First Day (IV)

The final bell blares overhead, and I'm out of my seat before it stops.

The hallway floods with students rushing for freedom, lockers slamming, voices rising. I cut through the chaos, heading for Abbie's locker on the second floor. She's already there, exchanging books between her bag and locker with methodical precision.

"Hey," I say, leaning against the locker next to hers. "Made it through day one."

She glances up, a quick smile. "Barely. Mr. Reynolds spent forty minutes on the syllabus. The syllabus."

"Sounds brutal." I pull her against me for a quick kiss. She tastes like mint gum. "Any plans?"

"Yeah, actually. Ashley called an emergency session." She rolls her eyes. "Apparently two of the freshmen can't even do a proper toe touch. We're going to be rebuilding from the ground up."

"Coach is doing the same to us. Bag skate today."

"Ouch." She winces in genuine sympathy. Abbie might not play hockey, but she knows what a bag skate means. Pain. Lots of it.

I dig in my pocket for my house keys. "Here. Mom's working late, and you'll be done before me."

She takes them, fingers brushing mine. "You sure? I can wait."

"Nah, go ahead. Make yourself at home." I hesitate, then add, "Maybe start dinner? I'll be starving after practice."

"I'm not your personal chef, Doe." But she's smiling as she says it.

"Thanks." I pull her in for another kiss, longer this time. Her body presses against mine, warm and familiar.

"Save it for later," she murmurs against my lips. "You've got practice."

I reluctantly let her go. "Right. See you at home."

She nods, closing her locker with a decisive click.

The locker room is already noisy when I arrive, guys in various states of undress, equipment being pulled from bags. I find my locker and start the familiar routine.

I pull on my practice jersey and grab my stick. Gloves, helmet, mouth guard. Ready.

We file out to the ice in small groups. No sign of Coach yet, but a few pucks are scattered around. I step onto the surface, the familiar scrape of steel on ice sending a shiver of anticipation up my spine.

I start with easy laps, loosening up. The ice is fresh, newly resurfaced after the public skating session earlier. My edges cut clean lines as I pick up speed, making the turn around the net with a tight crossover.

A few guys are already taking shots at the goal, warming up Tanner. I grab a puck and join them, skating a simple pattern before firing a wrist shot high glove side. It pings off the crossbar.

"Rusty!" Tanner calls from the crease, exaggerating a yawn.

I snag another puck. "Just warming up, asshole."

This one I bury, top corner where he can't reach it. Tanner gives me the finger, and I laugh, skating back to centre ice for more laps.

I stretch methodically at centre ice, watching the rest of the team trickle out. The freshmen look nervous, huddled together near the bench. Most of the seniors are taking it easy, casually shooting or gliding around the perimeter. They don't know what's coming. Or maybe they do, and they're saving energy.

Coach strides out from the tunnel right at 3:15, whistle hanging from his neck, clipboard in hand. Assistant Coach Weber follows, carrying orange cones. Never a good sign.

Coach blows the whistle, three sharp blasts that cut through the noise. "Pucks in the buckets! Now!"

We scramble to collect them, scooping them up and dumping them into the black rubber buckets along the boards. Within thirty seconds, the ice is clear.

"Centre ice! Line up!"

We skate over, forming a ragged line facing Coach. The freshmen are breathing hard already, eyes wide with anticipation or fear. I plant my stick in front of me, both hands resting on the knob, trying to look relaxed.

"Gentlemen," Coach says, scanning our faces. "Welcome to day one. As I mentioned at lunch, we're starting with conditioning."

A collective groan rises from the team.

"Problem with that?" Coach asks, voice dangerously calm.

Silence.

"Good. Because from what I'm seeing, most of you spent summer getting soft." He paces in front of us, skates cutting sharp lines in the ice. "College scouts don't look at soft players. State championships aren't won by soft teams."

He nods to Coach Weber, who starts placing cones at the blue lines and center ice.

"Today's simple. We're going to find out who did their summer workouts and who didn't. No pucks. No sticks. Just legs and lungs."

I skate to the goal line, positioning myself next to Rick. He looks sideways at me. "Ready for this?"

