Our first game of the season was on a Thursday. It was a home game against what was supposed to be our rival, the Colorado State Slammers. Although, as of right now, the rivalry was pretty one-sided since the Slammers didn’t consider us a threat at all. They’d told us so. Several times. Both on social media and in person. The sparse crowd that had shown up to watch the game reflected this too, seeing as it was mostly Colorado students who had come to watch their team rack up an easy win.

Still, despite all of this, I felt calmer than I had since arriving at Coronado. Awkward crushes, terrible roommates, and being solely in charge of my own well-being? Those were all new and slightly scary sensations, but getting out on the ice in front of a crowd that was about to learn my name and never forget it? I had been doing that my entire life. These were the moments for which I lived. 

I kept it nice and easy during warmups, even going as far as to miss a few shots on purpose. The Slammers’ coach surely would have warned his players about me and I wanted to lull them into a false sense of security. Coach Hawthorne didn’t say anything about it as I returned to the bench, but I thought I caught the tiniest hint of a smile behind the man’s iron gaze.

Then the real festivities began. We were all called out onto the ice by an unlucky broadcasting student who had gotten stuck with the job. She had a pleasant cadence, but a slightly bored tone. Each name was punctuated by flashing red lights and a hissing sound effect. I, as the youngest, was called last, to meager applause. The announcer quickly did the same for the other team and then announced a girl named Pamela Watterson to sing the national anthem. A rickety spotlight jerked over to Pamela in the stands as she stood, blew into her pitch pipe and delivered the first note. Both her voice and the mic in her hands were shaking the entire time.

After the anthem, a young man I did not recognize came out to drop the puck. Sal and the Slammers’ captain, a burly dude named Andre Likovich, faced off. Likovich ended up with possession.

Then it was time to get down to business. I took my first shift alongside Sal and Shawser. Fish and Mills were our defensemen, and although I wasn’t too confident in their passing abilities, the two of them were best friends off the ice; I’m talking practically inseparable. If nothing else, familiarity alone ought to have made them a somewhat decent defensive pair. Besides, chances were with my speed and Sal’s accuracy, we wouldn’t need too much defending anyway. All we had to do was get a hold of the puck and go to town.

My first opportunity came about thirty seconds into the game when a Slammers’ forward made an errant pass up the ice, intended for one of his teammates who was already heading in for a change. Rather than playing the puck and risking a penalty for too many men on the ice, the receiver hopped up onto the bench wall and let it bounce off of the boards and into Vipers territory.

The ref nearest to me had his whistle in his mouth, ready to make an icing call against the Slammers, but before he could, I booked it up ice to intercept the puck before it made it past our goal line. There were gasps and shouts coming from both on and off the ice as I turned on a dime and came hurtling back in the opposite direction, completely unopposed. I drew closer to the Slammers’ net and I could see the whites of the goaltender’s eyes and the sweat that was pooling on his forehead. My brain instinctively shouted for me to shoot the puck, but I shrewdly shut that voice out. That’s what everyone was expecting me to do. The Slammers’ goalie was tensed and all squared up. He was prepared for me. He knew I was coming and he’d probably read my stats and watched videos of my shot dozens of times. I couldn’t just start shooting and hoping for the best. I needed to rattle him and shake his confidence, show him that despite all of his preparations, I was still one step ahead.

I kept going and made for the right side of the net as if I was going to try and sneak one by. Then, I played the puck as hard as I could off the boards where it came ricocheting back and landed on the blade of Sal’s stick just as I hoped it would. Sal didn’t hesitate or think. He just took advantage of everyone else’s momentary surprise and backhanded it into the net. One timer. The goal lit up red and the buzzer sounded. The student broadcaster’s voice, sounding much more enthusiastic now, blasted through the speakers.

“Vipers goal! Coming at one minute and forty-five seconds in the first period, the goal is credited to Captain Salvador Hernandez with an assist by rookie Carter Haynes. This is Salvador’s forty-ninth career goal with the Vipers and Carter’s first ever assist!”

