Page 29 of Like a Power Play
There’s no better aroma than the smell of an ice rink. It’s a faint, almost stale scent, crisp air and sweat and rubber. One of my favorite things about playing hockey is that the ice always smells the same, from the first time I stepped on it at two years old to now, as a college junior.
I’m here early, as usual, stretching my limbs out in the cold while the rest of the team trickles in. My skates chip the ice as I hold myself in a plank position, rolling my hips in slow circles. Good thing I practiced solo this morning, because my body was practically cement from staying posted on the couch over the weekend. Bailey, Harlowe, and I spent both evenings in heated debate over whether indie rock sensation Atticus Amelie is hot, or just tall.
I don’t know how the results were inconclusive, seeing as there’s an odd number of us, but it happened. I didn’t even care about the stupid argument, I was just grateful for the distraction.
But now it’s Monday, and everything feels…off.
The rink smells different, the air is too thin, and the hype playlist I made, titledPuckin’ Vibe, seems to have been replaced by…pop.I like pop, sure, but usually in the context of my car, when I’m stuck in traffic and pretending to be in a 2000’s chick flick. On the ice? I need something invigorating. Something that makes my feet hit the ice like I could shatter it with only my blades.
I want to shake the rink like my dad, not float through it.
I exhale, stretching to the sound of Britney Spears, breath visible against the ice as my mind travels to the entire force behind my need for a distraction. The vexing and masochistic force being Darcy, of course.
We left off on bad terms,again.Darcy clearly thinks this is a game you can plot, and she’s insufferably confident in that assumption. Granted, I didn’t exactly help the case.
But everything, my entire career, depends on how well this team can come together.
Kendall graduating last year left a sizable dent in our defense, and if the new-recruits don’t fill it, we’ll never get past the final round of the LNHL (Lakeshore Northwest Hockey League) conference championship. Not that we ever have before, butthis year, I’m determined to change that. Recruiters from the Sabertooths have been at the LNHL finals two years running, and both times they’ve drafted straight from the winners.
I want us there. I want a shot. At the NCAA championship. At the Women’s Frozen Four. At the Sabertooths.
And there is no way am I going to let some green-eyed, off-the-ice student-coach, who has no clue what it means to bleed for this game, get in my way.
Coach’s voice cuts through the air, the rest of the team tumbling onto the ice at her instruction.
“Clarke, lead warm-ups. When I get back, we’ll do drills.” She casts a trusting glance in my direction, and I pull myself to my feet, nodding. “I have to go take care of something.”
“Yes, Coach.”
I school my expression into stillness, even as my stomach knots itself. After last week, she pulled me aside and tore into me for letting the team show up hungover. I’d stood there, nodding, taking it, because… well, I deserved it. I am the Captain. It is my responsibility.
The silence that follows stretches through the rink, a quiet so deafening my ears begin to ring, as everyone around me waits. I was voted Captain during training camp, but honestly, I think it’s just because everyone sees someone in me that I’m not sure is really there. While skating has been second nature to me for as long as I can remember, leading the team still feels like foreign territory.
My brother Avery once told me that herding dogs are born with the instinct to gather, to guide. But that doesn’t mean they know how to do it right away. They have to learn when to run, when to stop, when to turn. Without training, they might just sprint in circles, biting ankles, confused by the very drive that’s supposed to define them. I wonder if that’s me right now,standing at center ice with my team behind me. Feeling the instinct but not yet knowing what to do with it.
I try to shake it off, to push the uncertainty aside, but as I turn to face my team, my eyes get caught on her, like skates snagged on chipped ice. My body freezes, but it feels like I’m jolting forward, tumbling to the ground, so that my palms meet the ice in a skin-scraping, heart-stuttering slip. Darcy is sitting in the stands, pen tucked behind her ear, completely absorbed in thatdamnclipboard again. Her brow furrows as she draws her arm up to her face, swiping the pen into her hand and scribbling something down, lost in her own world of ink and paper, with no idea that I’m watching.
I can’t believe she had the audacity to claim I treat hockey like a joke, when she spends more time staring at that clipboard than she does the ice.
“Uh, Cap?”
My gaze snaps to Indie, who’s using her stick like a table, chin propped upon it as her hazel eyes stare out.Jesus, this kid needs work.I clear my throat, gloved hands tightening around the faded blend of yellow, blue, and pink tape on my stick, before I smack it to the ground in one, swift clap.
“Alright, team, listen up!” Everything feels like it’s shaking: my breath, my voice, my hands. But when I glance down, my stick is steady as ever. So I inhale, let the air fill me up, then exhale slowly, hoping to smooth out the tremor inside me. “Get down. We’re gonna stretch.”
My teammates drop to the ice without hesitation, then stare at me expectantly. It’s a strange thing, being the center of attention. Anywhere else, I don’t mind it. Screaming at football games, dancing on tables at parties with Bailey, laughing a little too hard at the theater majors’ plays just to make sure they know someone’s paying attention.
But here, on the ice?
The rink, usually so full of noise and urgency, feels quiet with the expectation that I know exactly what I’m doing.
But I’m just D1, like the rest of them. I haven’t proven to be anything more.
I swallow, the uncertainty curdling in my stomach, and I reach for something in my chest, something that can convince them the “C” clinging to my jersey is where it belongs. The word comes out, but it’s softer than I want it to be, reminding me that I’m still trying to convince myself too.
“Lunges,” I say, hoping it’s enough.
My muscles feel pliable now, not like the stiff limbs I woke up with, and when Coach strolls back into the arena, the team is prepared. She claps her hands, the shortpopechoing off the plexiglass.
