Jake
The door to the locker room flies open, smacking against the breeze-block wall. The rest of the team shove their way to their lockers in high spirits. The tension is trip-wire taut, though, beneath the joshing. This is a big game for us—the opening one of the season, against the University of Michigan. I pull on my sweater and reach for my skates and helmet, ignoring the clang of lockers slamming shut and friendly insults being traded all around me.
“Hey, Jake. Who’re the girls? Did you bone them?”
I turn to Steve Tong, one of my teammates. He’s half-dressed and holding a magazine, which he now shoves in my face. “They’re hot, bro.”
The others crowd around and start making comments about the girl in the photograph with me.
“How much they pay you for this?” Tong asks, leering over the photo. “ ’Cause I would have done it for free.”
I don’t answer. I just pull on my skates. The truth is they paid me a lot. And I’m due to earn a lot more. After I was arrested for punching Rob, the offers flowed in faster than Usain Bolt, which is so messed up I can’t even get my head around it. My first impulse was to turn them all down, but then I thought about something Shay said. I can’t give the money to Em, but I can do some good with it. I’ve been donating every cent to medical research for MS.
The magazine rips in half as the guys fight over it, and Tong starts yelling, but then the door swings open and everyone falls silent. Sarge strides into the middle of the locker room. He’s got his Vietnam War look on his face, eyes lasering in on each of us in turn. Everyone gathers around him, ready for the prematch pep talk. He catches me still sitting on the bench and shoots me a death glare. I get up with a sigh and join them, but I barely hear his words.
It’s been two weeks since I saw Em, since I last talked to her, but I can’t stop thinking about her. I’ve thrown myself back into the game—putting in four, five hours straight at the gym after class, training on the ice until past midnight every night—but it’s not enough. I can’t get her out of my head.
I’ve stopped checking my phone for messages, stopped trying to call. Not even Shay has managed to speak to her or get her to answer an e-mail. Toby says she’s okay but won’t talk to him about anything. He did let me know that she’s found out about the rental unit. But still not a word. It’s driving me fucking crazy.
“McCallister?”
I startle. Sarge is looking at me, his mouth screwed up.
“Yeah?” I say.
“What’d I just say?”
I feel everyone’s eyes on me. “Um . . .”
“I said we all need to be focused!” he barks.
I nod.
“This is an important game. All eyes are on you. Especially on you, McCallister.”
I hold his gaze, hearing the snickers from my teammates. Does he think he’s telling me something I don’t know? All eyes have been on me since I got back; the media keep hounding me, and the college administration is watching my every move, scrutinizing my grade average and issuing me a warning that if one more toe steps out of line, I’m out. Sarge has been keeping me on the tightest leash imaginable—banning me from any parties or from leaving campus—which is fine because I’ve got zero interest in being social. The only thing keeping me sane is hockey. When I’m on the ice is the only time I can push away the thoughts of Em.
“Okay,” Sarge shouts. “Let’s win this game!”
Everyone roars their agreement. Except me. I’m channeling it all inward. Lockers slam shut. Everyone grabs their stick, their mouth guard, their helmet, and makes in a rush for the door. I can hear the screams of the crowd already assembled around the rink. I pick up my stick and go to follow the others.
“McCallister!” Sarge grabs my shoulder and stops me.
“Yeah?” I say, pulling out my mouth guard.
“Where’s your head at?”
“In the game,” I say, but even I hear the lack of conviction in my voice.
“Watch Koskela, okay?” Sarge grunts.
I nod. Koskela is a Finnish player who thinks the rules were made to be ignored—the player who once used his stick to block me and gave me the scar through my eyebrow.
“Don’t sink to his level, Jake.”
I nod again.
“I mean it. I see any sign of you losing it out there and I’m benching you.”
“I won’t.” I start to turn, but his hand is still on my shoulder, gripping me in place.
“Why do you think you made it to the top of the draft?” he asks.
I shrug and stare at the ground. He shakes my shoulder, forcing me to look up at him. “Because you’re a great player, Jake. When you rein in the impulsiveness. You don’t quit. You play smart. Most of the time. You take risks, but normally they’re calculated. And you give it your all.”
I nod.
“Are you going to give it your all out there tonight?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“Okay.” He slaps me on the back. “Get out there, then, and win this game.”