Ellie:
Okay counting my blessings here, cough with a pinch of salt cough.
I got into my dream college but my father hates me for it. I am finally confident enough to wear what I want without letting others affect my choices, but people still ridicul...
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LOGAN
"Richards! You need to stop letting number twenty-six toss you around like a floor mop!" Coach points at the junior goalie, "And you need to actually move from your position to stop the pucks, do you understand?!"
I don't know if coach is going to have a heart attack or have his vocal cords burst apart, first. Either way, there's no chance that he is getting out of this room alive.
"Logan!" I straighten my spine, "You have given them two breakaways, you're the team captain for fuck's sake! You delivered a wonderful hit at the start of the period and I expect that kind of moves all throughout the game not just when you decide not to be a pansy at the start!"
The first period is over and a guy from Harvard slammed into me so hard, my jaw is still sore from the impact of the push on my helmet and then on my face. When the buzzer blinked an angry red 3-0, even the boos and groans of the Harvard crowd couldn't diminish the fucking ecstasy of staying ahead. Playing away from home just means the victory is sweeter.
But Coach won't let us remember that.
"You gotta hit it like you mean it kid," Coach dishes out at a D-men at the other corner of the room.
Aaron shuffles over to me, grinning; his grin would look spicier with blood on his teeth but I am the one with a bloody mouth, not him.
"That's some hit," He says, moving my jaw gingerly to the right so he can he the bruised area.
The guy absolutely almost broke my jaw and for now, I can only see a maroon-ish bruise but I am pretty sure it's going to leave a terrible mark.
"I am not dead am I?" I shrug.
"Yeah, I mean who would be the team captain if you died?" Aaron flashes me another one of his sunshine grin that works charmingly with the ladies and the gays.
"That's all the use you have of me?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Alright," I snort.
"Alright, boys!" Coach thunders, "Out there and do well for fuck's sake you know you can!"
Coach is a hard man to please and absolutely drives us to the ground every time we are out on the rink, whether it's practicing or playing a match but it's worth it. He gives praise when praise is due and in indirect comments and he's the reason we win so there's that.
As I go over to the rink, I feel a shift in the air, the bated breaths of the Harvard fans. It sets a thrill along my skin, like a blaze of fire. I don't feel the throbbing of the bruise on my jaw or the bone-deep tiredness. There's just me, my hockey stick, and the ice under me.
The third period is intense. Harvard is playing for their lives, desperate to get an edge over us. Nate is on attack mode from the second the buzzer sounded. Sweat drips down my neck and tickles my spine as me, Aaron and Hunter go on the offense.
