's standing on a bench, bare chested. Pete's hairy as hell. Half the time, it looks like he's wearing a damn blanket on his chest. His beard and long hair give him a sort of lumberjack look, if the lumberjack hasn't lived in polite society for six months or more. He looks half feral, especially now. We're all waiting for it. In three, two, one…he tips his head to the ceiling and lets out a primal howl.

We all join in, and I'm betting they can hear us in the parking lot.

"Let's get one thing fucking straight," he tells us. "They're good."

His statement is met with boos and cries of bullshit, but Pete's not having it.

"I said what I said. The Tits are good. Damn good. But we're better."

Cheers go up once more. We're only a few games into the season, but the energy's off the charts.

"You know what I realized tonight, boys?"

A voice calls out, "That Van's a fucking machine?" and we all laugh. I'm glad, though, that my guys know I'll never stop working for the win.

"Yeah, that. But also?—"

"That Norris is a goddamn octopus?" Ollie hollers. "Your shit was everywhere tonight, man. Every-fucking-where."

Norris is stoic. He nods in acknowledgment, but I know what he's thinking. He let three in. That's gonna eat him up tonight, even though it shouldn't. Any other goalie would have let thirteen in, not three. But Norris will stay long after the rest of us are gone. He and Coach will go over every shot and work to make it better. And the best thing about Norris? By tomorrow morning, he'll have let it all go and be ready to take them down again.

"Hell yes," Santos cries, agreeing with Ollie's assessment. "But also?—"

More cheers and praise go up, but Santos quiets us all with a look. "This is our year."

The locker room goes silent, which is almost unheard of. I'm not saying he's wrong, but it's a little early to start thinking in the long-term.

"You heard me. This is our year. Don't shy away from it. Don't doubt it. This is our year. Every one of us has a reason to play his heart out this year. Our captain's going to the big leagues, gentlemen, and he won't be going alone. Van, we're taking you and Book out on top this year. Franconetti, this is your year, freshman. You're going to the draft. Rosco," he calls and all eyes turn to last year's center. He took a puck to the hand seconds before the first game, so he's out for another month, at least. Poor guy looks wrecked. "Rosco," Santos continues, "this is our year. Started out shitty for you my friend, no doubt. But we're taking it back. You and me, we're about to enter the real world. I'll be getting a job and you'll be getting a law degree. Good thing, too. I'd bet money you'll be bailing Ollie's ass out of jail one day."

We all laugh at that, even Rosco.

‘This is our year, man. We're gonna show them how it's fucking done." My best friend's voice carries through the locker room as he basically takes us all to church. One by one, he tells each of us why we need to claim this season. He winds down with Mikalski, our over-excited, under-medicated defenseman. "Mickey, you hear me? This is our year."

"I hear you, Pete," Mikalski says, but the smile doesn't quite reach his eyes.

"Oh, hell no. You didn't just lie to me, did you, Mickey? You're not letting the asswipes from Woodcock University get in your head, are you?"

He is, though, and we all know it. Mikalski's got talent, he just doesn't always know how to harness it. It's like there's electricity pumping through the guy's body and it's enough to light up the stadium, but he can't find the damn plug. He was all over Wagner tonight, but it barely made a difference—the guy's just that good. Mikalski's focus doesn't quite last long enough to keep up with a player like Wagner.

"I fucking hate that guy," Mikalski says, and we all know who he's talking about.

"Who doesn't?" Ollie asks.

"His teammates," Norris answers. "But only for a couple hours every week when they're winning a game. Otherwise, that guy's a prick."

We nod in agreement. Dutton Wagner's pretty universally disliked throughout our conference. He's cocky as shit, which isn't rare in college sports, but word on the street is he's not much of a team player. The only guy who actually seems to like him is Blue Halliday. I think they grew up together, so maybe he's just used to Wagner, the way you get used to an annoying relative or a foot fungus.

"Fuck that guy," Santos says, still looking right at Mikalski. "You know why, right?"

"This is our year," Mickey says, and I can tell he's starting to believe it.

Santos, still naked but for the towel that barely covers him, looks around the room. "What's that? I can't hear you."

We shout back, loud enough so the ten people who stayed on Woodcock's campus tonight can hear us. ‘This is our year!"

My best friend nods at me before jumping to the ground. And all I can think is that he's right. We came so close last season, and we're not falling short again. This is our year, and that means I need to do whatever it takes to stay on the ice, to stay focused on the goal. And if that means sitting inches away from Josie four nights a week, and acting like it doesn't bother me at all? Then that's what I'm going to do.