by Devon Monk
Waltz? Foxtrot? Box step? I wasn’t even sure those were things, but thought I’d heard Mr. Spark groan about them when he and Mrs. Spark had taken a couple dance classes when I was in middle school.
Josky laughed, then slapped Graves on the arm. They stopped, switched hands so hers was on his upper back and his was on her shoulder. Then Josky started counting and Graves was following her lead, whistling a low tune to the rhythm of their steps.
It was sweet. Nice. One of those things that made me happy I’d come back. Come home.
Graves’s eyes tipped up, his gaze searching then finding Duncan and me. He nodded briefly, and I nodded back.
I wasn’t sure what we’d just said to each other in that exchange, but it felt like camaraderie. It felt like an understanding that we were in this together. That he had my back.
That we were a team
“Did Josky dance with every one?” I asked.
Duncan nodded. “Graves was the last holdout. Looks like she pinned him down. You know what that means, buddy?” Duncan shoved the door open, walking backward in front of me in the cold autumn air. I shivered at the difference in temperatures. It was roasting in Downpour, but early October chill had bitten down hard and held on.
“What does it mean?”
“It means we’re gonna win!” Duncan shouted.
A couple people in the parking lot looked our way then looked away again.
I chuckled. “Good,” I said, making finger guns at him. “’Cause that’s all I know how to do.”
Twelve
Two o’clock in the morning, an alarm was ringing. I brought my phone up to my bleary gaze. Not an alarm. A text.
How’d u like the band?
I rubbed at my face, read it again. It had to be Genevieve. I propped up enough my thumbs were free.
All da love! Couldn’t u tell by how long I stared & drooled?
You looked like u were into it. Are u stalking me?
???
Never seen u there before.
Was out w/team. Game 2morrow. It’s a good-luck thing.
Hockey, right?
Yep. I hesitated, then took the plunge. Want2 come2 a game? Tomorrow or????
No reply.
It will be fun.
I can get u free tix.
Tomorrow is 1st game. Grudge match. Should be a good one.
A text finally chirped.
What time?
Is that a yes 4 tomorrow?
Yes.
Yes!!! 7:00. Ticket at the front under your name. Will need your last name. Oh, do u want extra for friend…or date?
I deleted, rewrote, deleted.
“Fuck it.” I wrote it one more time then hit send. I chewed on my thumbnail and sighed. She probably had a boyfriend. I thunked the back of my head against the wall. Of course she had a boyfriend. I’d just met her and couldn’t stop thinking about her. Someone else was sure to have noticed her before me. She was in a rock band. It was impossible not to see her.
Brooks. Two. :)
Before I could reply:
1 for me & 1 for friend. Which team r u on?
Portland Thunderheads.
How will I know which one is u?
My name will be written across my back.
Right. Ha. I knew that.
My # is 42.
Like life, the universe & everything?
No. Hockey is life, the universe & everything.
Lol. See you tmrw! Good luck!
Thx. Goodnight, G.
Night, R.
I reread the text until the screen went dark. I was pretty sure I had a goofy smile on my face.
This was a win. It might even be a sign. Tomorrow, my first game with my new team in my new league was going to be amazing.
Thirteen
It was not amazing.
It was hell.
The Tide hit the ice with speed that made our team look like we had sandpaper on our skates and rocks on our backs.
In the first two minutes, we botched a pass. The Tide used that to out-muscle us in a scrum against the boards and their forward, a guy named Catcher, got a lucky bounce off the irons. The puck ricocheted over Josky’s left shoulder and into the net.
Score: 1-0 Tide.
Things went downhill from there.
The crowd worked hard to push us up. Chanting, cheering, groaning at each missed opportunity, but we could not seem to catch our rhythm.
First games are always a little shaky. Especially if the team brought in a lot of new players. The Thunderheads picked up three new players this year. Me, Duncan, and Graves, and a lot of the other lines had been mixed up.
But we were playing like we’d never met each other, much less practiced together for weeks.
End of the second period we were down four-zip.
Coach was not pleased.
He walked into the locker room, a clipboard in his hand, his tie loosened. Assistant Coach Beauchamp lumbered in behind him and leaned up against a wall. The trainer, a quiet guy named Leon made his way between players checking to make sure there weren’t any injuries that needed to be dealt with.
We hunched on the benches in front of our lockers, breathing hard and gulping down sport drinks and bars.
I was between the second line defensemen, Trotier and Tetreault, “T1” and “T2” the “Terminators” They were roommates and one of them, T2, was going to Portland University for a degree in marine biology.
Duncan sat in the corner next to Josky. Graves was opposite me, right next to Watts and JJ.
“Now that everyone has gotten their nerves over with, let’s win this game,” Coach Clay said. “Put in the hustle. Prove you want this. First home game on our ice. Stop trying to be fancy. Just shoot the puck at the net every time. Every chance. Get in there and fight for it.”
He didn’t yell, didn’t even sound angry. But there was something sharp in his words, like a fire building. Like he was not going to let us let him down.
He paced, just three steps one way and three steps back, all of them uncannily silent.
Snow leopard shifter.
“Josky, did you get your dances?”
