Hazard

by Devon Monk

  Coach was working them hard. Partly to keep them in shape but mostly because he’d decided the entire team needed to play better together. He ran them through new drills, mixed up the lines.

  And when they left to play the Nampa Hunters Saturday without me, they won.

  They won without me.

  I watched the entire game alone in my bed. My chest felt hollowed out from me not being there with my team, but my heart was beating with hope. The Thunderheads looked…good. Clean. Sharp.

  All the losses, all the screwups, all the penalties from the league had fired them up. They hit the ice like they had something to prove.

  And they did just that.

  I was glued to every shot, every play. Graves and Watson were human freight trains, playing a physical game that sent a clear message: Thunderheads were done playing around. They had come to the ice to win.

  Lock was on fire and the team rallied to his drive. He scored a hat trick, putting the Thunderheads in the lead.

  No matter what the Hunters threw at them, the Boomers just kept moving, pushing, digging, making smart plays.

  The game ended with the Thunderheads taking the win 4-1.

  I cheered, even though it was more of a croak, and clapped, even though I was alone in my room.

  Lock and Graves and Josky took stars of the game, and I could not agree more.

  Just a few minutes after that, my phone buzzed several times. Duncan.

  Hell yes!

  You better be hype!

  King of the assist. Worship.

  I beamed at my phone and texted back.

  F-yeah. WTG!

  His reply was swift. All hail the Donut.

  I tapped out: Hail. King of all breakfast pastries.

  A new message buzzed in. Not from Duncan, from Gen.

  I had only answered one of her half-dozen worried messages since the game in Tacoma. Just to tell her I was sleeping to recover, and that I’d get in touch when I was back on my feet.

  She worked for a doctor who did testing. She probably had a good idea of what using that amount of magic could do to a person.

  It had been pretty impossible to have not heard about my big blowup.

  It was still all over the internet. Someone had put it to music, someone had spliced it into a superhero movie. Biggest screwup in my life, and I was an instant meme.

  Holy crap! Great game.

  Wish u were there.

  I smiled, because it was really nice of her to watch the game, and to be thinking

  about me. I typed my reply, hit send.

  Wish I was2. Happy4 the win. We need one.

  When do u play?

  Earliest? Next weekend. Reality? Who knows?

  How u feeling?

  Better.

  Good. Coffee? Tell me when.

  I hesitated. Maybe for a little too long.

  Don’t be a baby, Ran. We’re still seeing each other as soon as u get over your man pain.

  I actually barked out a laugh.

  So romantic.

  I sweated out the wait on that. Was she being romantic checking in on me or was this just a friend thing between us now? Her reply was almost instant.

  U want romance u have to take me to coffee.

  Deal.

  Then, to make sure I was being totally honest:

  Not well enough yet. Will text. Hopefully soon.

  Good. Sleep. Eat. Don’t set yourself on fire again, ok?

  I sent her a smiley face and she sent one in return.

  I cracked a huge yawn and lay back down on my bed. I was a wreck. Just watching the game had worn me out.

  My phone buzzed.

  Gen?

  Were u texting ur girlfriend? Not Gen. Duncan.

  Go celebrate

  u were! u loooove her!

  Leave me alone

  u wanna kiiiissss her!

  I turned my phone off and tossed it on the nightstand.

  Idiot.

  But I was smiling as I fell asleep.

  “I still think this is a bad idea.” Duncan grunted as he finished tying his skate.

  “You can go home.” My voice had almost recovered. Just some extra gravel to it like I was getting over a cold. I had to clear my throat a lot.

  “And what, leave you here for the whole three hours of sleep I’d get before having to be back here for early skate?”

  “You sure do complain a lot for a guy working his dream job.”

  Duncan beamed, and it lit up his face. “I do love this job. You, I’m having second thoughts about.”

  “Shut up. You love me.” I held out a hand, and he stood in front of me and clasped it.

  “Up.” He tugged, and I got on my skates. My shoulders dropped and half of the tension I’d been lugging around for the last week disappeared.

  This I knew. This I understood and loved. Hockey. Yes.

  “You sure?” he asked.

  “That you love me? Dude, you can’t stay out of my bed.”