I nod, dropping into a ready stance. "Who doesn't love sui's."

We are now fifteen suicides in, and the ice has become a graveyard.

Matthews is on his knees by the boards, dry heaving. Two freshmen are sprawled on their backs, chests heaving. Even Rick is bent over, hands on his knees, sweat pouring from his face. Coach Weber stands over them, barking at them to get up, to finish.

My legs are lead. Each stride feels like skating through concrete. Sweat stings my eyes, and my lungs burn with every breath. But I'm still upright. Still moving.

Sanjay's beside me, face twisted in pain but still pushing. Kyle's half a stride behind, cursing under his breath with every stop and start.

"Five more!" Coach shouts. "Five more and we're done!"

I dig deeper, finding reserves I didn't know I had.

Suicides sixteen and seventeen pass in a blur of pain. By eighteen, it's just me, Sanjay, and surprisingly, one of the freshmen still completing each rep without stopping.

Nineteen hits like a train. Sanjay falters at the second blue line, his legs giving out. He crashes to the ice with a curse. Jesse makes it back to the goal line but collapses, rolling onto his side, retching.

It's just me now.

"Last one!" Coach calls. "Make it count!"

I push off hard, driving my legs despite the screaming pain. Blue line. Stop. Back. Centre line. Stop. Back. Far blue line. Stop. Back. End boards.

Every fibre in my body is begging me to stop, to join my teammates on the ice. But that's not who I am. Not who I've worked to become.

The final stretch back to the goal line feels endless. My vision narrows to just the red line painted on the ice. Nothing else exists.

I cross it, nearly crashing into the boards, catching myself at the last second. For a moment, I just stand there, hands on my knees, gulping air, the world spinning around me.

Then Coach's voice cuts through the fog. "Not done yet. One more drill."

I look up, disbelieving. "What?"

He points to centre ice where Coach Weber has set up a new pattern of cones. "The Gauntlet. Just you."

The Gauntlet is a nightmare, rapid direction changes, backward skating, tight turns, all at full speed. We usually do it at the end of the season, when we're in peak condition. Not on day one. Not after twenty suicides.

"You're joking," I manage between breaths.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Coach's expression is stone. "You want that C? Show me."

From the ice, Rick gives a weak fist pump. "Get it brother."

A few other guys bang their sticks against the boards. Even those who can barely move are watching now.

I straighten up slowly, muscles screaming in protest. Take a deep breath. Then another.

"Waiting on you," Coach says.

I skate to the starting cone, every movement requiring conscious effort now. The rest of the team has gone quiet, watching.

Coach raises his whistle. "Three, two, one!"

I launch forward at the sound, forcing my legs to move, to push. The first turn is tight, I nearly lose an edge but recover, driving hard into the next section. Backward skating now, slower than I'd like but still moving. Crossovers. Direction change. Sprint.

My lungs are fire. My legs are nothing but pain.

The final stretch is a straight sprint back to the blue line. I dig deep, finding one last burst of speed, crossing the line and finally allowing myself to slow down.

I come to a stop at centre ice, doubled over, vision swimming. For a moment, there's just the sound of my breathing and the ringing in my ears.

"That's how you fucking do it!" Tanner shouts from his position on the ice.

"Alright, take a lap to cool down," Coach says, and I swear there's the ghost of a smile on his face.

Coach blows the whistle, calling us back to centre ice. We gather, a ragged circle of exhausted players. Some are still shaking, trying to stand straight. The freshmen look shell-shocked.

"Listen up," Coach says. "That was a test, and I'm not going to sugarcoat it, most of you failed. You've got three days to get your conditioning up before our first game Friday."

He looks around the circle, making eye contact with each of us. "Riverside's coming in hungry. They think last year's win against us wasn't a fluke. They think they're better than us." His voice hardens. "We're going to show them they're wrong. But if the tone we set is that we're out of shape, we're fucked. Simple as that."

No one argues. No one has the energy to, even if they wanted to.

"Hit the showers. Rest. Hydrate. Be ready to work tomorrow." Coach points at Matthews, still hunched over his trash can. "And Matthews, clean that up before you leave."