February 11th, 2000

The final bell shrieked. I was already leaning against the locker next to Makaylah's, my backpack slung over one shoulder, watching the river of students flow past us.

Makaylah spun the dial on her locker, her movements practiced. The locker door popped open. She started yanking textbooks out, piling them into her arms.

"Whoa there," I said, steadying a stack of what looked like bio and chem notes that were threatening to topple.

She slammed the locker door shut and leaned her back against it, hugging the books to her chest. "Practices officially start Monday."

"It's already volleyball season?" I said, moreso just forgetting about the passage of time.

"Coach gave us the schedule and she has us training for the Olympics. Morning practices, afternoon drills, film sessions on Wednesdays..." She let out a sigh. "I'll be a ghost for the next two months."

I nudged her knee with mine. "A cute ghost. Casper the friendly jock."

A small smile touched her lips, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Yeah, well, Casper's gonna have to cancel a few study dates. Maybe a few... other dates, too."

Less late nights. Less spontaneous trips. Less of us.

"It's fine," I said, my voice coming out more defensive than I intended.

She watched me for a second, her head tilted. "So," she began, her tone shifting. "How's the new agent?"

"It's... weird. She's intense. She got a bunch of tape, all the way from peewee and bantam. She said she's cutting a highlight reel and sending it out to a bunch of Division-I and top-tier Division-III schools."

She was quiet for a long moment, just looking at me. "That... could be far," she said, her voice quiet.

"Yeah," I said back. "Maybe."

I pushed off the lockers, closing the small space between us. My hands went to her waist, my fingers finding the sliver of exposed skin.

I kissed her. I felt her body relax against mine, the tension in her shoulders melting away. She tilted her head, deepening the kiss, her lips parting slightly. The textbooks in her arms tumbled to the floor, scattering across the scuffed linoleum.

Her free hand came up to the back of my neck, her fingers threading into my hair, her nails scratching gently against my scalp. I slid one hand from her waist, up the curve of her ribcage, my thumb brushing against the soft fabric covering her side. My tongue traced the seam of her lips, and she met it with her own.

"Get a room, you two!"

The voice cut through our bubble. My head snapped to the side. Alex was standing there, a hockey bag slung over his shoulder. He nudged a fallen chemistry textbook with the toe of his sneaker. "Or at least pick up your homework before someone slips."

Makaylah pulled back, her cheeks flushed a pretty pink. She shot Alex a withering glare. "Ever heard of knocking?"

"Knock where?" Alex chuckled. "Bus leaves in ten."

"Right," I said, my brain slowly rebooting. I let go of Makaylah, already missing the warmth of her.

She started bending down to gather her books, her messy bun falling partially undone. I crouched to help, our hands bumping as we both reached for the same bio textbook.

"Here," I said, stacking the rest of them into a neat pile for her.

A weak smile. "My hero."

I grabbed my backpack from the floor and followed Alex, shouldering my way through the thinning crowd. We pushed through the heavy glass doors at the front of the school and stepped out into the afternoon cold. The air was so crisp it hurt to breathe.

"Christ, it's cold," Alex muttered, zipping his jacket up to his chin.

We trudged across the slushy parking lot. A handful of other kids from the team were already there, huddled together for warmth, their breath pluming in the air like smoke.

We piled on the bus. I grabbed a window seat near the back, slumping down and resting my forehead against the cold glass. Alex slid in beside me, dropping his heavy bag into the aisle and immediately pulling a grey toque down over his ears.

The ride to Cranbrook was a two-hour stretch of highway that snaked through the valley, the snow-capped Rockies a constant presence on our right. For the first hour, the noise on the bus was the chaotic mess of a hockey team. Loud music from a cheap boombox, a dozen overlapping conversations, and the snap of a card game.

The rumble of the bus's tires changed pitch as we turned off the highway. The lights of Cranbrook glowed in the deepening twilight. The bus rumbled on, past a strip mall with a glowing video store sign, past a donut shop, before finally pulling into the parking lot of the arena.

