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  To everyone who’s had to tuck away a bit of themselves every time they laced up their skates

  CONTENT WARNINGS:

  Depictions of depression, anxiety, and dissociation

  Mild suicidal ideation

  Underage alcohol abuse

  Brief marijuana use

  Sports violence

  ONE

  AUGUST

  So, being both depressed and anxious at the same time is absolutely wild.

  I have zero desire or motivation to play hockey or do anything other than acquaint myself with my new mattress, but I also have this all-consuming need to be on the ice. To prove myself worthy of my own name.

  At least I have Delilah here to make the whole situation tolerable.

  I sit on top of the boards at home bench, taping the blade of my stick and listening to the scrape of ice as my sister teaches her new girlfriend, Jade, how to skate. Don’t ask me how Delilah ended up with a non-athlete. Her life is even more hockey-centric than mine, and in the few hours I’ve known Jade, she’s made it perfectly clear that she knows next to nothing about the sport.

  Still, the way Delilah smiles, holding Jade’s hands and skating backward as she guides her across the ice, it’s almost enough to make me smile, too.

  I try. Force a little uptick at the corners of my mouth. But with banners bearing my name hanging from the rafters, I feel like I’m suffocating under them.

  Well, not exactly my name. I’m Mickey James III. Hanging from the rafters are two banners that say James and James II above the now-retired numbers 7 and 13. Waiting for my James III and 17 to join them and complete the trio.

  At least until I produce Mickey James IV, and IV spawns Mickey James V, and so on until there are no numbers left for anyone else and Hartland University is forced to shut down the men’s hockey program.

  “Don’t let go!” Jade says with the barest hint of a Southern accent, followed by shrieks of laughter as they both tumble to the ice. Thank god Delilah’s wearing shorts under her dress, or I would’ve had to gouge my own eyes out.

  I tear the tape off and set the roll next to me on the boards, trading it for my phone and resting my stick across my lap. Obligation forced me up the hill to the arena and into my skates, but apathy overpowers my will to step onto the ice.

  There’s a couple messages from my best friend, Nova, waiting for me when I unlock my phone.

  Nova: Hey babe

  How’s day one going

  I look out the floor-to-ceiling windows behind the away goal, the gap in the seats offering a view of Cayuga Lake down the hill, sunlight glinting off it like glass. Hartland’s old stone-and-brick buildings peeking through masses of trees.

  If I were anyone else, I might be thrilled to be here right now. On this gorgeous campus, days before the start of my freshman year of college. My entire future laid out at my feet.

  But because I’m me, all I can think to say is:

  Mickey: Kill me now.

  I will pay to fly you from paris or wherever tf you are just so you can kill me

  Nova: Sorry your majesty

  You’re not that lucky

  I narrow my eyes at the your majesty. That’s a new one. Never should’ve joined a team called the Royals.

  I glance up in time to see Delilah haul Jade to her feet. She brushes snow off her leggings, and I notice paint stains on her hands, vibrant blues and reds on her dark skin. That’s right. Delilah mentioned she was an artist. Delilah, my total jock of a sister, dating an artist who didn’t even know what a celly was until Delilah demonstrated her go-to goal celebration (the dice roll, because she is that kind of hockey jock) ten minutes ago.

  It’s a side of her I never thought I’d see.

  “Think you’re ready for some two-on-one?” I call out, my voice rough with disuse.

  Jade startles like she forgot I was here, which I can’t blame her for, but her shock melts into an easy grin as she holds Delilah’s arm for support and stretches her back. “Sure! I’ll just … sit in the net or something. Because I can’t even stand on ice, apparently.”

  “Once you get over the fear of falling, you’ll pick it up in no time,” Delilah says. She guides Jade back to the bench for a break and leans against the boards next to me.

  “I’m more interested in watching the two of you,” Jade says from behind me on the bench. “I want to see real hockey players in action.”

  Delilah looks at me, the bangs of her excessively long bubblegum-pink hair hanging in her face. I watch her gaze linger on the dark circles under my eyes, her lips pressing together in a thin line. She probably thinks I’ll collapse as soon as my skates touch the ice, but really, this is just how I look all the time now.

  Ever since the NHL Entry Draft ended in June and the focus shifted over to next year’s prospects. Over to me and Jaysen Caulfield, everyone’s projected top two. With my anxiety at its peak, sleep’s been pretty hard to come by.

  But I don’t like the concerned look she’s giving me. I slide off the boards and out to center ice just to get away from it.

  The smell of a hockey rink is pretty much universal. I close my eyes and breathe in the cold, clean, hockey-scented air, and I could be at any arena in the world. KeyBank Center, where I was pretty much raised back in Buffalo. USA Hockey Arena in Michigan, my home for the past two years.

  Hartland’s Giancarlo Alumni Arena is probably twice the size of USA Hockey Arena, with alternating sections of black and purple seats in two levels and an honest-to-god overhead jumbotron with four screens for replays and live gameplay. I’ve played in NHL arenas before, but only for special games. This’ll be my first season having a home rink as nice as this.

