CHAPTER SEVEN

T wo days earlier

Noah

Twenty pairs of eyes lock on me as I slink my way into the locker room.

My head pounds, despite the water and electrolytes Finn made me drink yesterday, and my skin is bumpy and dull.

Even though I only threw up a couple of times last night, which is more than I ever did in my life before, and even though Finn told me that wasn't too bad, I knew from the wide-eyed glances and nose wrinkles when I emerged from the bathroom, that everyone heard what I was up to in there.

Does anything sound worse than the sound of someone throwing up? And I subjected Finn and all of Finn's friends to the sound. And I'm pretty sure Finn cleaned up my sickness too because I didn't make it the first time.

My stomach churns. Guilt ravages me.

I've never gotten hungover before. I didn't know it would feel like this. I wish I could huddle in the corner of the locker room, but of course that's impossible.

Today the locker room is full. I guess a lot of the guys opted for working out at home yesterday, since it was a rare nongame day and early enough in the season for the coach not to insist they all come in.

Now they're all here.

All staring at me, and I think whispering about me .

How quickly will I be sent back to Providence? How soon will it take my new coach to call Providence, and say, I need someone better?

Because these guys, in one of the top-ranking NHL teams in the country, got into the NHL straight away.

I'm here because someone was injured, and I haven't even stepped on the ice yet, and people are questioning me.

After some training, trying unsuccessfully to sweat out the alcohol, I put on my skates and wobble through the tunnel. It's time to practice on the ice with the others.

I feel dirty and ill at ease, and everyone avoids me.

Finn shoots me some worried glances, but he doesn't approach me. I don't blame him.

God, he set up a party for me. How could he have been any more welcoming? Then I occupied his time, chased away his chance at getting laid to the hottie he was interested in, and threw up all over his lavish bathroom. Worst guest ever.

My stomach still churns, and I don't think skating will be the calming action it demands.

I fling my gaze around the ice, despising all the bright lights. The sound of skates scraping on ice feels like skates scraping against my ears.

Coach joins us on the ice. "Everyone, let's welcome Noah Fitzpatrick. Some of you already met him."

Some snorts and stifled laughs sound, and Coach's eyes widen.

I stare at the painted lines beneath the ice and wish I could join them.

Evan, the captain, skates up to me. He holds out his hand and flashes the All-American smile I've seen grace hundreds of magazines and sports shows for the past decade. "Welcome to the Blizzards, Noah."

I take his hand. This is one of those moments I dreamed of all my life, but now that it's here, my fingers tremble, and my handshake is probably too limp or whatever it is that makes a handshake bad.

How long will it take Evan to learn what happened last night?

His gaze turns strange, and I realize I haven't answered him.

"Hi," I say finally, my voice rough from last night's unpleasant activities.

Evan gives a curt nod, then skates away. He speaks to Vinnie, a dark-haired defense guy. Vinnie always looked scary on TV, but he laughs and smiles with Evan.

But then I guess TV and dreams don't teach you everything.

We practice puck handling and positioning, but I don't even hit the puck every time, even though there's no rival team barreling toward us. This is supposed to be easy.

I spot Coach's disappointed look. He's whispering to the captain, Evan, and from their frequent glances at me, it's about me.

Evan is a real adult. He has a daughter and a townhouse in Boston. He would never be hungover on a game day. He probably never would be hungover at all.

We get off the ice at 10:00, and some players disappear to get massages. I stretch in a corner. More looks are directed at me. Yes, people are discussing me. And not in a good way .

All that time saying no to going out, all that time focusing on the game, will all of it end with me being sent home early? Tonight needs to go perfect.

If Boston decides they don't like me, I won't get this chance again.

Maybe if I'd partied with my roommates, I would have developed some tolerance to alcohol.

I catch a glimpse of Finn in the mirror, his eyes rounded, and bile rises up my throat all over again. I strangle it down.

I am fine.

I grit my teeth and glare at the room. I've waited my whole life for this chance, and no headache, no nausea will stop it.

