30 Days Too Late

Skate To Hell

Rudy

"Here are your key fob and resident ID card," Kacey says with a big smile. This RA is too giddy, I know it's to make our parents feel less worried about dropping us off, but she needs to chill on the students.

"Feel free to contact me if you have any questions," she adds.

"Thanks," I sigh. She sticks an orientation flyer to my chest before approaching another family. I rip it off but tape remains stuck on my flannel.

"Sweetie," my mother squeals. She runs at me in full speed and I open my arms to catch her in a hug. She rubs her face into my check.

"If you get homesick, feel free to come back this weekend, okay? I love you," she says.

"I love you too," I mumble and she chuckles. She places one more kiss on my forehead before she races to catch up to Kacey.

I hold the key fob up to my dorm lock, and it chimes. The living area has a sofa, a flat-screen TV; the kitchen is fully stocked with a stove, microwave and fridge.  I bet the bedrooms are even better.

I take a left into the hallway where the bedrooms are on opposite sides. My roommate isn't here yet, so I get first pick.  I select the left room; it looks the biggest.  I prop my hockey bag against the wall then leave the dorm for orientation. The flyer says it's required for all athletic students.

"All athletes, please report to the second auditorium," a woman voices through a microphone.

I turn right and follow what seems to be a group of athletic students. If I'm interpreting the map correctly, the rink is diagonal from where I am. I could check out the arena early. But there seems to be no chance of escaping this orientation; the staff are watching us like hawks.

I enter the auditorium and different athletic departments fill the top rows. The front rows have guys with hockey duffle bags at their feet.  I walk over to the large group and sit down in the third row from the bottom. I see no challenges from them, just frat guys wanting university credit. Looks like center position will be mine. 

The side doors open, and a man around my age enters the auditorium. Girls whispers excitedly and even the guys. His brown hair is flattened beneath a Minnesota University cap, hiding his face from my view. He's tall, about 6 inches taller than me. The duffle bag of hockey sticks answers my next question.

He's greeted by all the guys in the front row, handshakes and fist bumps. He's definitely made a name for himself. He scans some familiar faces until his eyes land on me. His eyes widen a little before relaxing into a neutral expression. I hold up my middle finger, and he scoffs as if I'm a mere threat.

"Alright, settle down, everyone," an athletics coach takes the microphone on stage. I lower the volume of my music in case he says something important. "For the newcomers, I'm the head coach of the hockey team.

"My name is Coach Johnson, and I am the head coach for the hockey team," he announces, looking towards us.

Coach Johnson begins talking about the campus, giving a history lesson on how it was founded, etc. Then, how our academics determine our eligibility to play. I heard the professors are tough here, but it should be fine if I study in advance.

"Hockey players, stay; all other sports, you may leave. Enjoy the semester," he declares. 

"Now, gentlemen, let's get down to business," he continues, approaching our side of the auditorium.

"Tryouts will be tonight at 6 pm, which is in two hours. I expect everyone to be on time; if you're late, consider yourself cut," he snickers.

"Everyone has their positions. Why can't we just get to it, Coach?" the brunette asks. It's the popular guy.