Matthew Chandlers is the captain of his school's hockey team, whose dad just happened to be the coach of. But if you ask Matt he'll tell you, his dad being the coach is far from the reason why he's on the team or why he's captain. He's captain becau...
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Hockey practice was my favorite time of the day. I loved everything about it.
The cold sweat dripping down my face, the icy breeze as my skates glided along the ice, the musky smell of wet and dried sweat on my hockey equipment and the water that splashed on my face every time I needed a drink. That rush you'd get when you shot into the net, even if it was just practice shootout.
Whenever I was on the ice I was in my zone. I was like a computer, and nothing could make me glitch.
I was on a whole different wavelength when I was on the ice. Nothing else mattered. Not school. Not dating. Not my parents. Nothing but the stick in my hand and the puck on the ice.
Even getting body checked was no big deal when I was in my zone. It was the reason I was captain. Nothing fazed me and somehow the puck always found my stick.
And even though it was only a practice I still kicked ass in the scrimmage.
Leaving the locker room I was sweaty and my hair was wet to my face. There was one thing I wouldn't do in a locker room and that was shower. Not because I didn't want my teammates to see me naked we've all been naked around each other, or at least close to naked. But for me, I was more comfortable and felt cleaner using my own shower and not one for two seconds while someone is waiting outside the door.
So with that, I walked to my old 2016 silver Chevy Cruze, threw my hockey bag in the trunk before driving home.
Our house as nothing special, it was a modern one story two bedrooms upstairs one bedroom down. I was an only child so I had the basement to myself with my own bathroom and the extra room upstairs was turned into my parents' office years ago.
I parked my car in the long driveway next to my moms rav4 not bothering with the small garage. that was used mostly for my hockey gear.
But before I hauled into the spot my eyebrow quirked at the sight of another car sat on the curb of the house. A black Benz with tinted windows, that could pass for something that came straight off the lot.
Forgetting about everything in the back of the trunk, not likely that I would have brought it in anyways and not really caring for the stink coming for me or the bag I walked the stairs and into the house, climbing the entry way stairs and nearly dropped to the floor when I saw who was sitting at the kitchen table.
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