Sal met my eyes from across the ice. He was smiling ear to ear. His happiness was infectious and soon enough I found myself joining in on his celebration by lifting my stick slightly in the air. The rest of the guys on the ice joined us and gave us both pats on the back before we all collectively skated past our bench to give everyone fist bumps. Coach Hawthorne gave me a little nod as I passed by and for some reason his approval sent a spark of satisfaction down my spine. I was one step closer to proving that his investment in me was worth it.

Fish and Mills stayed on the ice after that, but Sal, Shawser and me were replaced by the less effective second line featuring Vincent “Vinny” Rivera, Gilbert “Farmer” MacDonald, and Daniel “Stole” Stohler. Stole and Vinny were decent passers, but they never seemed able to convert this skill into scoring chances. Vinny’s problem was that he rarely ever took anything seriously. He also had a bad habit of never owning up to any of his mistakes and shrugging them off as jokes. Stole, he was the tragic Lothario I’d overheard bragging about his conquests on my first day of practice. His shot was powerful whenever he was directly in front of the net, but it seemed as though he never made it there due to his constant need to pull flashy tricks and show off. With a little help from his wingers, Farmer might have been able to make headway, but as it was, his big body and powerful limbs were often wasted on backchecking. 

Watching them was like watching an uneven game of tug-o-war. Every time we made the slightest bit of forward progress, the Slammers took the puck and pulled us right back into the defensive zone. Finally, after all five players were entirely out of gas, Fish was able to dump in the puck, and Farmer held it behind Monster’s net so we could get a line change. This line didn’t have much more luck. They were too inexperienced and not yet used to the pace of Division 1 games. They kept getting in each other’s way and fanning on the puck. It made for a rather short and frustrating shift.

I was expecting Hawthorne to put out the fourth line after that, just to make sure everyone had some ice time, but he put my line back out instead. This time, every Slammer was watching me like a hawk. I probably wouldn’t be able to get away with anything sneaky like I had before. Now it was time to let loose with the power I had been saving in my back pocket. These Colorado boys weren’t gonna know what hit them.

The first shot I made on goal was blocked away, but Shawser was able to keep possession on the rebound and quickly passed to Sal, who took another shot, this one going wide and ending up behind the net. I had anticipated this though, and I was already there to intercept it. There was shouting on my right coming from the Slammer’s D-man as he realized what I was about to do, but it was too late. I was already trying the wrap-around on the frazzled opposing goaltender who didn’t see me until the puck was already in the net.

The buzzer sounded. My name and stats were called. Sal and Shawser wrapped me up in a group hug and our current defensive pairing of Matty and Spence soon joined in. Several of the Slammers’ fans in the audience were booing. Their coach was screaming his head off over on their bench. The Coronado State Vipers, the underdogs to end all underdogs, were up two-nil in the first ten minutes of their first ever Division 1 hockey game. This was the kind of feat documentaries were made from.

And it wasn’t over yet. Four minutes later, I scored again. It was getting easier and easier to find the cracks in the Slammers’ foundation now that they were good and angry. They ended up pulling the goaltender and replacing him with another guy who looked almost identical in build but with slightly darker skin. His lips were tightly set into a frown. I smiled at him from across the ice. I was more than happy to give him a piece of me too.

The period finished without further incident. As frustrated as the opposing team was, I was surprised they hadn’t taken any penalties, but the game was still young. The Vipers’ changing room was buzzing with excitement.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Hawthorne said almost as soon as he entered the room with McAvoy trailing after him. “There’s still plenty of time to lose. Besides,” he said with a pointed look at Vinny and Stole. “It’s only by sheer luck that the score on the board doesn’t reflect most of you guys and your lackluster performance.”

He then went through all of us individually, giving advice and calling attention to many of the same problems I had been noticing. There was a slight hesitation when he got to me. Everyone was waiting with bated breath to see what he’d say about my near perfect game so far.

“I’m moving you to the third line for this period.”

I narrowed my eyes at him. The room filled with quiet gasps and murmuring. Even McAvoy was looking at him like he was crazy.

“May I ask why?”

I wasn’t mad, just genuinely curious. I knew that every line was important, but this seemed like a choice that would come on the coattails of a terrible performance, not a great one. The coach stared me down. If he was mad at me for challenging his authority, he didn’t let on.

