But, just as I’ve always suspected, Summer is all drama. Ten measly words could have cleared it up—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that, forgive me—if she’d let me speak. Instead, she’d stomped off like a five-year-old.
I grab a towel and hastily wrap it around my waist. Drama, I reiterate to myself. I’m not interested in drama. Never have been, never will be.
So why can’t I get her hurt expression out of my mind?
Briar’s top-notch hockey facility is the land of luxury. We’ve got state-of-the-art equipment, well-ventilated locker rooms, an awesome shower setup, a lounge, kitchen, physio rooms, whirlpool—name it, and we’ve got it. The viewing room is especially sweet. It resembles a small movie theater, only with three semicircular rows of tables and huge padded chairs. At the bottom of the gallery, the coaches have an A/V setup similar to that of sports announcers, with an input for laptops and a video screen they can write on. When they highlight plays or circle players, their scribbles show up on the big screen too.
I plop down in the chair next to our goalie, Patrick Corsen. “Hey.”
“Hey.” He’s staring at the screen, which is frozen on a shot of the Harvard arena. It looks like last week’s game, Harvard versus Boston College. BC got creamed that day.
Harvard is definitely the team to beat this year. In the past, they were an easy divisional opponent for us, because Briar’s always had the superior program. But this season they’re on fire, with more talent on the roster than ever before. After last year’s seniors graduated, the lowerclassmen who didn’t get a chance to shine were given more ice time, and every single one of them has stepped up. Harvard’s no longer relying solely on the skill of their team captain like they did last year. Jake Connelly is damn good, but he can’t carry an entire team.
“Connelly’s line is wicked fast,” Corsen says glumly.
“Our line is faster,” I assure him, referring to me, Hunter, and Nate.
“Fine. But their second and third lines are just as fast. Can you say the same about ours?” He lowers his voice. “Plus they’ve got a better D. Those two sophomores? Can’t remember their names, but they’re so good at keeping the puck out of their zone. Takes so much heat off Johansson.”
Johansson is Harvard’s goalie, and he’s phenomenal. Truthfully, Corsen’s right to worry.
“Kelvin and Brodowski aren’t that strong,” he mutters.
“No,” I agree. “But Matty is.” I nod toward Anderson, who’s texting on his phone.
Like the Harvard boys, Matt stepped up after Dean and Logan graduated. He’s now the leading scorer among the defensemen and one of our best penalty killers. He’s also the only black player on the team, which he’s damn proud of. He’s entering the draft this year and eager to make his mark in a pro league that’s predominantly white.
“True. Matty’s an asset,” Corsen relents, but he still sounds unhappy.
I get why he’s worried. He’s signed by LA and playing for them next season, so it’s always a concern if your draft team sees you shit the bed. A lot of the time that guarantees you a spot on the farm team, though sometimes that’s the better option, truth be told. That’s what Logan is doing right now, playing for the Providence Bruins and developing his skills. Not everyone is like Garrett Graham, a born superstar. And not every college player is instantly ready for the pros.
Coach marches into the room and claps his hands. “Let’s get started.” He doesn’t shout, just uses his speaking voice, but everyone snaps to attention as if he’d screamed like a drill sergeant. Jensen is the kind of man who just commands respect. He’s also a man of few words, but the words he does use wield a lot of power.
“Take a good look at this kid,” he orders. He presses play and the picture on the screen jumps to life.
A skater, jersey number 33, whizzes across the blue line. Coach pauses the frame, draws on his tablet, and a bright red circle appears on the player like a target.
“Junior, left wing,” he says briskly. “Brooks Weston.”
“The goon,” a sophomore pipes up.
“So?” Hollis cracks. “We’ve got our own goons. We can take him.”
“He’s more than an enforcer,” Coach Jensen tells us. “He’s a goddamn instigator and a scourge to this earth.”
We snicker.
“This little fucker has the superhuman ability to commit infraction after infraction without being called. And he’s very, very skilled at drawing penalties from other guys. His specialty is provoking fights. End result is him usually coming out smelling like roses, while the other guy draws a major or, worst case, an ejection.”
A mumble of general disapproval ripples through the room, even though I’m sure we’ve all been guilty at one point or another of trying to provoke opponents into committing an infraction. Some players do it habitually, though, using it as a strategy. Coach Jensen doesn’t believe in this strategy. If it were up to him, the NCAA would take a much stronger stance on penalty gameplay.