“Yes, Coach.” She wiped the towel over her face and took a swig of water, spraying some of it down the back of her neck.
“Then this is not bad luck.” Three steps, turn. Three steps.
“This is not a lack of skill. Not a lack of training. You put in the sweat. You put in the bruises and blood. The Tide want to tear us down, put us on our knees. In our home. In our territory.”
He stopped moving, faced all of us. “Don’t let them define who we are. What we are. Push back. Hard.”
Our captain, Lock, first line left wing, stood and addressed us. “Just like in practice,” he said in with that lilting Swedish accent. “We play our game, just like we always do. Play our pace, not theirs. They chase us. They fight for our puck. We out think them.” He tapped a finger at his temple, then pointed that finger out to the side, toward the rink. “Our game. Our ice. Our crowd. Let’s give ’em hell, boys.”
The team clapped and shouted as we surged to our feet. Lock fist-bumped, slapped helmets, slapped shoulders of each player who walked out of the room and down the corridor past him. I fell in at the back of the line.
Coach Clay stopped me. “Your head in the game, Hazard?”
“I’m good.”
His eyes, blue as old ice were sharp and hard. There was so much cat in that gaze that I held perfectly still, holding my breath.
But his pupils didn’t slit, his teeth didn’t elongate. His cat might be pushing to escape his bones, but his control was more than up to the task. It was a moment, though. A chance for me to see how much this game meant to him. How much this team meant to him.
“We don’t need flashy. Solid work gets this done. You can skate circles around every one of the players on the Tide. So do that. I want you to get in there and shake them up. Get the puck. Put it in the net. We’re not going out on a zero. Understand, wiz
ard?”
I nodded. My heart was already beating too hard. He’d noticed how nervous I’d been all night. I’d made some dumb plays, misread the ice and players in a way that made me feel like I should be busted back to Juniors.
There were a lot of eyes out there—press, critics, haters—watching me.
Everyone wanted to see the first wizard in history to play hockey.
Most everyone wanted to see him fail.
Wizards were not expected to be physically strong. Wizards were not chosen for sport. So there were some people out there who really wanted me to win too.
It was a lot to put on a first game. It was a lot to expect from me, and my new team.
The crowd, the press, the critics, the haters all hoped I’d lose it again. Hoped I’d use magic.
And that was hard to swallow. Knowing it was that fascination with magic that packed the stands. Just like the shifter fights on the ice had packed these stadiums for years.
We were the side show, the freaks. And I was the main attraction today.
There was no changing that. What I could do, what I could prove, was that I was here because I could play damn good hockey.
Fourteen
First forty seconds into the third, JJ sunk the puck. I whooped when the red light went off and joined Duncan and Watts in the pile on top of JJ, smacking his helmet for luck.
“That’s how we do it, boys,” he panted.
“Fuck yes!” Watts crowed. “Finally!”
The Tide doubled down on their defensive game, every hit was harder than the last.
My bruises had bruises.
We were all playing harder, faster, that goal doing everything to light our fire.
Josky was amazing in net. Solid, fast, and damned near acrobatic. She stopped everything they threw at her. We did everything we could to make sure she didn’t have to.
Ten minutes in, we got two goals almost back to back with a little bait-and-switch behind the net.
Eight minutes left, the game was within one point.
The crowd hadn’t stopped roaring since our back-to-back goals. All of us on the bench pounded our sticks on the ground or against the boards to make noise.
Another scoreless minute went by, and then it was the fourth line’s shift again. I hit the ice hard, pushing to get in position for the puck. Graves took the faceoff against one of their forwards, dug hard for it and shucked the puck toward the corner.
Duncan was waiting, but so was one of their D-men. There was a scuffle, a couple shoves, elbow shots, grunts and growls, then the puck broke free. I was ahead of it, in good position to take it down the boards, one of their wingers right on me.
I scooped it up and made a break for the crease.
I never saw the other guy coming. One second I was pounding toward the net, the next I was hit from behind. My head slammed into the boards, pinned by an arm across the back of it. My knees buckled and my vision went black with pain. I lost my grip on my stick.
“Wizard trash,” the voice snarled.
It happened fast. So fast, I almost couldn’t register the reality of it.
Slick hot blood poured down my throat, the heat of it covered my face. I blinked and blinked trying to clear my vision.
Holy shit. I’d been hit before but this was a pile drive and illegal as hell. I swear my spine was busted, my lungs crushed.
I pushed to my knees, heard the shrill warble of a whistle, and after that, booing from the crowd.
Then there were hands on me.
“Shit, Ran, you okay?” Duncan panted, his hands pressing around my wrists, halting my movements.
“Who?” I grit out.
“Who else? Steele.”
Leon, our trainer, was there, his voice low and calm. “Just let me take a look at your eyes, Random. Hold still.”
He angled my head and I grit my teeth against the vertigo as the arena sloshed to one side.
“Might be a light concussion,” he said. “Let’s get you on the bench. Can you stand?”
“Yes. Yeah.” I worked on getting my feet under me while Duncan and Leon hauled me up. Leon put a steadying arm around my ribs, and draped my arm over his shoulders.