“Hernandez and Shaw can hold the first line without you. Those guys are in the other room getting reamed by their coach right now. They’re pissed. They thought this game was going to be a piece of cake and now they’re down by three. They’re going to come out swinging in the next period. They’ll be looking for any sign of weakness. Hopefully switching up the lines will distract them a bit and maybe even give some of you the incentive for pulling your weight.”

Sal gave a snicker, but quickly covered it with a cough when Hawthorne turned to look at him. The rest of the guys had their heads down in shame. I hoped that remark was going to inspire them to do better, but I suspected it might do the opposite and cause them to lose what little confidence they already had. Nevertheless, it needed to be said.

We spent the rest of the break going over our new lines and the most effective ways to keep ahead of the Slammers’ defense. After a quick equipment check by McAvoy, we were ready to get back on the ice.

It was a rough first couple of shifts. I was playing alongside two guys called Recker and Bad Brad, the latter who was indeed, very bad. Neither of them could stop bobbling the puck to save their lives and their movements were clunky and uncoordinated. I could see that they were doing their best, but any time they tried anything fancy they ended up stumbling or getting checked so hard they were down for several minutes. Being on a line with them felt like trying to score goals with a bag stuck over my head.

None of the other lines seemed to be faring much better. Halfway through the period we were still struggling to hang on. Monster had blocked a total of fourteen shots in only ten minutes, but he was getting tired. He was going to crack if we didn’t provide him some relief soon.

Sal and Shawser were out on the ice with Holden, whom everyone called Phony, presumably after Holden Caulfield, though it could’ve just been because of his inability to play decent hockey in the slightest. I mean, I felt bad thinking it, but the guy was seriously struggling out there. He looked like a gazelle strapped with ice skates. I was constantly worried he was going to fall and hurt himself. Seeing my usual line mates working around his incompetence made me itch to get out there and fix things.

Finally, all of our messy playing caught up with us and Shawser got stuck with a tripping minor right in front of the net. It was a smart penalty to take, certainly better than just letting the other team score, but we weren’t exactly well equipped to go on the penalty kill right now.

Nevertheless, Hawthorne put me out with our three best defensemen to try and kill it off. We spent some time in the defensive zone with the puck bouncing around between all five Slammers players. Then, about twenty seconds in, Mills was able to strip one of them of the puck and send it up ice where the goaltender held it. I wasn’t tired yet, but I rushed to the bench with everyone else out of courtesy. I almost immediately wished that I hadn’t.

Before I even had time to sit down and focus back in on the game, the back of Monster’s net was lighting up. I watched with clenched fists as the Slammers celebrated and the crowd cheered. Monster lifted his mask and took a long angry swig of his sports drink and squared back up. We made it through the last five minutes of the period by the skin of our teeth.

In the locker room all of the guys had their heads down. We were still winning, but that rough period had sobered everyone up. I couldn’t remember the last time I was this exhausted halfway through a game. It was frustrating having to work so hard for what felt like so little gain.

Sal did not wait for McAvoy or Hawthorne to come in and talk to us. He gave us a moment to get settled and then he stood at the center of the room and met each of our eyes.

“You know why that period was so hard?” he asked softly.

Nobody answered. I wasn’t sure where he was going with this myself.

“Because we’re all so focused on fighting our own battles instead of working as a team. It’s okay to be selfish, especially if you’re in front of the net, but for God's sake. Talk to each other.” At this he gave a pointed look at me. Then his eyes softened and he looked away. “We all have something to offer here. We’re all on this team for a reason. Do me a favor and stow the egos long enough to take and give some advice.”

I frowned and wiped the sweat off of my forehead. It was true that I had been silently judging everyone’s performance throughout the night, but it wasn’t my job to nitpick and bring up all the flaws in everyone’s game. I wasn’t their coach. I wasn’t even planning on being their teammate for very long. Besides, a lot of the guys already hated me. I didn’t want to overstep my grounds and give them even more of a reason to.

But how are you ever going to get drafted if you’re playing on a losing team? I asked myself. The answer was simple. I wasn’t.

