Shea

"Remember: no matter how hard or fast the chase is, or how close the defensemen are, always take the puck across the net," Coach says.

The ref blows the whistle.

It's the opening game of the season, and the boys are restless. With two weeks of intensive training and anticipation of the oncoming season, we're ready. Being dressed in my hockey gear again feels good. And I love the subzero temperature of the arena. Playing road hockey during the summer was fun, but it's time to get back to business.

As my teammates file off the ice and take their places on the bench, I stay on the ice and lean against the plexiglass. I tap my hockey stick against the icy surface beneath my feet. No matter which team we're playing or which city we're in, I always have to be the last one off the ice. On the opposite side of the blue line, the other team is making their way back to the bench. I have to fight off a cocky grin as one of them stumbles. It begs the question: Why does West Kelowna even have a team? They have no talent, and they're the most pathetic lot I've ever had the pleasure of beating.

To my left, I hear the echo of Coach's voice. He's continuing with his pep-talk, but nobody, including me, is listening. We're all in game-mode, ready to annihilate the other team and take first place in the standings. Professional hockey players always say your first game determines how you'll play this season. And losing is not an option. This is going to be my year.

It has to be.

"Coming, Smith?" Kaleb Jones pauses in front of me and taps me on the shins with his hockey stick. I cock my head to the side. Through the visor of my helmet, I note how weak KJ looks. I think his appetite left him around the same time as his girlfriend. The news surprised everyone on the team. Me, though? I asked him what the hell it had to do with hockey. I also reminded him I warned him having a girlfriend would lead to nothing but problems. But did he listen to me? Nope. I'd hazard a bet he's regretting not taking my advice now. When you're playing hockey, there's no time for girlfriends; they always whine and complain about how we pay more attention to the sport than them. I've never had a girlfriend, but I've heard it along the grapevine. I don't have time for romance. Nothing matters more than hockey, and that's the bitter truth.

"Bro," I say, "being the last one off the ice is my superstition. Quit being so judgemental."

KJ rolls his eyes, muttering something about my ridiculous hockey superstitions. I'm tempted to tell him to fuck off, but it's a waste of time. Let Jones judge me, let him think it's stupid. It's my belief that being the last player off the ice gives me good luck; I play better, I skate better, and my shots are more accurate.

Rolling my shoulders, I direct my attention to the opposing team. I'll admit some players with West Kelowna have skills... They're just not as good as I am. I'm ignorant to put myself higher than the rest, but it's part of what fuels me. Believing I'm the best makes me have high expectations for myself. When I'm playing, I push myself past the limits. The other part is my hatred for Brenna Harrison.

First, she's a girl—the only girl in the league. Why the hell is a girl allowed to play hockey with the boys? It's like mixing oil and water together: incompatible. Women belong on the ice—but only within their own league. This mixing of genders shouldn't be allowed. Period. Second, she plays centre. The same position I play. Meaning, she's always my check, and she always acts like a nosy bitch when I have control of the puck or have taken position in front of their net. Finally, there's history between us. We used to be friends before things turned sour. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, but my mind was young and naïve back then. I've hated her ever since the moment my dad pointed out she was better than me during a hockey camp we attended together.

As if she can feel my eyes on her, her head snaps up, and she looks at me. Her blue-violet eyes bore deep into mine, the look of hatred she's giving me mirroring my feelings toward her. I give her a brief wave, flashing my best smirk. Her left glove is off, so when she reaches up to scratch her face, her middle finger is in plain sight. I snort. She's using a juvenile method.

"What? Are we in kindergarten again, Harrison?" I call out. "Some words of advice: Save it for the ice. We all know you're gonna need it."

"Can it, Smith," she sneers. Her calculating gaze flicks down my hockey equipment, putting me on the edge. For as long as I can remember, Brenna Harrison has been a threat to my goals. Every year since she joined the boys' league, she's taken home awards like MVP and sportsmanship. All of which are factors I need under my belt if I'm going to attend Boston University.

The truth is, she's a damn good hockey player. I hate to admit it, but she has skills I could never possess. Pulling my bottom lip between my teeth, I cock an eyebrow. "Like what you see?"

"Not particularly," she replies.

"Good, because you're not getting any."

While half the boys on my team want a piece of Brenna Harrison, I'm not part of that group. Fraternizing with the enemy isn't attractive.

Harrison laughs. It's a hollow, sarcastic laugh. "Puh-lease," she retorts. "I'm just wondering how you're going to play when you've got no hands. It must be hard to eat, eh, buddy?"