“Just to the bench and we’ll see how you’re doing.”
To my surprise, both my legs worked fine and other than a headache and a ringing in my ears I couldn’t seem to shake, I didn’t have any problems skating over to the bench.
A scattering of applause accompanied me, and like the sweetest music I’d ever heard, the ref called out Steele, earning him five minutes in the penalty box.
Asshole deserved it.
The crowd cheered for that, which made me smile, and then the game was on, harder, faster, my D-man, Watts, making it clear that breaking my brain against the boards didn’t happen without retribution.
I sat on the bench and glared at Steele.
Steele glowered at me from the opposite side of the arena, his hatred palpable.
Both teams were tired and frustrated, and it showed. We couldn’t knock the puck in the net even with the one-man advantage, and they couldn’t get past our goalie.
Then, suddenly, there was a different tension in the air. I’d say electricity, but it was more like lightning looking for a place to strike, a storm pulsing and pulsing, waiting for a chance to break.
“Oh, shit,” Leon, behind me, said.
I glanced at him. His eyes were wide, focused on the players on the ice. “He’s gonna shift.”
Okay, then. Apparently our trainer was a sensitive.
Coach, who I thought was too wrapped up in the game to hear Leon’s soft voice over the noise asked, “One of ours?”
“Other team. I think their center. Lundqvist.”
My gaze riveted to the play. The center was against the boards. Duncan was up against him, fighting for the puck.
I could hear the swearing from here, because Duncan had a mouth on him and loved to give players hell.
Then I heard the snarl.
It was a loud screeching growl of a big cat. Duncan heard it. He was there, crowding up against the guy. He must know Lundqvist was about to shift.
But instead of stepping back, Duncan stole the puck.
Lundqvist lost his shit.
He surged after Duncan. Swung his stick from behind and smashed Duncan’s face. Duncan staggered, fell to his ass. Then he pushed back up to his feet and threw his gloves off, ready to fight.
The linesmen and refs were blowing whistles like traffic cops in a highway pile up, racing toward the players. The crowd roared and cheered, their hunger, their energy feeding the scene, feeding the impending fight.
Duncan was running his mouth, that gritty smile on his face that even made me want to take a shot at him.
My heart swelled with pride for him. Idiot.
I wondered if his parents were watching. Knew they were somewhere out there in the audience.
Lundqvist lost control of his magic. His big body twisted, bulked and stretched as he roared and yelled himself into the shape of a cat. A big cat. Lion.
His jersey and undergear all lay in shredded heaps on the ice, his skates twisted and broken from the force of his shift. His head was low, muzzle curled back to reveal huge teeth.
Duncan was breathing hard, his hands in fists, his grin now more of a grimace as he grappled with control to keep his own shift from taking over.
That was the thing with second-marked and fourth-marked. When one shifted, it often triggered the shift in others.
“C’mon, Duncan,” I whispered. “C’mon, brother. Easy. Easy.”
There was so much noise, so much chaos in the arena, I knew he couldn’t hear me.
Still, he glanced up, his gaze a little wild as he searched me out. When he found me, our gazes locked and something in him settled.
Then he laughed, his whole body relaxing as he gave me two big thumbs up and that cocky grin.
I huffed out a laugh of my own. Just like all the years of hockey we’d play
ed, and every damn fight Duncan had started. He loved pushing the other guy until he lost it.
To Duncan the fight wasn’t won when the last hit landed, it was won before the first fist flew.
“Hell, yes!” I yelled. “You got this, Spark!”
That was when everything went crapbaskets.
Lundqvist lunged at Duncan. Duncan braced just in time to get under Lundqvist’s shoulder and lift. Man vs. lion usually had one outcome: dead man. But wolf shifter vs. lion was a different playing field.
Duncan’s wolf was so close to the surface, his reflexes were heightened, as were his senses and all those hard, conditioned muscles. He shoved with a grunt, lifting Lundqvist up so the huge teeth and head were pushed away. Shifter or not, a lion did not have good purchase on ice. Not as good as a conditioned hockey player still wearing his skates.
I’d seen Duncan do this before. We’d played mixed leagues when we were in high school, where shifts were almost a daily occurrence. So we all knew the best ways to deal with a shifter and come out of it with our hands and limbs intact.
Not that this wasn’t dangerous. It was very dangerous. But if Duncan shifted into his wolf, he’d lose his calm. The beast would take over, all instinct and anger.
And then it would be a bloodbath.
For a minute I thought this was going to work out. The refs were there, ready with the short, low-voltage prod rods that looked like billy clubs.
When we were twelve, Duncan and I had stolen a prod rod out of our coach’s office and tried it on each other. Even the lowest setting had knocked us on our asses. Duncan wanted me to try it on him when he was in wolf form.
I wouldn’t do it, but he talked one of our teammates into it. The prod rod had surprised a yelp out of Duncan’s wolf, and he sat back so fast on his haunches, it was comical. Then he sneezed and shook his head for two minutes straight.
Duncan had later told me it hadn’t hurt that much, but it had shut down all his senses in a flash. Like a hard hit of smelling salts if the smelling salts were made of lightning and acetone.
