Breaking The Ice [bxb]

Chapter Two [Eli]

*this chapter contains multimedia relevant to the plot*

"Alright, boys, that's good for today."

The flurry of teenage boys converges into a surprisingly unrehearsed orderly line towards the rink's exit. I stay back, swinging lazily from one foot to the other, skimming slowly across the ice, stick tightly clasped in my hand.

When the rink has cleared, I skate to the sidelines, where Coach Hansen and Coach Miller stand. Owen beats me to that spot. Dean slides up right behind me. The three of us lean over the rink topper, where Coach Hansen has his clipboard propped. The two coaches stop talking when we reach them and look at us.

Today's the last day of tryouts for the team. The roster goes up tomorrow, which mean's today's the final day of deliberations.

"What do you think, boys?" Coach Hansen asks us. One beefy hand scratches at the dark stubble covering the lower half of his face all the way down to his neck. The short prickly beard matches the scarce traces of hair that line the sides of his head around a shiny bald spot at the top.

"They're green."

It's a very Owen-typical thing to say. Short sentences, few words, no bullshit. And just an edge of near-charming arrogance.

Coach Hansen crosses his arms over his chest, left hand still holding the clipboard. "Yeah, we'll probably take every boy that was with us last year back. But we'll need some of these green ones to fill the remaining spots."

"Weiss wasn't half-bad," I throw in.

Coach Miller gives me a meaningful look beneath the visor of his red baseball cap. "We noticed him too," he says, looking at Coach Hansen. "And Patton."

"Patton scored more than the others, but he looks like he learned to skate yesterday," Owen says. "And Weiss wasn't that good."

"They're freshman, they'll get better," Dean chimes in, messing around with his neckguard.

Coach Miller nods in agreement to his son's words.

"We were ten times better as freshmen. And we definitely knew how to skate," Owen retorts.

"We'll sleep on it, boys. Thank you for your intake," Coach Hansen says.

Coach Miller stands back a little, leaning against the rink boards to look between the three of us. Benevolent coffee-brown eyes stand out from above a thick mass of dark-blonde beard, one shade darker than the hair on his head. 

While Coach Hansen was a hockey prodigy in his own right, impressing a few big names in his college days before moving on to build a short career in the NHL until a shoulder injury pulled him away from the game, our assistant coach is the perfect example of more modest, homegrown talent. He was a Brunson Grizzly Bear back in his day — my father's day, for that matter — and never left the town that raised him.

He and my dad were thick as thieves. Growing up, they used to play with me and Dean on the ice, even before Coach Miller got the job training the team.

Thin lips twitch into a familiar smile. "I'll wait outside for you, boys."

Owen and Dean both skate to the exit, stepping off the ice as Dean's dad walks away. I watch from inside the rink as Owen broodily plops down on a bench to remove his skates.

"Why are you so wound up?"

"Because our team will suck," Owen states, a little too dramatically. Not the tone, just the words.

"It won't suck, because we're in it," I say slowly. "Every team needs rookies."

"Fuck that. I need to impress scouts this year," he declares. "My dad and Coach Hansen worked hard to get good colleges to come to Fuck-Just-Outside-Of-Nowhere, Idaho to see me."