I scowl at her as she steps off the ice. When the ref blows the whistle again, I glance around the rink, realizing I'm the last player on the ice. Pleased, I turn back to my team and join them on the bench. It always feels good when my skates are the last ones to leave the ice.

"Jones, Smith, Miller," Coach barks. "On the ice; you're the starting line today. Don't fuck up." I don't hear the names of our defensemen and goalie as I hop over the boards and head to centre ice. Adrenaline is already pumping through my veins.

Harrison is at centre ice, skating in lazy circles. "Good to see you again, Smith," she taunts. She takes her position across from me, ready to win the puck from the opening face-off.

"Can't say the same," I drawl. "You're at the wrong game, Harrison."

She snorts, twisting her lips to one side and glancing off into the distance. "That's funny, I could say the same to you. The five-year-olds play next door, in case you missed the memo."

I shoot her a sardonic smile.

For the third time today, the whistle blows, signalling the official start of the game. I bend my knees and lower myself into a ready position, my hockey stick hovering above the ice. There's no way in hell I'm letting Harrison win this face-off. Nor will her team win any games against us or beat us in provincials. This year, my last year in this league, is too important. I can't let anything fuck it up. Boston University is waiting for me, as are any potential scouts for the National Hockey League. Boston is the bridge I need to increase my chances of becoming a professional hockey player. I'm not going to let Harrison's tactics stop me.

Saying I'm anxious to make a good impression this season is an understatement.

When the ref drops the puck, I make the first move, winning the draw back to my defensemen, Brody Kirton. He fires an outlet pass up the wall. Our left-winger, Jayden Miller, receives the pass and skates for the blue line. There, he tips the puck past one of West Kelowna's defensemen, who's pinched in to try to prevent Jayden from skating to the net.

I cross the blue line at full speed, coming down the centre. After studying plays throughout the NHL, I try to base my style off of Brendan Gallagher: smile to piss people off and always position myself in front of the net. Players hate me, but many goals have been scored due to my positioning.

Behind the net, KJ cycles the puck back to Jayden. He battles with Ricky Baker for several seconds before he's able to slide the puck back to Kirton. From the moment Kirton receives the puck, I know his intent is to shoot. He has a wicked slap shot, and he's positioned on West Kelowna's goalie's weak side. I prepare myself for a potential tip-in, all while having a shoving match with Harrison. Although she plays centre, she could easily pass as a defensemen. Overall, she's a well-rounded player who knows her shit.

Admitting it makes me sick.

From the corner of my eye, I see the goalie scramble across the net, stretching out his leg and blocker in a helpless manner. There's no way he's saving this one.

When Kirton unleashes his slap shot, Harrison shoves me, changing our positioning. The puck hits the heel of my skate and ricochets in the opposite direction.

An audible groan comes from the bench.

I hear a sigh of relief behind me.

A curse escapes my lips. Damn Harrison.

Hunter Tucker, West Kelowna's right-wing, skates the puck out into the neutral zone, past the red line, and then dumps the puck into my team's zone before heading off for a line change. My line chases suit because we're the only players who can handle the Harrison-Tucker-Wright line.

"Okay, so we've established that she's just as talented on the ice this year as she was last year," KJ mutters, swiping his water bottle from the bench. He lifts the water bottle and pours some down the back of his neck, soaking his jersey.

"Talent?" Jayden snorts. "That girl is a machine. 'Talent' as a descriptive word doesn't do her justice." He gazes at Harrison like a lovesick puppy, her long, dark-brown ponytail swaying against the number sixteen on her back as she skates to the bench. "She's going to come out on top again this year." He shakes his gloves off and adjusts the visor of his helmet. "Smoking hot, too."

I glare at Jayden, my mouth semi-slack. What a pussy. How can he find a girl like Brenna Harrison attractive? She's sabotaging our chances.

As the game goes on, my team dominates possession and shots on goal. But out of the twenty-one shots we throw at the net, Drew Charette, the goalie, acts like a brick wall and turns every single one aside. It frustrates me, but I'm pleased West Kelowna only manages four shots on net. It's clear who deserves to win this game.

In the last minute of the fist period, with sweat sliding down my temples, I push myself and skate hard into West Kelowna's zone, waiting for KJ or Jayden to send the puck down the ice. I'm one-on-one with their defence at the moment; I could walk around him and score a goal to give us the lead. But when KJ sends the puck in my direction, it takes a funny bounce and knocks against my skate, rebounding in the opposite direction.

"Shit," I mutter, following the puck.

