Icebreaker Page 3

  JaysenCaulfield @jaycaul21 • 32m

  Replying to @NHL

  Note how @mjames17 is behind me, just like he will be on draft day

  THREE

  SEPTEMBER

  I get through the first few weeks of college without dropping out, but that’s only because I don’t want to deal with Dad whining about it for the next twenty years.

  We got team lifting in the morning, followed by team breakfast in the players’ lounge. Team lunch in the dining hall after morning classes and suffering through afternoon classes just to get to team captains’ practice and team dinner and team Saturdays at the rink and team study hall on Sunday afternoons. But even with all this team bullshit, I still feel no closer to any of them.

  Well, maybe Dorian a little, but that’s only because I live with him and he’s at least tolerable. Still, it’s not like I go out of my way to talk to him. There’s a lot of awkward silences in our room at night.

  Practice gets more and more serious as the season approaches, and the captains work us hard, running through Coach’s practice plans. I leave the rink every night gasping for breath and go to the weight room every morning so sore I can barely move.

  And I’ve been doing this my whole life.

  Maybe I should call Dad. Ask if he felt this out of shape at this point, too, or if I’m just hopelessly unprepared for college hockey and everyone will finally see I’m not worthy of my own name.

  My entire body shudders at that betrayal of my mind. Let me just call up my dad and fuel the fire of his disappointment. Right.

  It’s not that he’s a terrible parent. It’s just … everyone says he had five other kids just to get to me. I’m always afraid my sisters are gonna resent me for it. Then there’s the fact that Delilah is a better hockey player than me, but Dad refuses to admit it.

  With both of us playing at the same level this season, no one will be able to deny it.

  The energy in the locker room is completely different before the first official practice toward the end of the month. The guys are pretty quiet as we suit up, this nervous excitement radiating off of everyone. No matter how hard we worked in captains’ practices, how seriously we took Zero and Kovy, it’s not the same as answering to the coach who’s going to determine your ice time.

  We get a few minutes to warm up and stretch on the ice before Coach Campbell blows his whistle and calls out, “On the line.”

  There’s a collective sense of ugh, here we go as we take to the goal line and another blow of the whistle sends us sprinting to the lines and back. I have a distinct disadvantage with my shorter legs. I might be quick in-game, using my size to duck around bigger guys and get the jump on them, but when it comes to a dead sprint, it’s harder for me to keep up.

  It’s a flaw that NHL scouts will no doubt agonize over when they start getting nitpicky between Jaysen and me. I’m not about to let him show me up here. I push myself to the point of collapse, the taste of iron in the back of my throat, but I still end up a couple strides behind him. We both gasp for air, bent over with our sticks across our thighs, but when he looks up and catches me watching him, he looks so pleased with himself I could smack him.

  Our starting goaltender, Colie, is on a whole other level when we move on to shooting drills. He was pretty good during captains’ practices, but under the scrutiny of his Olympic gold-medalist goalie coach, he’s stepped it up. His reflexes are so quick it’s mildly frightening, and he makes it look so easy, I’m half-tempted to put on the pads and try it for myself. I’m so impressed I can’t even get frustrated when he blocks most of my shots.

  It helps that Jaysen’s not having any better luck. The upperclassmen have been playing with Colie long enough that they know his weaknesses and are able to exploit them a bit before he shuts them down, too.

  After that, we move on to three-on-twos, with Coach Campbell shouting out real-time feedback, like:

  “Cicero, keep your head up!”

  “Caulfield, more pressure on the puck along the boards!”

  And, “James, you had a lane! Take the one-timer next time!”

  I huff, far enough away he can’t hear me. I can wrist a one-timer all day, but I was at the point for that one, and I’ve never been confident in my slap shot. Especially not on a moving puck. I’d rather take the time to set it up than risk whiffing on it and making a fool of myself.

  We get in a good hour and a half of ice time before Coach calls it quits. As we head off the ice, Coach says, “Cicero, Caulfield, James. Hang back a minute.”