The engine died with a shudder. For a moment, nobody moved. Then Coach Patterson stood up from the front, turning to face us. "Alright," he said. "Let's go."

The doors hissed open, and a blast of air hit us. We filed out, the crunch of our footsteps on the gravel lot the only sound. The arena loomed ahead. We followed a hallway, our footsteps echoing.

The visitors dressing room was a mirror image of our own dressing room, but it felt unwelcoming. The same wooden benches, the same scuffed floors, the lingering smell of sweat.

The pre-game ritual began. Guys moved with a practiced economy, finding their stalls, dropping their heavy bags with a thud. I found my spot, peeling off my jacket and jeans, pulling on the base layers that would be my second skin for the next few hours.

Across from me, Alex was already lacing his skates. He was already in another world, his focus tangible.

Sean was taping the handle of his stick. His jaw tight, a muscle jumping in his cheek.

I finished tying my skates, pulling the laces tight, sealing my feet. I stood up, grabbing my shoulder pads and pulling them over my head. I pulled my jersey on, the white and red fabric of our away jersey feeling like armour.

I grabbed my stick from the rack. I ran my hands down the shaft, my fingers tracing the familiar nicks and scratches.

The noise in the room began to build, a low hum of conversation and laughter.

Coach Patterson walked in. He didn't say a word. He just stood there for a long moment, letting the silence stretch. He looked at each of us, his gaze sweeping across the room.

"Five minutes," he said.

We started to move, a procession toward the door that led to the ice. The noise from the arena filtered in. The closer we got, the louder it became. The thud of music, the roar of the crowd.

It was showtime.

I squinted as we poured onto the ice, the sudden brightness of the overhead lights making my eyes water.

We took our position on the blue line. Across from us, the Cranbrook Vipers stretched, kids like us ready to kill each other.

The opening notes of "O Canada" crackled through the speakers, thin and tinny. The roar subsided, replaced by a few hundred voices singing off-key. I stared straight ahead, my gaze fixed on the large Canadian flag hanging from the rafters, my lips moving silently with the words. Alex, beside me, had his head bowed. Sean was chewing on his mouthguard.

The final note faded. The referee, a fresh face skated to centre ice. He dropped the puck.

The rubber biscuit hit the ice. My stick was a blur. The Vipers centre tried to poke it away, but he was a half-second slow.

The first ten minutes were a feeling-out process. We were feeling each other out, testing the defenses. It was fast. It was physical. And it was scoreless. We had a few good chances, but their goalie filled most of the net. Their best chances came from crashing our net, trying to rattle Marty.

We were on a power play. Their defenseman had hooked Sean on a breakaway. I took my spot at the half-wall, my stick tapping out a nervous rhythm on the ice. Sean was in front, screening their goalie.

Alex had the puck at the point. He faked a shot, their box shifting. He slid it to our defenseman on the other side. Another quick pass back to Alex. He wound up.

Their goalie was fighting to see around Sean.

I saw the opening. As Alex's stick came down for the slapshot, I broke from the wall, angling hard toward the net. Alex saw me. He feathered a perfect saucer pass, right over the stick of the lunging forward. The puck landed on my tape, right as I hit the slot.

I didn't have much room. I was coming in fast. I just let my instincts take over. I made a quick move to my backhand, pulling the puck across my body. The goalie was sliding with me. I saw the tiny space between his blocker and the post. I roofed it, shoving the puck into the top corner.

The goal light flashed red.

I was immediately mobbed. A body slammed into me from the side. Sean. He was yelling, grabbing my face mask and shaking it. Alex was there a second later, his arm wrapping around my shoulders, pulling us all into a hug.

We skated to the bench. I sat down, my chest heaving, adrenaline coursing through me. I grabbed a water bottle, squirting a long stream into my mouth. Alex slapped me on the back.

