Falling Forward ✔

Chapter Twenty-Two - Bastien

Russo pokes control of the puck from Bower, snaps the rubber disc to me. I intercept the trajectory, glide it easily past our opposing d-men for today's scrimmage. Deking left, I snap it through Johnson's five-hole before he can butterfly for the save.

That does it.

"Son of a motherfucking whore!" Johnson throws his stick in the most outrageous of all temper tantrums.

I dodge the thing – barely – and it shatters against the boards.

"Hey now!" I guffaw. "My mother is a very nice lady!"

Johnson's got his gloves off, skates right up and gets in my face. "I'm fucking sick and tired of you, Killfeather." He shoves against my chest, squares his shoulders. "After the sheep stunt last night and—"

"Hey!" Coach Burt snaps at us, jerking us each apart by the front of our jerseys. "You want to box? Get the fuck out of the arena. Otherwise play some goddamn hockey."

Johnson clenches his jaw, face still flushed and furious. I glance to the benches, where Haart is shaking his head at me.

Fuck. Alternate-captain, right.

Swallowing the urge to egg on a fight, I skate to where Johnson slugs a drink from his water bottle on the back of the net. I can't exactly start the conversation with, "Hey, asshole, you just trashed a hundred-dollar stick acting like a bitch."

"Where'd you go to college?" I ask instead.

"Northern Mass." Johnson glowers at me. "Got kicked right down to the minors. What's it to you, hot-shot?"

I ignore the jab. NHL training camp pits 60 players against one another for 23 slots on the roster. Usually veterans slap the younger folks down to the dregs. A few, like me, remain on the bubble. There's more opportunity for forwards than there are for goalies, though.

"I went to McGill," I respond. "Had to do my freshmen year against Haart and Victor Turgenev."

Johnson's eyes widen with appreciation. "Oh."

Turgenev is now part of the US Olympic team. He's a hell of a goalie and it used to be my greatest pleasure to irritate the shit out of him.

I cock a brow. "You know what he did when I pissed him off?"

Johnson rolls his eyes. "Beat you bloody?"

"Don't threaten me with a good time." I wink.

He chugs a mouthful of water. "Whatever."

I clap his shoulder through the dense goalie pads. "Exactly. That. Right there."

"Not giving a fuck?" Johnson guffaws.

"Knowing he had me next time." I clarify. "How many attempts on goal did Russo and I make?"

"Dunno," Johnson shrugs. "Thirty?"

"Thirty-six," I correct with a chuckle. "And we landed four. That's pretty damn good."

Johnson gives me a grudging smile. "I guess you're right."

"Yeah." I catch the replacement stick Spencer tosses out, hand it to Johnson. "Keep up the good work, man. If I piss you off, it means I'm doing something right."

"Noted, Killfeather." Johnson spits on the ice, drags his helmet back on, and slaps his new stick with an echoing crack. "Lets go!"

Morning skate winds down with a few more scrimmages. We're uneasy without Haart. I'm a left-handed shooter and now have to cover his center position. To call it awkward is an understatement. All the shots I pass or score are opposite to where I'm supposed to be. It's a horrible combination and Coach knows it. Yet he won't switch me, seems to delight in watching my struggle. Can't say I blame him after the sheep prank.