* * *
I hadno idea what I wanted to study when I got accepted by Maple Hills. I’m graduating in less than a year and I’m still not sure studying sports medicine was the right choice.
I was drafted to the Vancouver Vipers when I finished high school and it was a hard choice to put my education first, especially when joining the NHL has been my dream since I was a kid. All I want to do is play, but I know shit goes wrong in hockey all the time; one bad injury or one unavoidable accident and your career is over.
Even with a spot on my dream team waiting for me as soon as I graduate, I still wishsomethingI’ve learned in the past three years had stayed in my brain so my backup plan felt worth it.
My dad wasn’t a fan of me heading out of state for college, and he was even less of a fan about me signing with a hockey team, never mind one in Canada. He wanted me tolearn the family business
and run the ski resorts until I’m old and gray like him. The idea of turning into my father has always been enough to kick my ass into gear and get my goals.
I’d have better luck understanding cell structures if I wasn’t constantly exhausted from practice, not to mention keeping my clown teammates out of trouble. When Greg Lewinski graduated and handed the captain torch to me last year, he didn’t prepare me for how much babysitting it takes to keep butts on benches ready to play.
Robbie helps me out since he’s assistant to Coach Faulkner. After a skiing accident in our junior year of high school, Robbie didn’t regain movement in his legs and now uses a wheelchair. He transferred his skill of shouting shit at me on the ice to shouting shit at me from the edge of the ice.
He loves nothing more than waving his oversized clipboard in my direction and telling me to do better. The guys on the team love that I take the brunt of Robbie’s abuse because it gives the rest of them an easier time.
A perfect example is days like today. On Fridays, JJ and I have classes in the science building, so we have a tradition of dragging ourselves over to the rink for practice via a Dunkin’ for a pre-workout doughnut.
It’s our little secret, but JJ knows if we get caught, I’ll get the blame anyway, so he doesn’t mind the risk. The last class of the day on a Friday is my least favorite thing in the world, so I don’t mind the risk either.
I’m lazily scrolling through my feed, waiting for JJ outside his lab when I hear his cheery tone getting louder as he approaches me. “You ready to get your hungover ass kicked?”
“Nothing a rainbow sprinkle ring can’t solve. Sweating out alcohol is good anyway. Will get me fresh for tonight.”
His brows furrow together. “What are you talking about? Have you not seen the group chat?”
The last thing I saw was Robbie deciding we were throwing a party tonight. Our first game isn’t for another two weeks and it’s tradition for us to bring in the season with a party or five.
The second I pull out my phone I can see the messages I haven’t read yet.
PUCKBUNNIES
BOBBY HUGHES: Might be dying.
KRIS HUDSON: God speed, buddy.
ROBBIE HAMLET: Drinks at ours tonight?
BOBBY HUGHES: In the words of Michael Scott, I am ready to get hurt again.
JOE CARTER: I’ll bring the tequila roulette board.
HENRY TURNER: Email from Faulkner says go to the awards room, not the rink.
JAIDEN JOHAL: Wtf?
HENRY TURNER: Sent an hour ago.
The awards room is a function room in the central area of the sports building. Most of us don’t spend much time over there unless we’re in trouble; it’s where the coaches work outside of practice and games. It’s where ceremonies are held at the end of the year. If we’re being called there it means someone has massively fucked up, and I hope it wasn’t me.
“I don’t know what’s going on,” JJ says as we climb into my car. “Y’know Josh Mooney, the baseball guy in my class? He said their practice has been canceled too. They have to go to the awards room, but they’ve been told to go thirty minutes after us. Fucking weird, man.”
It’s the third week of term, how much trouble could we be in?
* * *
We’re in so much fuckingtrouble.