January 7th, 2000

The air in the Fernie Ghostriders locker room was thick enough to chew.

I was sat, my body cocooned in layers of Under Armour and half of my equipment. My gaze was fixed on the scuffed toes of my skates. I ran a piece of white hockey tape around my sock, wrapping it tight around my shin guard. My movements were automatic, my mind already miles away.

"Yo."

I looked up. Sean stood in front of me, already fully dressed except for his helmet and gloves. The black and red of our jersey was clinging to his shoulders. His smirk was firmly in place, but there was a different energy behind it tonight.

"You gonna just stare at your skates all night or are you planning on using them?" he asked, nudging my calf with the toe of his own.

"Just admiring my handiwork," I said, finishing the last wrap.

Across the room, Alex let out a soft chuckle. He was meticulously taping the handle of his stick, each turn of the tape precise and even. "Save some chirps for the other guys." He gave the tape one final, smooth tear and ran his palm along the grip.

The door to the locker room swung open, and Coach Patterson walked in. The room went silent. He stopped in the center. He scanned the room, his gaze lingering on each of us for a beat too long.

"Alright," he said. "We know the stakes. We know what's on the line. This isn't just another game."

He started to pace.

"They're bigger. They're stronger. And right now, they're better than us," he said, the words landing like punches. "But they're not smarter. And they don't want it more."

He stopped in front of the whiteboard, where a few crude Xs and Os were drawn. "They're going to come out hard. They're going to try to bully us. They think we're soft. They think this town is soft." He let that hang in the air. "I want to hit everything that moves. I want to finish every check. I want them to wake up tomorrow morning feeling like they've been in a car crash."

He turned back to us, his eyes burning. "You win by playing your system. You win by playing for the guy next to you. You play your position, you do your job, and you fucking support each other. Am I clear?"

"YES, COACH!" the room roared.

"Good," he said, a ghost of a smile on his face. He looked at me. "I need speed. I need you to be a pain in their ass. Make them chase you. Create chaos."

I grabbed my helmet from the hook and pulled it on, the world snapping into focus. I stood up, my skates feeling like lead weights for a second before my muscles remembered what to do. Sean and Alex were already at the door, their backs to me.

"Let's go, ladies," Sean called over his shoulder, before pushing through the door that led to the tunnel.

The tunnel was echoing with the thud of our skates and our breathing. At the end, a sliver of blinding light and the distant roar of a crowd spilled through the opening. One by one, we poured out onto the ice, a river of black and red.

The roar hit us. For a Friday night in Fernie, it was everything. The stands were a patchwork of worn winter coats. The parents huddled together with thermos of coffee, probably mixed with alcohol, their faces tight with the same anxiety they'd felt for every game since Novice. The younger kids, faces pressed to the plexiglass, their breath fogging small circles onto the plastic. Scattered throughout were the teenagers, the high school kids, our friends, here because there wasn't much else to do on a Friday in January in a town cradled by mountains.

I scanned the crowd, a quick sweep. Makaylah was there with a group of her friends and teammates on her left, and my mom on her right.

"You see number twelve?" Sean's voice was a low murmur beside me as we took our place on the blue line for the national anthem. "Huge fucker."

"Good thing you're so light," I shot back.

He let out a low chuckle.

The opening notes of "O Canada" crackled through the ancient speakers. A hush fell over the crowd. I shifted my weight, my skates biting into the freshly resurfaced ice. I saw Alex out of the corner of my eye, his head bowed, his lips moving silently with the words. He always looked like he was praying.

The last note hung in the air. The referee blew the whistle, a piercing sound that cut through.

The referee, a balding man with a gut straining against his black-and-white striped shirt, crouched at center ice, his hand poised over the puck. He looked between me and Cranbrook's center, a kid with a mustache that looked like it had been drawn on with a Sharpie.

I took my stance, knees bent, body coiled. To my left, Sean was vibrating. To my right, Alex was a statue.

The referee's arm shot down.

My stick blade was there before he could blink. A quick flick.

Alex was already moving after a pass from the D-man. Their defensemen, a pair of lanky kids who, backed up cautiously. Alex carried it deep, drawing them in. One of them committed, pinching down on him along the boards.

I cut across the slot. Sean drove hard to the far post, creating a high-traffic screen in front of their goalie.

Alex saw us both. He peeled off the boards, sending a crisp, no-look saucer pass over the defenseman's lunging stick. The puck fluttered through the air, and landed right on the tape of my stick, right as I hit the top of the crease.

I made a quick move to my forehand as the goalie was sliding over. I didn't think. I just reacted. I shoveled the puck five-hole.

The light. The horn. The arena broke into a cheer.

A body slammed into me from the side. Sean. He was yelling, a wild sound of joy. His helmet smashed against mine. Alex was there a second later, his arm wrapping around both of us, pulling us into a tight, sweaty hug.

"Let's fucking go!" Alex was yelling.

"Greasy," Sean gasped, clapping me hard on the shoulder.

I was breathing hard, my chest heaving. I looked up into the stands. My mom was on her feet with Makaylah, they were both cheering.

The game settled into a rhythm. They were bigger. They finished every check with a thud that echoed through my own bones. Every shift was a battle for space, a fight for every loose puck.

