Adventures in an alternate dimension Book 2

Chapter 53 - Frozen Dreams: A La Push Boy Takes Aim at Hockey Glory

Jason's POV

The crisp Forks air bit at my cheeks as I laced up my skates, the worn leather a familiar comfort. The ice at the La Push community rink was a far cry from the fancy arenas I'd seen online, but it was all I had. Tonight was the night – hockey tryouts. My stomach twisted with a mix of excitement and nervousness. Here, in La Push, hockey wasn't exactly mainstream. I was the only one from our reservation even trying out for the Forks High team.

A hand clapped my shoulder, startling me. It was Billy Black, my great-uncle and the tribal elder. His kind, weathered face held a reassuring smile. "Nervous, kid?" he rumbled.

I nodded, my chest tightening. "A little. I'm the only one from La Push."

"All the better for it," Billy boomed, a twinkle in his eyes. "They'll never forget the day a La Push boy stole the show." A flicker of something unreadable crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it came.

Across the ice, I spotted my family. Dad's side, Edward and Sky, sat beside Bella, mom. Their expressions were unreadable, as usual, but I knew they were there for me. Beside them, a wide grin split Grandpa Charlie's face. He was practically vibrating with excitement.

The whistle blew, signaling the start of drills. I took to the ice with a smooth glide, years of practicing on frozen ponds paying off. I weaved through cones with surprising agility, my movements honed by almost a year of navigating the crazy werewolf transformations. My shots might not have been the hardest (thanks to my werewolf strength, holding back was key), but they were accurate, finding the net each time.

But it wasn't just about skill. Fueled by La Push pride and the cheers of my family, I brought a relentless energy to the drills. I hustled after every puck, fought for every inch of ice. I dove for loose pucks, ignoring the sting of cold on exposed skin. I became a blur of black and white, the La Push Howling Wolf logo on my jersey seeming to come alive with every move.

By the end of the drills, Coach Hemingway, a wiry man with a gruff exterior, was watching me with a flicker of grudging respect in his eyes. The scrimmage that followed was a blur of adrenaline and scraped knees. While not the biggest player, I used my agility and newfound strength to my advantage. I intercepted passes, disrupted plays, and even managed to assist on a goal.

Finally, the whistle blew for the last time. Coach Hemingway gathered the players, his face unreadable. "Alright, listen up," he barked. "Most of you already know the drill. You'll get a call if you make the team." He paused, scanning the faces before him. "Except for you, kid with the wolf on your jersey."

A jolt of nervous anticipation ran through me. "Me?"

"Yeah, you," Coach Hemingway said, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "You've got some raw talent there, kid. But you need work on your slap shot."

The tension drained from me, replaced by relief and a wave of pure elation. I grinned – a real, un-werewolfish grin – that stretched from ear to ear. "Yes sir! I'll work on it."

Cheers erupted from the stands. Grandpa Charlie was jumping up and down, yelling congratulations while Bella and Edward exchanged a subtle smile. Billy Black gave me a thumbs-up, his eyes holding a glint of pride.

Later that night, as the Forks sky glittered with a million stars, I sat on the porch swing at our house, a warm mug of hot chocolate clutched in my hands. The news of me making the team had spread like wildfire through La Push. Already, messages of congratulations were pouring in.

I glanced at my family, a wave of gratitude washing over me. "Thanks, guys," I mumbled, the warmth spreading through me more than just the hot chocolate. "For everything."