Tucker beats me to it and breaks out into a two-on-one with Brenna beside him. Once they enter the zone, the rest of my team trailing behind and desperately trying to get to the puck, they pass the puck back and forth like they're playing a game of ping pong. With their speed and precise passes, our defence doesn't stand a chance—and nor does Connor Watt, our goalie.

Tucker fakes the shot and passes it to Harrison, who completes a lucky wrist shot. The puck lodges itself in the top right corner of the net, sending the water bottle on top flying. Harrison circles down behind the net and is met with a congratulatory hug from Tucker. They're so excited you'd think they scored a game-winning overtime goal.

The final three seconds of the first period pass when the ref drops the puck. When the buzzer goes off, signalling the end of the first period, my team and I head back to the dressing room. We're still feeling optimistic; we know the next period is going to be tougher and faster. The score is one-nothing. We'll eventually break down Charette's confident demeanour. But soon enough, the second period has passed and we're still losing. KJ scores partway through the second, and Harrison responds with a shorthanded goal minutes later. While the other guys marvel at her technique and speed, I slam my stick against the boards. It splits into two pieces. How is it, at seventeen, she's still able to play with boys? And why does she have to excel? I'd rather her be a skimpy puck bunny who swoons over male hockey players and pretends to be interested in hockey to get in my pants as opposed to being someone who can skate circles around me.

During the second intermission, Coach rips us apart, yelling and cursing about how nobody is watching Harrison or checking her enough on the ice. He also adds in his typical speech about how even though she's a girl, we don't have to treat her any differently. I suppress an eye roll. Harrison and I have shoving matches and verbally abuse each other, yes, but I would never purposely hit her. There have been times where checks have turned foul or I've shot the puck and she's blocked it, and vice versa. Those were all accidental, though. Purposely punching her? I would never stoop so low.

Steamrolling Harrison does sound enjoyable, but I'm not a dirty player.

When we're suiting up for the game again, pulling on our gloves and helmets, KJ nudges me. "You ready to shut Harrison down?"

I scowl at him. "Of course."

Beside us, Connor snorts. "Smith's a fucking pussy. He would never harm a hair on Harrison's head."

If there's one person I don't get along with on my team, it's Connor Watt. I bite my lip, holding back a snarky remark. He's doing it to get under my skin. Retaliation will only cost me, not benefit me.

"She's my check," I shrug, gathering my hockey stick. "I'm going to shut her down the proper way."

KJ claps me on the back. "Go get her, Captain."

For the first fifteen minutes, both teams match evenly. Although we're losing, I like the pace and intensity of the game. It means hard work has paid off and the sweat soaking my jersey isn't for nothing. Within the remaining five minutes, I thunder down the right side of the ice on a breakaway and unload a wicked slap shot. It beats Charette high on the glove side. Cheers erupt on the bench, but nothing gives my ego a boot like seeing Harrison smash her stick against the boards and storm to centre ice.

"Nice shot," Jayden says. He bumps his fist against mine.

"Nice pass," I reply. All the pass did was make my job easier. I could have stolen the puck from Nick Wright—he tends to crack under pressure—but Jayden levelled my goal up. There's nothing like team effort resulting in a goal. The satisfaction level is much higher.

As we skate back to centre ice, where the ref is waiting for us, I notice Harrison is already there. She wants to get this game going again. Because I'm feeling smug about the score, I say, "I wonder how it feels to watch a lead crumble."

Harrison rolls her eyes. "Let's continue with the game, Smith."

The ref drops the puck, and Harrison wins the draw. She slides the puck back to her defensemen and then takes off down the ice. If there's one specific thing I don't mind giving her credit for, it's her speed. She's lightning on her skates, her blades scraping against the ice, sharp and precise. She could out-skate Connor McDavid any day.

But speed is why I'm checking her; we're evenly matched, and I can catch up to her without sweating too much. Once she's at the blue line, she comes to an abrupt stop and waits for her teammates. The puck needs to enter the zone before her skates do or else she's offside. When I'm beside her, I give her a shove with my shoulder. It's not hockey without a little roughhousing, and I think shoving her is acceptable.

Harrison shoves me back and knocks her stick against my shins. "Knock it off," she growls.

I shove her again, hoping for a reaction. Everyone knows if you poke a bear long enough, the claws will come out. If I can draw a penalty against Harrison and get my team a power play, we could have a legitimate chance at scoring the game-winning-goal without going into overtime.

Ahead of us, there's a battle for the puck between Tucker and KJ. I nudge her again. "KJ will win the puck. Tucker doesn't know how to balance on his own two feet, let alone a pair of skates."

