Defenseman No. 9 - Xavier Neal Page 0,94
of having to watch you on the ice and fucking leave with them. And, if you feel like Peck, Springfield, or Scottsdale?” A wide mouth grin grows on his face. “You’re in the right place.”
Silence in the locker room remains through the expanding tension.
Stiles casually retreats to the door, which he holds open, clears his throat, and motions his head for the unwelcomed players to leave. “Today, gentlemen.”
In a curse-filled outrage, Flockston, Gardin, and two other new, potential players storm out of the area. They throw out slurs. One swears he can do better. Each audibly promise this shit isn’t over in spite of the fact we all know it is.
Stiles runs a dictatorship.
He’s made that shit clear from the minute he became head coach.
The university is now even more sought after than it previously was due to the improved performance of their most beloved sport and the wonderful representation he’s pushed us into having. Great grades. Community commitment. Inclusion.
He stands for the new direction the Dean is aiming to be seen going.
Those four will transfer universities before he does.
Once they’re gone, he gives his clipboard a quick glance and announces, “Peck, Gillette, Stratton, Rhinehart, and Hancock. You’re up first. Rutledge you’re goalie.”
His exit promptly proceeds the declaration, causing Peck to whip around and gripe, “Could you two hurry the fuck up, please? I don’t want him informing everyone watching that we’re late.” He swings back around to stomp over to the exit, muttering under his breath, “Fucking parents will never let me hear the end of it if that happens…”
“He needs a Snickers bar or some shit,” an unidentified, brown-skinned recruit casually comments. “Is he like that all year?”
“Worse,” Rutledge grumbles as he passes by him.
The possible new player cringes, grabs his stick, and follows our main goalie out the door, wordlessly informing me that’s Hancock.
Tryouts are, in some ways, more intense than they’ve ever been before. Stiles and Owens, his new assistant coach for the season, don’t let up for a single second. Drills are run with higher expectations coming from both. Stiles leads as he should; however, Owens rises to the rank by challenging and pushing players when he believes the time is appropriate. It’s insanely easy to separate us into those who came to practice over the summer and those that took the time off. Even the crowd gathered to see what the possible season may look like can spot the dedication difference.
We’re the ones not wheezing.
We’re the ones not puking off to the side.
We’re the ones asked again and again to get out on the ice to showcase our impressive skillsets.
At the end of tryouts, the audience unnecessarily applauds, and Stiles thanks them for the support. We’re instructed to change back into our normal clothes and wait around the locker room to be called for the results. There’s no surprise that Peck gets called first or that he keeps his captain title. Rutledge is next with Stratton and Gillette coming in quickly behind. As soon as my best friend is finished, he motions me in to hear my status.
I flop down in the open chair inside his office. My bag hits the floor causing a dramatic thud to reverberate around the cheerless office. The expression I’ve become accustomed to seeing over the past few years is wedged tightly in place. His hands are folded together. Lips in a tight line.
Nothing feels like it’s changed, and I’m grateful.
“Do you wanna be on this team, Rhinehart?”
The question successfully catches me off guard.
“You skipped weigh in and getting your blood drawn yesterday.”
I wasn’t ready to step foot anywhere near here.
“You were late to tryouts.”
I also wasn’t expecting to actually come.
“You were amazing out on that ice, but it was clear your head wasn’t always where it needed to be.”
Guilt grabs me roughly by the shoulders and attempts to push me down in my seat.
I’ve fucked up.
I was selfish and put my own…disgraceful feelings first when I should’ve put the team first.
Been here when required.
Been present when needed.
Had their backs in solidarity instead of hiding mine in self-hatred.
I made a mistake, and I will own it when he gives me the chance to.
“Now, I’m gonna ask you the question, again, because if you wanna be on this team, Rhinehart, I want you here. They,” his finger points towards the closed door, “want you here. We. Want. You,” he points to the desk separating us, “here.”
The unpredicted proclamation pushes my shoulders back.
It picks my sulking frame up.
It prompts hope to