  “Oh boy,” Zero says, nudging me with an elbow. “You two try not to get your egos too close together. We don’t need any concussions.”

  Jaysen tchs, and I feel myself frowning. I’ve been able to avoid him through most of practice, but as I hoist myself up onto the boards, my feet dangling over the ice, he stops right next to me. He leans back against the boards with his elbows hiked up onto them, almost touching me. Zero stands straight to my right, holding his stick across his shoulders to open up his lungs.

  Coach stops in front of us, flipping through some notes he made on a clipboard. He’s my dad’s age, drafted in the same year but nowhere near as high as him. I think he was fourth round or something. He didn’t last long in the NHL, but he’s made a name for himself in coaching. Dad’s happy with him at least, or he would’ve been more worried about me coming here, alma mater or not.

  My favorite thing is that Coach doesn’t coddle me because of my name. He’s shared ice with plenty of stars, including Dad, so he’s not fazed by it. To him, I’m just another one of his insolent players who basically needs to be retaught how to play hockey from scratch.

  I like him. He makes me feel like I deserve to be here, no matter what Jaysen Caulfield says.

  But then Coach goes and says, “I want you three on a line together,” and all my respect for him goes out the window. Before I can voice my concerns, he adds, “Cicero, left wing, Caulfield, center, James, right wing.”

  Okay, wait a minute, what? I didn’t hear that right. I’ve been playing center since I first learned that not everyone is supposed to chase the puck at once. I am a center. I’m the best face-off guy in the NCAA. I have the best hockey sense of anyone on this team. My name might as well be written on the ice in the slot and behind the net, that’s how much I own those spaces. Center is mine.

  “You mean—” I start, but Coach shoots me a look like daggers and I clamp my mouth shut.

  “Caulfield is stronger on the backcheck,” he says. “I need someone with size and a good defensive mindset centering my top line. James, you’ll be in a better position to break out on the wing, which is something you’re especially good at. You can still have your place in the slot. Cicero, you know what you’re doing.”

  “What about face-offs?” I ask. I don’t even care that I sound like a brat right now; he can’t just take away the position I’ve been playing my entire goddamn life and hand it to Jaysen. He might as well be handing him the top pick while he’s at it.

  “We’ll see,” Coach says. He gives me a look like he’s daring me to keep challenging him. I bite my tongue.

  Coach goes on to giving us our roles on power plays and penalty kills, and I’m on the second PK unit, like what the hell? I twist my grip around my stick and refuse to look Coach in the eye. I can practically feel the smugness radiating off Jaysen.

  I need someone with size, he said, like teams haven’t been relying on me in spite of my size my entire life. As if I’m not the NHL’s top prospect at five foot five. That’s unheard of, but here he is acting like he knows better than NHL Central Scouting.

  It eats at me for the rest of the day and well into the next. What gives Coach Campbell the right to decide where I play, how I play? He didn’t even make it five seasons in the NHL. His team is nothing more than a stepping-stone for me.

  Now I know what people mean when they say their blood is boiling. We might as well be walking through drills at practice the next day, but my f
ace burns and sweat prickles my forehead. Rage goes through me in waves. I have never been this angry in my life.

  I keep as much ice between me and Jaysen as possible, but he’s determined to make my life hell. It’s probably twenty minutes into practice when he shoulders into me between drills and taps my skate with his stick. “Serious question,” he says. “How long’s your twig? Thirty-eight, right?”

  “Yes,” I deadpan. Sure. Of course I use a stick sized for actual children. If I play along, he’ll get bored and leave me alone. That’s how it works, right?

  Except he smiles. Leans back so his weight’s on one foot, all casual and cocky. “I’m thinking about shortening mine a bit.” He tilts his head and looks at me out of the corner of his eye, his smile turning vicious. “Might help me out at center.”

  Hatred surges through my chest, a flash of heat that has me seeing red. I lash out before I can think better of it, the satisfying crack of Jaysen’s stick breaking under mine almost enough to calm me down. He wanted it shortened, well now it’s fucking shortened.

