Tryouts day arrived and I was so ready for it.
Not.
The most terrifying thing about it wasn't really that I was years behind on preparation compared to all the other boys, or that I was, in fact, not a boy. No, the worst thing was that everybody was trying out. Everybody. Including the asshole I'd learned had gone to World Junior last summer and won gold for his country.
In a shocking twist of events that surprised no one, he was the first one to try out. Coach Joe Martel, whom I'd literally just met, called out in a voice that brokered no errors, "Dean Hyde."
Said boy had the gall to look shocked that he was being called out first. As though everybody here wasn't gathered to see him crush it for the rest of us to try to then pick up the remnants for ourselves. He skated out of the bench and stopped next to the coach. A series of orange cones had been placed across the ice from goal to goal. There was also a smattering of pucks that didn't seem to follow a particular order.
"Alright everybody, listen up," coach said with his megaphone voice. "Dean here is going to be first on the first drill. All of you are going to follow the exact same sequence."
He then proceeded to explain as he exemplified. Starting by one end of the ice he said, "You're going to start here, evading every second cone. I don't want to see any pretty eights in here, this is not an artistic ice skating competition." Once he reached the center line he did a feint and spun around. "Here you're going to pretend you're facing an opponent on the way to the goal. If you don't do this sequence correctly, I will dock points off of you. And of course," he finished up, "You're going to do this while handling the puck, which you're going to shoot at the goal. If you don't score, I'll dock points off of you. And don't take your sweet ass time, because I'll time you and if you take over 60 seconds to do this, I'll dock points off too."
Of course.
Shane lifted his hand, and the coach motioned for him to ask his question. "What if you're a defenseman?"
"I don't care. Defensemen also have to know how to score, or at the very minimum know how to pass accurately so that the strikers can score." He grabbed his whistle, ready to let it rip, but thought best of it. "Any other questions?"
It wasn't necessarily that I wanted to raise attention to myself, but I did have a question. I raised my gloved hand slowly and he noticed me. "Um, hi. You mentioned-" Repeatedly, I added in my head. "That you'd dock points off. Does that mean we start out with a certain number of points?"
"Good question," he conceded with a nod. "You all start with 100 points each. Whoever keeps the 100 points will be made captain. The two best scores that follow will be made assistant captains. Is that clear?"
We all looked at Dean first and then at each other. And then, because I was a little shit, I raised my hand again.
"What if no one keeps the 100 points?" I made sure to smile sweetly at Dean and enjoyed the fact that he seemed to be wishing for my swift demise from his spot on the ice.
"Then I guess we'll have three assistant captains this year." He swiveled over to face Dean and with no warning let the whistle off.
I had a fraction of a second to enjoy that, but Dean was a lot faster than my satisfaction. It was inhuman how he zoomed in and out of the cones. I couldn't count, but I was sure he was precise in doing so after every second cone. He feinted and twirled, not dropping the puck for a single second. I blinked, and next thing he had already scored his goal.
"Fuck. Me," I murmured.
"Brian Levesque," coach called without any further ado.
As one boy went, the other came. Dean casually sprawled next to me on the bench, even though there was plenty of room on the opposite end. He gave me a smirk and said, "Good luck, runt. You'll severely need it."
One by one I watched as they were called. Pace was damn good, too. He didn't have quite the speed and flashiness that Dean had, but I was sure he'd be made assistant captain at least. I was pretty surprised to see that Hunter kicked ass, and quickly noticed that the Grade 12 guys were naturally more skilled than the younger ones. The young ones were my competition, and even then, quite a few of them showed promise.
"Charlie Bernal."
My stomach growled and somersaulted. I stood up with shaky balance and was proud of myself that I made it across the ice to my starting position with relatively little trouble. That had been pretty much the extent of my training this week, and about a dozen bruises later I had somewhat succeeded to just skate. A million thoughts flashed through my mind, but they all reached the same conclusion. It being that I was fucked.
I breathed shallow by the time I stood in position and I felt like my vision was blurring. I heard the whistle, but my limbs felt heavy and liquid. It took me what felt like ages to react, but I did and hit the first cone straight up. I dodged the next one, conscious that it took me unnatural effort to veer to the sides. I almost had to brake every time I needed to change direction, and it cost me precious seconds. There was roaring in my ears, but at that second I didn't know if it was my imagination, the blood in my ears or the assholes heckling me from the bench.
But I pushed harder. I made it to the center line and spun around. I forgot to feint, and if that weren't enough, I ended up falling flat on my ass. By this point I'd become an expert at falling on the ice, and I had learned the ways of moving around with what felt like 20 pounds of pads. I picked up my stick and stood up. That was when I remembered that I hadn't been pushing a puck around at all. Fuck. It was too late. So I kept going. When I was right in front of the goal, I pushed one of the pucks that had been laying around and attempted to shoot it to the goal. I was not ready for what that would mean for my balance, and it seemed like an imaginary string pulled the top of my body along with the puck.
I fell. On my face. Again.