  Everything’s okay. Everything is going according to plan. I have no reason for sleepless nights, no reason to be so damn miserable all the time.

  As soon as the thought crosses my mind, laughter echoes from down the tunnel to the locker room. Like a challenge I have to brace myself for.

  My new captains step out of the tunnel first. Seniors named Luca Cicero and Maverick Kovachis, known as Zero and Kovy according to the team group chat I got put in against my will over the summer. I half expect the entire rest of the team to come barreling out behind them, but only one other follows.

  The world narrows to a pinpoint as he steps into view, and for the first time in my life, I truly understand how it feels to be stuck between fight or flight.

  Jaysen. Caulfield.

  I must have committed some heinous crime in a past life to be punished like this. Stuck on a team with my greatest rival. The biggest threat to my number one draft spot. My primary source of heart-wrenching anxiety.

  The captains stop at the bench to talk to Delilah and Jade for a minute, giving them hugs and asking about their summers. Jaysen steps past them, looking around the arena, taking it in with pure, wide-eyed awe on his face.

  When his eyes lock on me at center ice, the soft curve of his smile
sharpens into something wolfish.

  I’ve never worried much for my draft spot. I figured as long as I kept playing my game, I’d be safe. But in this moment, with Jaysen looking at me like he’s ready to devour my every hope and dream, I start to sweat.

  This is going to be a long year.

  * * *

  LAST TIME I shared ice with Jaysen Caulfield, the National Team Development Program and I routed his Green Bay Gamblers 6–1. I put up a hat trick and he scored the only Gamblers goal. He must still be holding a grudge because he won’t get off my ass now.

  I pick up a loose puck at the benches, and he’s in my space a split second later. I turn to put my body between him and the puck, and he pushes a fist into my back, reaching for the poke check. I turn again, pulling the puck along the boards back in the direction I came from. He recovers pretty quick, but my speed is one of my greatest assets. I make the pass to Delilah at the blue line, and Jaysen shoves me before taking off to backcheck.

  The next time, he doesn’t bother with the puck and just slams me into the boards. The glass rattles, and I hear Jade’s gasp from the bench. I bite down on my mouth guard and trap the puck against the boards with my skate to keep it out of his reach. But I mean, he’s more interested in being an asshole than playing hockey at this point anyway.

  “When’s the last time you smiled?” he says. I shove my hip into him and get enough space to kick the puck out to Zero.

  Jaysen doesn’t let up, chirping me whenever he’s in earshot and throwing his body into me every chance he gets. Delilah bumps my shoulder as I catch my breath after one particularly rough hit.

  “I think someone’s a little afraid of you,” she says with a wink.

  I roll my eyes, but she has a point. He wouldn’t be homed in on me like this if he wasn’t thinking about our draft projections. So I put up with his antagonism, even when he makes a jab at my size and says, “You gotta buy kid skates or what?”

  That one almost gets me. It’s not like I’m that short. Perfectly average, actually.

  Okay, maybe a few inches below average. For a non-athlete. Most hockey players have something like eight inches on me. But Jaysen only has six, so it’s not like he’s the tallest guy on the ice, either.

  He gets around me and puts the puck top shelf, right through one of the holes in the corner of the shooting target, and when he looks at me, his smile is small and cocky, his stick resting across his hips as he glides on one foot back to the rest of us. Delilah’s on the bench with Jade now, explaining the game to her as it plays out in front of them.

  Might as well give her a lesson in chirping.

  “Who taught you how to tape a twig?” I ask. Jaysen’s got a single strip of black tape along the bottom edge of the blade and white tape from middle to toe. It’s the most atrocious tape job I’ve ever seen.

  He plants the butt of his stick on the ice and practically cradles the blade, drawing a finger along the black strip. “This gives me enough grip to catch a pass while also being thin enough to give me a better feel for the puck.” He jabs at the white tip. “This grips the puck right before it comes off the shot and gives it a wicked spin.”

  I raise an eyebrow at him. “Makes you look like a duster.”

  The corner of his mouth twitches and my heart stutters like I’m in danger. “Makes me play like a first overall draft pick.”

  I let out this quiet little chuckle and shake my head, looking away from him. He’s absolutely delusional.

  “So that’s what gets a reaction out of you, huh, Your Grace?” Jaysen tilts his chin up, sliding closer. “A challenge to your birthright?”

  My eyes narrow at the title. First Nova, now him? Does he not realize he’s a Royal now, too?

  “Trust me,” I drawl. “You’re no challenge.”

  He gets in my space, towering over me so I have to look up at him. He’s taken his piercings out for hockey, but I’ve seen enough pictures of him off the ice to know exactly where they’d go. Black hoops in his nose and lip. The silver chain of a necklace glitters against his dark brown skin, and even though he’s sneering at me, he’s got dimples that make me want to punch myself in the face.

  I refuse to give him ground, even with my heart racing and palms sweating in my gloves.

  Before he gets a word out, Zero skates up and says, “This is hockey time, boys. You can make out later.”

  Jaysen backs away from me so quickly, there’s no way he sees how my cheeks flush.