  He gapes down at the snapped shaft in his hands, the other half on the ice at his feet. Someone’s shouting, “Hey, hey, hey!” as the team closes in around us, but all I see is Jaysen. He slowly lifts his eyes to me. His lip curls a second before he throws down what’s left of his stick and shoves me so hard into the boards my breath wheezes out of me. His hands twist in my jersey and pin me back against the glass. I reach up, heart thundering, and grab him by his cage, pulling down hard enough to break his neck.

  “You little shit,” he snarls.

  “Fuck you!” I snap.

  Someone tries to pull him off me but both of us tighten our grips, not even really fighting, just pushing and pulling and raging and hating until arms loop under his armpits and haul him back, both of us holding on until we can’t anymore. The guys fill in the space between us, holding us back, forcing us to glare at a distance.

  I know Jaysen hates me. He’s made it perfectly clear from the moment we met. But I’ve never seen it like this, written so obviously on his face. The tendons in his neck popping out, his whole body straining like he’s ready to lunge as soon as someone gives him some slack.

  There’s a flash of something hot and dangerous through my chest. I feel my eyes widen, my heart stutter.

  Jaysen makes being violently pissed off look good.

  I shove down the thought as Zero pushes through the team and stands between us, red-faced and fuming. “The fuck is your problem?” he shouts at both of us. Neither of us answer. “Forget you’re on a team now?”

  He looks back and forth like he’s waiting for one of us to speak up just so he can cut us off and yell some more. He’d make a good coach. I glance past the crowd of my teammates to see the real coaching staff gathered at center ice, arms crossed as they watch their captain handle this.

  Jaysen drops the sneer but keeps his eyes narrowed and focused on me.

  Zero scoffs with disgust. “I can’t believe I have to share a line with a couple of children. Get off my ice.”

  There’s a moment of disquieting silence, a lack of sound fully out of place in an arena this size. Jaysen keeps looking at me with a murderous intensity I do everything in my power to return with apathy. I get more satisfaction out of seeing him turn away first than I ever have from anything else.

  He shrugs the arms off him and grabs for the broken halves of his stick. I let him get a few strides ahead of me before following, keeping my eyes down as we pass the coaches. They let us go without a word, apparently trusting Zero’s judgment. We keep our backs to each other as we strip off our gear in the locker room.

  The sound of him losing that smooth, quiet cockiness and throwing his gear into his stall is the most soothing thing I’ve ever heard.

  NOVA VINTER

  Mickey: Have you ever hated someone so much you wanna suffocate them with your own tongue

  Nova: Do you not remember eighth grade?

  Mickey: Fair point

  Nova: Who’s earned your hate lust this time

  Mickey: You act like it’s a common thing

  Nova: You hate everyone mj

  So it’s an every time thing

  Mickey: Whatever

  Just promise not to laugh

  Nova: Oh this is gonna be good

  Mickey: I regret this already

  Jaysen Caulfield

  Nova: No way

  Lmaoooooo

  Mickey: I hate you.

  Nova: I know

  Do we need to talk about eighth grade again?

  Never thought i’d see the day you fall for a hockey player

  Mickey: I didn’t fall for him

  He’s just hot

  And infuriating

  Nova: Right

  Can i officiate the wedding?

  Mickey: K bye talk to you n ever

  FOUR

  Even with headphones over my ears and my three oldest sisters talking over one another on the screen of my laptop, I still hear the thump of bass-heavy music coming from all directions. Across the room, Dorian has his own headphones on, head bobbing slightly along with whatever screaming mess he’s listening to while doing homework.

  My oldest sisters are a lot older and we don’t get to talk much, but we’re still pretty close thanks to group chats and Snapchat. Mikayla’s the oldest at thirty, born when Mom and Dad were still teenagers, less than a year after they met in the hospital at the Olympics when Mom twisted her ankle in training and Dad took a puck to the face in a game against Finland. Now Mikayla’s a sports information director at a university in Arizona, engaged to Spencer Brimm of the Arizona Coyotes with a baby on the way. Her life is disgustingly put together.