The roaring came back and I realized this time that it was from the bench, and even though my cheek was up against the wet ice, I could feel it burning with humiliation. I ground my teeth as I stood up, carefully, because nothing would be worse than showing them my flying ass again.
Then I turned around, somewhat expecting that the center of the heckling would be a certain blue eyed demon, and he was in the center of it, alright, just not playing the part I expected. He had another guy by the collar and was screaming at him.
As I reached closer I heard Dean say, "That's your teammate you're laughing at, you dick. Someone who did his best."
I zeroed in on the boy who was laughing. He had a buzz cut and I'd seen him in class all week, but I hadn't paid particular attention to him. All I knew was that he was also a senior.
"Teammate my ass. He's the fucking son of Bernal. Thinks he can just waltz in and take a spot on the team?" Dude spat on the floor and looked at me. "I'll keep laughing all the way until his pathetic ass runs away to daddy with his tail between his legs."
That was it.
I didn't care that he mocked me for my obvious lack of skill. I did care that he or anybody in here thought I was a coward who needed my dad to fight my battles.
I didn't care for ice or skates, or the fact that the guy was slightly taller than I was. I had something that he didn't.
I was a trained boxer, and I was 9-0 KOs in amateur light weight fights. He didn't know what he had coming to him.
I dropped my gloves right before reaching him and gave him no warning. I pulled back and smashed my fist in his nose. His head whipped back under the force and he fell back on his ass. I didn't even feel the smarting of my hand as I jumped over the barrier with a snarl, set on dropping a hail fire of fists on his face. But then I felt someone pulling me back and grabbing me in a headlock.
A flurry of whistling rang right after and the coach arrived with a splash of icy water as he braked by the sideboard. I struggled against my captor, but he was too strong.
Coach Martel crouched over the glaring boy, whoever the fuck he was, and I grinned as I watched a steady stream of blood rush down his nose.
"I'm sorry," I said, just to be a little bit Canadian. "Who was it that needs his dad to fight his battles?"
"Enough", the coach said as he raised a hand. He motioned at one of the boys. "Johnson, take Bouchard to Mr. Gauthier." Then he looked my way. "Hyde, take the wild one to the locker room and look at his hand."
I stiffened when I realized that it was Dean who had me in a headlock. I looked around and spotted Pace with the others, all of whom looked more amused than worried. I felt the boy shake me along and I complied only because he was too fucking strong, but the second he loosened his grip I made as if to jump on Bouchard.
"Stop," he growled in my ear. "You proved yourself already."
Something about his voice robbed the fight off of me and I let him take me to the locker room. He dumped me on a bench and opened his locker. I blew a heavy sigh and he glanced back at me for a moment. His expression was blank, but his eyes tried to tell me something I couldn't decipher. He looked back at the contents of his locker until he produced what he wanted. Dean plopped next to me and dumped a roll of tape on my lap. He took off one of his gloves with his teeth to pick up what he held in his other glove. An ice pack.
He crushed it in his hand to activate it and put it on my lap. Which was totally the wrong place.
I was just about to point that out when he picked up my hand in his and brought it closer to his eyes. I felt the cold of the ice pack disappear as a hot flash took over my body. But I remained stoic, as though it was no biggie that this Canadian god was breathing over my hand, as though our skin was not touching, as though I couldn't feel the callouses of his hand against mine. He looked up at me and I looked away.
"I have good news for you and not so good ones."
I looked back at my hand and wiggled it. It hurt, but it couldn't be as bad as to deserve bad news from him, right?
"What's the good news?" I asked, swallowing thickly.
"Well, the good news is that your hand is not broken." Said this, he dropped my band and put the ice pack on it. He removed his other glove the better to tape the ice pack all around my hand. As he tore the tape he said, "Now, for the bad news."
I squirmed. "What is it?" I couldn't tell for the life of me and he was making me uncomfortable enough that my face felt hot and my body cold.
Then he dazzled me with an unexpected smile. It made his eyes glint under the harsh light of the locker rooms. My jaw unhinged and the heat spread everywhere. Even though he was decked with the most ridiculous sports clothes I'd ever seen in my life, he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever seen up close. And he was very close at that. I was just a girl, so I couldn't help it if it affected me. If he affected me.
"The bad news is that Coach Martel was so impressed by your show that he may just put you on the team."
I flapped my mouth for a second before I got my bearings. I cleared my throat. "Why's that bad news?"
"It's bad news because if you keep hitting guys like that you may break your hand for real."
I relaxed then and smirked at him, feeling a familiar confidence enter my thoughts that fortunately replaced some of the out of control ones I was having. "Ah. Well, it wouldn't be the first time."
When it came to fighting I was the expert and this definitely was not my first rodeo.
His eyebrows went up as he stared at me for a second longer before bending to pick up his gloves. As he put them on again he said, "Bad news for me, then."
I looked up at him as he stood up. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, that I'm going to have to make sure you don't break anything." He shrugged before I could think too much of his words. "I would like to keep you as my personal bodyguard for the year."
I punched him with my good hand and he chuckled. I found myself really enjoying the sound.