  He gets even more aggressive with his checks after that, and I’m just glad we all decided to gear up for this. It takes all my power to keep my expression neutral. I’m doing a pretty good job of it, until Jaysen clips me on the shoulder after a goal and almost sends me sprawling. I barely keep my feet under me and that’s about as much as I can take.

  “What’s your deal?” I ask. I manage to keep my voice just as dead as he expects it to be, but I twist my grip on my stick, heart pounding. “Mad you’re not the best player on your team anymore?”

  Jaysen tilts his head to the side, putting all his weight on one foot and casually slouching his shoulders. “Nah. Just thinking about how much you don’t deserve to be here.”

  I pull my head back, screwing my face up in confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean there’s hundreds of other guys that’ll never get to be here because you’re taking up their space, with a scholarship you don’t need, exposure you don’t need. You have no reason to be here.”

  I scoff. Okay, buddy. I am officially done with this. I turn to head off the ice, but Jaysen hooks gloved fingers under my practice jersey and tugs me back to him. It feels like I’m about to combust. I grip my stick so hard my knuckles ache.

  “I worked for this, too,” I snap.

  He laughs, but it’s this bitter, angry sound. I’ve never dropped the gloves for a fight before, but man, I am so beyond tempted right now.

  “Yeah,” he snaps back. “You had to work real hard with a name like that.”

  I shove him. A full-on crosscheck to the chest with all my weight behind it. He barely budges. He pushes his fingers through the cage of my helmet and yanks my head toward him. I keep my stick across his chest, but he pulls me close enough that I can smell his sweat, see it on his face. He’s scowling at me, but it’s not all that intimidating with the wedge of red plastic in his mouth.

  The sound of skates on ice cuts through the adrenaline pulsing in my head as Zero and Kovy pull up next to us. Jaysen and I keep our eyes on each other when they get their arms between us and push us apart. Jaysen doesn’t let go of my cage until he absolutely has to, almost pulling my helmet clear off my head.

  “You superstars need some privacy?” Zero asks. “’Cause it looks like some kinky-ass shit is about to go down here.”

  “Or some serious maiming,” Kovy adds.

  Zero looks at him and tilts his head, shrugging one shoulder. “They’re interchangeable for some people.” He turns back to us and shakes his head like he’s gotta reactivate his captaincy. He holds an authoritative hand out in front of him. “The point is. You two need to drop this ego garbage. Your draft projections mean nothing on this ice, in these jerseys. Capite?”

  Jaysen rolls his shoulders back, standing at his full height so he’s looking down his nose at me. “Just getting to know each other.”

  “Save the getting to know each other for when you’ve got a few drinks in you.” Zero heads back toward center ice and motions for us to follow with another head tilt. I don’t move until Jaysen does, skating past me with one final knock of his arm into mine.

  I roll my eyes and follow them, watching Jaysen in front of me the whole way. Even after all that, he skates with this kind of grace that could almost rival Mom and my sister Nicolette, and they’re both goddamn Olympic figure skaters with about a dozen medals between them.

  Jaysen belongs on the ice. He loves hockey. It’s obvious in the way he tilts his head back and takes in a long, deep drag of cold air,
shoulders relaxing like his frustration with me can be cleansed by the smell of the rink alone.

  He wasn’t bred to play hockey. He chose it. Absorbed it into his skin, his blood, his bones by his own volition. There’s plenty of others out there just like him who could easily be here on this ice if it weren’t for me.

  Jaysen’s right about that, I guess.

  Maybe if he wasn’t such a raging asshole, I might even tell him that.

  TWO

  I’m on my phone in the shower on the first day of classes when I stumble upon a picture Jaysen tweeted last night. And by stumble upon I definitely don’t mean that I specifically went onto his feed to see if he’s talking about the draft. It’s a selfie with him, Dorian Hidalgo, and David Barboza sitting together on a couch I don’t recognize, captioned my two favorite blueliners xoxo.

  It’s weird seeing the three of them smiling together when all of us spent the last two years battling it out on the ice in juniors. Dorian and Barbie at least have their lifelong friendship to fall back on. They were both born in Mexico and raised in Wisconsin and chose to come to the same college after their time apart in the USHL. If freshmen had a choice in roommates, they’d definitely be dorming together.

  Instead, it’s me and Dorian. Not that I’ve seen much of him this past week. Pretty sure he’s only been in our room to move in and change clothes, spending all his time with Jaysen and Barbie at orientation events.

  I swear I’m not jealous. I’ve been actively avoiding the other freshman Royals. They go to orientation during the day and spend their nights drinking at the off-campus hockey house where the upperclassmen live together. I pass the time in my room or at the dock on the lake while Delilah and Jade do their orientation leader duties and hang out with them when they’re done, and that’s the way I like it.

  Making friends at Hartland would be pointless when I’ll only be here for a year before the draft. Even beyond that, when Dad was traded to the Hurricanes from the Sabres, he had to leave that same day for a game that night with his new team. Had less than an hour to say goodbye to a team and a city he played for for two decades. That’s what I have to look forward to.