January 4th, 2000

The slap of my stick on the frozen rubber echoed in Fernie Memorial Arena. My thighs burned as I dug my blades in, pushing off for another sprint across the blue line. Back to school. Back to practice. The two-week holiday was a hazy memory, replaced by mid-season conditioning.

Coach Patterson's whistle shrieked. "Two-on-one!"

I swiveled, my eyes locking onto Sean Toffoli. He was already moving. His eyes had a laser focus.

He deked left, then right, the puck a blur on the end of his stick. I committed, planting my feet, extending my stick to cut off his lane. He pulled the puck back, slid it through my legs, and was gone. I spun around, my skates scraping for purchase, just in time to see the puck in the twine behind our goalie.

"Nice one," Alex Rafferty skated over, clapping Sean on the shoulder.

I skated to the bench, my lungs screaming for air. I ripped my helmet off, the cold air hitting my sweat-soaked hair. Alex followed, grabbing a water bottle and squirting a long stream into his mouth. "Sean's feeling it today."

I took a swig of water, the icy liquid a shock to my system.

Sean skated over. He pulled up in front of us, a lazy smirk already in place.

"You're getting slow," he said, leaning against the boards. "Thought all that Christmas turkey would've given you some extra power."

I wiped my mouth with the back of my glove. "Just letting you feel good about yourself. Building your confidence for the big game against Cranbrook."

"Buddy's got jokes, eh?" Sean chuckled.

"Nothing but the best for you, Toffy" I said back to him, blowing a kiss in Sean's direction. Sean responded with a grin.

Alex looked between the two of us, a smile on his face. He'd seen this movie a hundred times.

Coach Patterson's whistle cut through the air. "Circle up! Now!"

We lumbered over, sticks clattering against the ice as we formed a semi-circle around him. He stood in the center. He didn't speak for a long moment, just let the silence stretch, letting the weight of it press down on us.

"Look at you," he said, his voice a low growl. "A bunch of sad sacks. Christmas break's over. It's time to play some goddamn hockey."

He skated a slow circle inside our huddle.

"We are halfway through the season. Halfway," he repeated, spitting the word out. "And our record is what? Eight wins, fourteen losses? Eight and fourteen. That is a fucking joke. That's embarrassing. You think scouts are gonna come watch this? You think any college coach is going to look at a tape of us getting our doors blown off by Creston and say, 'Wow, that kid really knows how to backcheck with zero effort'?" He scoffed, a harsh, ugly sound. "Every single one of you," he said, his gaze sweeping over the entire team, "every single one of you thinks you're the next big thing."

He pointed a gloved finger at the center of the circle. "This is it. This is your last chance. College applications are in. Scouts are making their lists. This last half of the season? This isn't for fun. This isn't for your parents. This is for you. For your future. And right now, your future looks like selling skates at Canadian Tire or working at Teck."

A few guys shifted uncomfortably, their eyes glued to their skates.

"So you have a choice," he said. "You can keep pissing around, or you can play with some fucking heart."

He paused.

"Starting Friday. We're not losing that game. We're not even coming close. If you're not ready to bleed for that win, you might as well stay home. Am I clear?"

A mumbled chorus of "Yeah, Coach" went through the group.

"Louder!" he barked.

"YES, COACH!" we roared back.

"Good," he said.

He skated off, leaving us standing there. The walk to the dressing room was silent, the usual banter and joking gone, replaced by the sound of skate guards on concrete.

The air in the dressing room was thick and sour with sweat. I collapsed onto the wooden bench in front of my stall. I ripped off my sweat-soaked practice jersey, tossing it into a pile with the rest of my gear.

I stripped down, peeling off the layers of damp equipment until I was just in my jock which also quickly found its way off of me. Alex was already naked, grabbing a towel from the heap by the door. Sean was next, kicking his padded pants into a corner. Nudity here was just another state of being. We'd been changing in front of each other since we were ten.

We walked into the showers together. The old school hadn't seen a renovation in decades, and it showed. The room was a square of white tile, slick with grime in the corners, with eight showerheads jutting out of the ceiling on chrome pipes.

Alex turned on the middle three, the pipes groaning in protest before a torrent of near-scalding water sprayed down. We all stood under it, letting the heat pound against our sore muscles. The steam curled up, fogging the small window high on the wall. I tilted my head back, closing my eyes.

"He's not wrong, you know," Alex said, his voice calm over the rush of water. He was lathering shampoo into his hair, suds running down the muscles of his back and over the swell of his ass. "Eight and fourteen is dogshit."

"Thanks for the recap," Sean drawled, leaning against the tiled wall. He stood directly under a showerhead, the water plastering his dark hair to his forehead. "Some of us were trying to forget."

"Forget what? That you get rocked by defensemen three times a game?" I shot back, grabbing the communal bar of soap.

"At least I try to make a play," Sean retorted. "Not just gliding around looking pretty."

"Hey, looking pretty is a full-time job," I said, scrubbing my chest. "It takes effort. Unlike some people who just roll out of bed."

Sean chuckled. "Says the guy who uses an old ass comb."

"It's vintage looking, like a greaser," I countered.

"It's greasy."

"Boys," Alex interjected, rinsing the soap from his hair. "We've got a big week."

I watched the water stream down Alex's chest, tracing the lines of his abs. He had a quiet strength about him.

"We always have a big week," Sean said. "That's what happens when you're on a shit team."

"You think we don't know that?" I shot back.

"So what's your plan, hotshot?" Sean challenged, pushing off the wall. He turned to face me, the water dripping from the sharp angles of his face. "You gonna pull some magic out of your ass and lead us to the promised land?"

"No," I said, meeting his gaze. "But I'm not going to stand around and bitch about it either."

Sean held my gaze for a long moment. "Good," he said, turning back to the wall. "Because I'd hate to have to carry your ass all the way to the playoffs."

I let out a short laugh. "In your dreams."

"Every night, baby," he said, not looking back.

I finished my shower quickly, grabbing a towel and heading back to my stall. I dried off, the towel scraping against my skin. I pulled on a fresh pair of boxers, a worn-out pair of jeans, and a faded t-shirt.