  Nicolette and Madison are twenty-eight, identical twins who I probably wouldn’t be able to tell apart if it weren’t for their haircuts, that’s how little I see them. Nicolette keeps hers long and braided, always looking like she’s ready to hit Olympic ice all over again. Madison has hers cut to her chin. She went to school for teaching and got a job right out of college and has coached her school’s varsity field hockey team to three state championships since.

  I am constantly overwhelmed and astounded by how incredible all my sisters are in all the things they do. The list of their successes is never-ending. But nobody seems to care about them. Because they’re women. Because women kicking ass in their sports means less to them than an unproven seventeen-year-old boy with nothing to show for himself but a name.

  Sometimes. A lot of the time. I really hate myself.

  I pull my knees up to hide my frown from them. Now’s not the time to get into one of my moods. I have plans tonight, and I’m not about to let my brain ruin my fun.

  On the screen of my laptop, Nicolette’s eating pizza and drinking wine in her apartment in Colorado Springs. Madison’s curled up in bed at Mom and Dad’s house with a blanket pulled up to her chin, and Mikayla’s in her office at the university.

  “If you had a real job, you’d understand the struggle, Cole,” Mikayla murmurs. Her eyes are fixed on her work computer, fingers flying over the keyboard. Madison’s squeaky yawn sounds like an agreement. “This school’s top sport is volleyball, and I’m leaving my athletic department in the hands of a guy who doesn’t even know what a libero is. For six weeks! I’m seriously considering giving birth in my office.”

  “And that is precisely why I will never have a real job.” Nicolette raises her wineglass in a toast with herself before swallowing a mouthful. She still has glitter on her eyelids from her day at the rink. “Look at this, what is it, nine on the east coast? And Mad’s half-asleep? It’s Friday night, dude, fuck a real job.”

  “And you’re drinking wine alone,” Madison says, voice as sweet and soft as always. “None of us are winners here.”

  “I am choosing to drink wine alone,” Nicolette insists. “I had options. This was the most enticing.”

  “What about you, Mickey?” Mikayla asks. “Aren’t you supposed to be at a party with
Bailey and Lilah?”

  “I’m waiting for them to get here so we can walk together,” I say.

  “Is that what you’re wearing?” Nicolette leans in closer to her screen, squinting at me with a slight curl to her lip.

  I look down at my plain gray T-shirt and jeans. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”

  “Boring,” Nicolette says, drawing out the vowels. “How are you gonna pull college girls looking like that?”

  “Nicolette,” Madison scolds her.

  “I’m not trying to pull anyone,” I say.

  “Ah, right.” Nicolette rolls her eyes. “Hockey over everything. No distractions.”

  There’s a knock on the door, loud and sharp. Before either Dorian or I can get up to answer it, the door opens and my other sisters, Bailey and Delilah, come striding in like they own the place, Jade following behind them. Bailey’s cheeks are red and her hair’s a disaster. She’s been pregaming hard. The smell of alcohol wafts in after her as she takes one look at me and goes straight to my closet without a word, pulling out shirts and dropping them on the floor.

  I haven’t seen much of her at school so far. She’s a thesis-ing senior with two boyfriends—Sidney and Karim—who spent their summer in Europe with USA Lacrosse, so she’s been busy catching up with them when she’s not working. But I was in Buffalo with her for a couple weeks over the summer, helping her run a youth lacrosse camp, so I’ve seen more of her than any of my other sisters recently.

  Delilah and Jade cram themselves onto my bed on either side of me, and Delilah unplugs my headphones when she sees who I’m talking to. I hand the computer off to her and climb out of bed to monitor the mess Bailey’s making of my closet. She yanks a black-and-red flannel off its hanger and shrugs it on over her black tank top, then digs right back in. She’s my only sister who’s shorter than me, so the sleeves of my shirt hang to her fingertips.