FINN

Noah looks miserable and furious and awful, and no one goes near him. I sure as hell don't. I invited him to that party. I hosted that party. And I served him that drink.

Guilt beats against me.

This is my fault. Noah's first day playing for the NHL, and I got him drunk the night before.

I haven't been hungover, truly hungover, since I was a teenager, back when drinking was illegal and hasty, and I was getting to know the effects of shots and figuring out pacing, but I remember the pain. Pain that so doesn't fit with a major athletic event that will be watched by tens of thousands of people live and watched by hundreds of thousands.

Tension bubbles in the air, like carbon monoxide buzzing around us.

Our line hasn't meshed in practice. The clank of weights sounds like a broken clock barreling unevenly, and Axel's smiles grow further apart as the game time grows closer. Even he's getting nervous, and he's never nervous.

Troy joins me on the treadmills. His biceps bulge after his weight training, and he wipes sweat from his brow with his tank. "New guy looks terrible."

"No, he doesn't."

Troy arches an eyebrow.

"I think I made that cocktail wrong," I admit.

"What did you make him?"

"Tequila sunrise."

"Well, that's just tequila, orange juice and grenadine syrup."

"Orange tequila."

He turns to me. "You made it with tequila, orange tequila, and grenadine syrup?"

"Uh...huh."

Troy snorts. "Bad idea, dude."

"It's supposed to be a favorite drink of babes."

"Then why were you giving it to him?"

"As practice!"

"Madison was right there. Madison would have known you'd massacred that. Dude, that's a drink you give to people you want to get drunk."

"Why would I want someone to get drunk?"

"You shouldn't want anyone to get drunk, obviously. But back in the last century, that was a thing."

"And tequila sunrise gets people drunk?"

"Well, if you make it the way you do! Dude, orange flavored tequila is not the same as orange juice."

"He was sick twice."

"I know. Everyone knows. "

My stomach twists. "I'm the worst host ever."

"If he couldn't handle it, he shouldn't have drunk it. End of the day, it's not your fault."

I nod, but Troy's words don't feel right in my head.

Finally, it's time for the game. We rush from the tunnel, and the crowd applauds and cheers. I tell myself this is like any other game, but unease floods my nerves. I look for Noah, but too many people are between us.

My focus soon shifts. The game against Buffalo should have been easy. The bright lights showcase our every imperfection, and I hate their glare.

I miss Isaiah and struggle to find Axel on the ice. Guess it's a matter of time, but I hate that we have to find our groove during the season.

I'm exhausted and upset when I sit. Sweat cools against my skin as I watch while the third line takes the ice for the first time. I glance at Noah, eager to see him play.

His movements are slow, even slow for the third line, where there's less pressure to be fast. My stomach knots.

The puck barrels toward him, and I lean forward.

"Go, Noah," I murmur.

The puck continues straight toward him. He moves his hockey stick...

And somehow, he trips as he aims for the puck, knocking him off balance. His hockey stick slides from his hand, then glides over the ice, until it smashes into a Buffalo player.

"Jeez," Axel says. "That's bad."

The Buffalo player collapses on the ground, back first.

The crowd is silent, shocked, then Buffalo fans holler their disapproval.

"He's going to have a big bruise," Axel says.

"Yeah," I say, my heart thudding.

Noah struggles up. It shouldn't take him that long. I lean forward, not wanting to miss anything, and my heavy pads shift and press against me.

"Dude, I've seen people in junior high skate better," Axel says.

"You think people in junior high fall on the ice?" Troy asks. "When they're not colliding with other players? You're supposed to be able to avoid a puck without falling."

We go still. The audience murmurs, as shocked as we are.

Cameras are recording this moment. This will be talked about. People are screaming at their TVs and googling Noah and wondering how he got called up.

"Ten seconds and he fell," Troy observes.

"And caused another player to fall," Axel adds.

It's no surprise when Coach calls Noah off the ice.

He doesn't rejoin.

He doesn't make eye contact.

But then, he just made the worst entrance to the NHL in NHL history.

My heart thuds with more force than before, and I tighten my grip around my stick. What have I done?