The second period began. The Vipers came out with a vengeance. Their hits were harder, designed to punish. I took a puck off my shin guard that sent a jolt of numbness all the way up to my hip. I hobbled to the bench, shaking my leg, trying to get the feeling back.

Midway through the period, I was chasing a loose puck into the corner. I had a step on their defenseman. He was a big kid, but I was faster. I reached down with my stick to scoop it up.

That's when he left his feet and launched himself sideways, putting his shoulder square into my chest. The air exploded from my lungs. I flew backwards, my head whipping back. The world went white for a second, then swam back into focus.

I lay on the ice, the wind knocked out of me, my ears ringing. A whistle shrieked. The crowd roared in anger.

I pushed myself up onto my hands and knees. The referee was right there, grabbing the Vipers' defenseman by the collar. "Five and a game!"

I skated slowly to the bench, my chest aching, my head pounding.

The next time I was on the ice, it was still a man-advantage. We set up. Alex at the point. Me at the half-wall. Sean planted in front of the goalie.

The seconds ticked away. We passed the puck around, controlling the zone, looking for the perfect seam. Their goalie was fighting to see through a maze of bodies.

With thirty seconds left in the major, Alex slapped the puck on net. It hit a body in front, bouncing loose in the crease. I saw it. I drove hard, batting it out of the air and past the goal line before their goalie could smother it.

The light flashed.

I slammed my stick against the boards, yelling in triumph. I turned and slammed into Sean, who was already screaming in my ear.

I skated to the bench.

The third period started. We were up 2-0, but they wouldn't die. They threw everything at us. They were shooting from everywhere, hoping for a bounce. Marty was on his head, making save after save, flopping and scrambling, keeping the puck out of our net.

The final minute began. The Vipers pulled their goalie. Six skaters against five. The puck was in our end. We were all collapsing, blocking shots, diving in front of pucks.

A shot from the point. I saw it coming. I threw my body in front of it. The puck hit my shin pad and bounced into the corner. The pain shot up my leg, but I was too full of adrenaline to care.

The clock was ticking down. Ten seconds. Five.

The Vipers' defenseman wound up from the blue line. He let a slapshot go. Marty went down.

The puck hit something in front. It bounced straight up into the air. Alex batted it out of the air with his glove, like a baseball player. The puck fluttered down the ice.

The final horn blared.

We had done it. A 2-0 win. A six-game winning streak.

We skated to Marty, who was face down on the ice, exhausted. We pulled him up, a pile of bodies and sticks and sweat.

The walk down the tunnel was a blur. I was so tired I could barely feel my feet. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, and the pain was setting in. My head throbbed in time with my footsteps.

We filed back into the dressing room. We were exhausted.

I sat down on the bench. I started to peel off my gear, my hands fumbling with the straps. My whole body was screaming in protest.

I finally got everything off, my body a map of aches and pains. I walked into the showers, the hot water a welcome relief.

The bus ride home was quiet. Most of the guys were slumped in their seats, staring out the window at the darkened highway.

I was leaning against the window, my head throbbing. A bruise was already forming on my shins, a purple and blue splotch.

"You look like hell," Alex said, his voice quiet.

"I feel like hell," I mumbled back.

"Did you get your bell rung?" he asked.

"Just had the wind knocked out of me," I lied. I wasn't sure. The world still felt a little fuzzy around the edges.

"You should tell someone," he said.

"And what? Get sat for the next game? No chance."

He didn't push it. He just nodded. "Well, you played good," he said.

"Thanks," I said back to him.

I rested my head back against the window, the vibration of the bus a steady thrum. I closed my eyes, letting the darkness wash over me. The last two hours of the ride were a blur. I must have drifted off, because the next thing I knew, Alex was shaking my shoulder.

"Raj. We're here."

I blinked my eyes open. We were back in the parking lot of the high school. The bus was empty. Everyone else had already left.

"Thanks," I said, my voice rough. I grabbed my bag from the overhead rack and stumbled off the bus.