In the second period, I was chasing a dump-in behind their net. As I went to scoop the puck, I saw a flash out of the corner of my eye. The Sharpie-stached defenseman, number twelve, put his shoulder right into my chest.

The air was driven from my lungs in a painful rush. I went backwards, my head cracking hard against the glass. The world swam for a second.

I pushed myself up, my gloves scraping for purchase on the ice. The crowd was booing.

I skated to the bench, my chest aching. I slumped onto the hard plastic, my head hanging.

"You good?" Alex asked. He nudged my knee with his.

I just nodded.

Coach Patterson was screaming at the ref from behind the bench, spit flying. "That's a fuckin' penalty! Blind as a fuckin' bat!"

The ref just skated away.

"We're still up, boys," Coach said, turning back to us.

The third period was better.

With five minutes left in the game, the score was 2-1. Our lead felt fragile. Their goalie had been pulled. An extra attacker was on the ice. The puck was cycling in our zone. I could feel the burn in my lungs, the ache in my thighs.

They took a shot from the point. It was wobbly and unpredictable. Our goalie, Marty, saw it late. He dropped into the butterfly, his legs splayed wide. The puck hit something in front and changed direction.

Marty scrambled, twisting his body. His glove shot out. The puck smacked into it with a dull thud.

He held on.

The final horn blared. The arena cheered for a win, something they hadn't seen in a while. We skated to Marty, giving him our thanks with taps to his pads, and little headtaps with our helmets.

The walk down the tunnel was different. The exhaustion was still there, but it was a good exhaustion. We filed back into the locker room.

Coach Patterson walked in. He stopped in the centre of the room. He looked at each of us, a smile spreading across his face. "Nine and fourteen," he said, his voice quieter than it had been all night. "Still not good enough. Not even close."

A few guys looked down.

"Except for one thing," he continued. "Tonight, you didn't play like a nine-and-fourteen team. You didn't play scared. You didn't play for yourselves. When that big bastard from Cranbrook tried to take your head off, Raj, what did you do?"

I was mid-sip from a water bottle. I lowered the bottle. "Got up?"

"You got up," Coach repeated, nodding slowly. "Alex, that block you made in the second? That was heart. That was throwing your body in front of a puck that was going to hurt. That was not wanting to let the guy next to you down."

He paced a small circle in the center of the floor.

"This is what I want," he said, his voice rising. "I don't give a shit about our record right now. I don't care what happened in the first half of the season."

He stopped pacing and faced us.

"We go to Kimberley on Friday. We play like we did tonight. We hit, we compete, we bleed for each other... and we win that game."

He looked around at our exhausted, beat-up faces.

"I'm proud of you tonight," he said.

"Now get your gear off and get the hell out of here," he said. He turned and walked out, shutting the door behind him.

The room was silent for a beat. Then someone let out a whoop. The dam broke. Guys were laughing, clapping each other on the back.

I peeled off my shoulder pads, my chest burning. I flopped back onto the bench, the wood hard against my back.

One of our wingers, was on a payphone by the door, leaning against the wall. "Yeah, we smoked 'em... Nah, man, I don't know. My place? My parents are in Calgary. 'Bout an hour. See what happens."

A few other guys perked up. The usual murmurs started. Someone was supposed to be working the late shift at 7-Eleven and could probably "lose" a case of beer. Another guy's older brother had a fake ID he might lend out for the night. Plans were forming.

I finished unlacing my skates, my fingers working the stiff knots. I was starving and my body ached for my bed, in that order. I leaned back, my shoulders against the cold cinderblock wall, and closed my eyes.

"So, Dhami," Sean said. "You and Makaylah. That's it, huh? That's the final answer?"

I cracked one eye open. He was leaning forward, elbows on his knees. Alex was looking at me too.

"Huh?" I asked, my voice rough.

"Christ, did that check scramble your brain?" Sean said, a lazy smirk spreading across his face as he nudged my shin with the toe of his skate. "You, Makaylah."

I let out a short laugh. "You ask me this like, once a week."

"And I keep getting the same boring-ass answer," he shot back. "You should be tearing it up. This is our last season. Our last shot at being kings of this town. And you're wasting it on one girl."

He leaned back, spreading his arms wide. "We're going out tonight. We'll hit the Royal. It'll be packed. It's a target-rich environment, my man."

I finally opened both eyes, looking at him.

"Dude," I said, pushing myself up to sit straight. "We've been over this. I've been with her since I was five. What the hell am I going to do with a random girl?"

He leaned, lowering his voice. "It's not about dating them. It's about the game. You're running on the same fuel for a decade. Don't you want to see how she handles premium? Don't you want to open her up on the highway, just for one night?"

Alex looked up. "You are a special kind of fucked up."

"I'm an honest man," Sean retorted, not taking his eyes off me. "C'mon, Raj. Just for a bit. One drink. We'll scope it out. If there's nothing, there's nothing. But what if there is?"

For a second, a flicker of an echo of a teenage boy's curiosity passed through me.

I shook my head. "Nah, man. I'm good."

Sean sighed. He clapped me on the shoulder, a little too hard. "Your loss, buddy. More for me." He stood up, grabbing his bag. "Rafferty, you in?"

Alex shook his head. "Nah. I'm gonna crash. Got an early shift at the shop tomorrow."

"Jesus, you two are a couple of grandmas," Sean muttered, slinging his bag over his shoulder.