I took a deep breath and looked around the room. Sal was right. No matter how good or bad they were, these guys were here because they loved hockey. Not only that, but they loved hockey in a place where it was not cool to do so. Everyone in this room wanted to play, and I could only imagine that they wanted to play as well as they possibly could. I had more experience than all of them, and nearly as much as our coach. Why shouldn’t I try and help? If they wanted to hate me for it, well that was their problem, not mine.

I decided to start with something small.

“Tyrone,” I said, nodding my head at the defenseman everyone called Sandman for reasons I had not yet surmised. The man looked up at me with surprise. He was the only other black guy on the team, but we had hardly spoken. I had a feeling he was intimidated by me. Nevertheless, he came over when I called.

“Sup, Undies?” he asked.

“Has Coach ever told you you’ve got a problem with puck watching?” I asked quietly. I tried to sound as kind and sympathetic as I could.

I was expecting him to stiffen and glare at me, but he only shrugged and nodded.

“Yeah,” he admitted. “We worked on it a lot last year, but it’s just a hard habit to break. I’m so concerned about keeping it out that I’m afraid to look away and when I’m staring at my guy’s face I just feel weird. I start thinking about how strange their nose is or how they got the scar on their forehead and then suddenly they’re barreling past me on the way to the goal and I have to chase them down.”

I nodded.

“Yeah. It’s pretty common I think. There were lots of people in juniors who did the same thing. My coach was always yelling about staying on their guys, but he never told them where to look. My friend Trevor always said that it helped him to imagine an X right between the forwards’ shoulders and focus in on that. Maybe it’ll work for you too.”

I shrugged, feeling uncomfortable at my suggestion.

Sandman smiled. “Thanks, man. I’ll give it a shot.” Then he turned and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey, the pro’s over here giving free pointers if you want them.”

My face felt hot with embarrassment, but to my genuine shock and amazement, people started coming over and asking me for tips. I gave them out like giant dollar store bags of candy on Halloween, and unlike when one of the coaches said it, they seemed to actually be taking in the information. Coach Hawthorne was suspiciously absent throughout this encounter, leading me to believe he and Sal had colluded in an attempt to make this happen. I shot the captain a look. He was leaning back against his cubby with his head rested on his hands. He gave me a thumbs up. The bastard was an even more brilliant captain than I had realized.

Not everybody asked for my help, but I was able to impart my wisdom to a good two-thirds of the guys before McAvoy came in to tell us we had five more minutes of intermission. The air in the changing room had done a complete one-eighty. Where before we were frustrated and tired, now we were practically buzzing with excitement. We were going to win this game. Guaranteed.

Most of the third period was pretty quiet. Nobody scored until about twelve minutes in when a real scrawny forward snuck past Matty and Spence and tapped one in on a breakaway. I could feel everyone on the bench tensing up with the knowledge that the score was now only three to two. There was still plenty of time for the Slammers to score again, and our record in overtime was absolutely abysmal.

I tapped my fingers on the edge of my stick and fought to meet Hawthorne’s eye. Once I had his attention I nodded my head at the ice, asking permission to go on. He shrugged and when Vinny came up for a change I went in to replace him. This time, I held nothing back. I raced the puck up ice and engaged in a battle against the boards. I turned my whole body in a way that made it impossible for my opponent to get the puck and came away with it. I took it all the way to the net and went five-hole. A smile tugged at the corner of my lips, but I pressed it down as I skated back to the bench. My teammates were staring at me with their mouths open. To them it probably seemed like I’d just willed the goal into existence. And heck, maybe I had. Finally, McAvoy broke the silence.

“Hot damn, son! Get you a hat trick!”

I didn’t get me a hat trick, but Sandman did get an empty netter in the last thirty seconds of the game.

The final score was five to two and the Coronado State Vipers were sure to be the talk of the division that weekend. Looking at my teammates’ smiling faces as we changed out, loosened something in me. I felt like I was a part of something big. Something that mattered. Not just a generic cog inside of a winning machine.

I hadn’t been this truly and organically happy in a really long time.