"Watch your mouth," she warns through gritted teeth. She whacks me with her stick again.

Before I can say another word, KJ wins the battle and bursts through the defensemen. He crosses the blue line into West Kelowna's zone. I pursue him. If there's a deflection, I need to be there to catch the rebound. KJ fires a slap shot just as I'm entering West Kelowna's zone. The force causes his stick to split into two. He drops it to the ice and retreats to the bench, shouting for a new stick. Sadly, Charette swallows the puck. The save prevents us from gaining a lead. I skid to a stop just before the goal line, covering him in a shower of snow.

Charette curses at me. I want to retaliate, but I'm shoved from behind and into the crossbar before I can.

"Back off of my goalie, dip-shit," Harrison snarls.

"I didn't touch your fucking goalie," I spit back, a sardonic smirk on my face. "I snowed him."

She shoves me again, and eight other skaters, along with the ref and linesmen, crowd in on us. They join in on the shoving match and verbal profanity. I figure the moment will diffuse itself, but Harrison's veins must be pumping with adrenaline because she shoves me again. My smirk broadens as I give her another shove. Her helmet falls off, giving me a prime view of her rounded face and blue-violet eyes. After being her opponent for so many years, I can read her like a magazine. The colour of her eyes is several shades darker than usual. She's close to snapping.

I cock an eyebrow and poke her reddened cheek with my gloved hand. "Puck bunny," I drawl.

My words have the desired effect. I've goaded her enough. She's never thrown a punch on the ice, but she does have a habit of pinning players to the boards and yelling at them. However, just as Harrison reaches for my jersey, Tucker steps in.

I roll my eyes. Goddamn Tucker. He's always looking out for his best friend.

"Quit calling her that, Smith," he says. "Brenna deserves to play on the same ice as us. She's not a puck bunny."

I hate how calm his voice is. Nor do I like the way he's gripping the collar of my jersey.

I cock my eyebrow again. "She's a fucking puck bunny, Tucker. And all you do is drool over her. How does it feel to be friend-zoned?"

Tucker drops his gloves the same time mine come off. He grabs with his left, tucks his face in his shoulder, and swings with his right. It's the typical set up for fight. I do the same. I'm very adept at getting my opponent's helmets off during brawls, so it doesn't take me long to have a view of his angled cheeks and unruly brown hair.

I swing my fist.

But instead of catching Tucker in the mouth, I hit Harrison. Both of them tumble to the ice. Shock jolts through me, and I instantly retract my fist, feeling like a piece of shit. Fucking Harrison. That punch wasn't meant for her. She must've shoved Tucker out of the way when she realized I was going to hit him.

Concerned, I lean down and help her sit up, ready to apologize. But when Harrison sees me, an animalistic snarl escapes her throat. She throws her weight at me, causing us to slide across the ice. She's cursing and throwing her fists at me while the refs try to break us up. Each punch is aimed at my chest, where padding is thickest, which is why I don't bother defending myself. Her punches are hard and precise, but they don't hurt. It confuses me. She has the upper hand in this brawl, but she won't go for my face. This is the first time I've seen her throw a punch, too.

Finally, the refs are able to break us apart.

"Fuck you, Smith," Harrison spits. The ref pushes her back to the bench. Blood leaks from her bottom lip, coating her chin in crimson. Her hair is sticking up in every direction, and most of it has come loose from her ponytail. I stare after her in confusion, despite the defeat on my shoulders. Although that girl drives me fucking insane, I regret hitting her. Which is another reason she shouldn't be playing with the boys. It's ridiculous. I could understand when we were younger, but at this age it just isn't right. Harrison needs to find her own team. Hockey isn't hockey without fighting.

She's still looking at me, sending a deadly glare over her shoulder. I don't engage with her. She's expecting me to react, and I don't want to give her the satisfaction. Instead, I stare down at my gloveless hands and the smear of her blood across my knuckles.

"Number thirty-seven," the ref says, "you're done for the night."

Sighing, I collect my gloves, helmet, and hockey stick. I'd been expecting ejection from the game.

As I'm heading off the ice, Connor yells at me from the net. "Didn't think you had it in you, Smith! Maybe you're not a pussy after all!"

His comment makes me flinch, but I don't engage with him. Does Harrison piss me off? Yes. Should she be playing hockey with boys? No. But that doesn't give me the right to go around throwing punches at her—even if they're accidental. Shame burns in my chest as I disappear down the tunnel.

There's one more thing I need to do before I leave the arena.