  “Shut up. I’d sleep alone if you’d stop trying to die on me. Think you can do the ice?”

  I gave him back the biggest smile. “Let’s find out.”

  Turned out Coach hit the ice in the middle of the night.

  This was not something I knew.

  It was not something Duncan knew.

  It was something we both found out after we’d huffed our way down the corridors and suddenly realized we were not alone in the place.

  “Shit,” Duncan whispered. “If we duck out fast, he’ll never see us.”

  “Not hiding.” I took the last few steps, and then I was on the ice, the familiar shuck and grind of metal cutting a thin line, carrying me, setting me free.

  I could breathe again. I could move again.

  This was where I belonged.

  I took it easy: step and glide, step and glide. Duncan was quickly at my side pacing me step for step.

  We hadn’t brought out our sticks or pucks. The idea was just to see how long I could skate. To get a feel for how bad my conditioning had slipped.

  “So?” Duncan asked.

  “What?”

  “How are you doing, idiot?”

  We were taking the rink in a nice slow lap. Hadn’t even gone around it once.

  “Good. Don’t know how many laps. But good.”

  “He knows we’re here.”

  “I know.”

  Coach was in the trapezoid at the end of the rink, his stick resting easily next to his skate as he watched us glide his way. He was in a worn-out Berkeley sweatshirt and sweatpants. His hair was a mess, like he’d been dragging his fingers through it, or like he’d just rolled out of bed and found himself here, on the ice.

  He looked tired. And maybe annoyed.

  He tracked my every move, his expression carefully blank. Judging me. Judging how I was moving, how I was breathing.

  There was only one way to get over a bad patch in hockey—bad luck, bad calls, bad hits—push forward. It had been a philosophy that had served me pretty well so far in life, so I applied it to most everything.

  I applied it now and skated right up to him. I stopped, breathing a little heavier than I would have preferred.

  Still, for my first time back on the ice in a week, and considering I’d barely been able to go to the bathroom on my own a week ago, I was pretty proud of myself. Which is why I held my head high and met his gaze.

  “Hey, Coach.”

  “Hazard.” His eyes twitched to the side. “Spark. What are you two doing here in the middle of the night?”

  Duncan opened his mouth but I moved so I was slightly in front of him.

  “My idea. I needed to know. If I could do it. Duncan came, but I’d be here without him.”

  “What did the doctor say about this?”

  “The doctor’s not here, sir.”

  The corner of his mouth pressed upward and the steel in his eyes softened back to ocean blues. He rubbed his hair away from his forehead with one hand, and nodded at Duncan
. “Go get your sticks. We’ll do a little easy work.”

  Duncan took off like a shot.

  “How are you really feeling, Random?”

  I hadn’t expected Coach to sound worried. But then, I hadn’t given him any reason not to worry about me. That had to change. From here forward, I was going to be the last player he had to spend a late-night skate thinking about.

  “Last week sucked.”

  Coach pushed off slowly, handling the puck on his stick as he went. I knew he wanted me to follow, so I fell into place on his left. We were going slower than snails through quicksand, but still, we were moving.

  “You’ve dropped some weight.”

  “I’ve got that under control now. What I did…the magic…I want to apologize. I lost my head. It was unprofessional.”

  “Agreed.” He tapped the puck, an easy back and forth, more automatic than planned. “Tell me why.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ve played several games with us, Hazard. There have been fights. Why this time?”

  I thought about it. Knew I couldn’t really untangle it all unless I told him everything.

  “I got a letter. Back at the first press conference when I got picked up. I didn’t open it for a while, but when I did, it was a threat.”

  “What?”

  “It said I didn’t belong. Here. In West Hell. There was a picture of a wizard doll all torn up.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about this?”

  “I thought it was just, you know, someone all bent out of shape about wizards in hockey. Just…” I shrugged.

  “You’re killing me here, Hazard. Okay, so what happened to the note?”

  “It’s at home.”

  “Did you tell anyone else about it? Spark?”

  “No.”

  He sighed. “I need to see it. Bring it in to practice next time you come.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “What did that note have to do with the game in Tacoma?”

  “I got another one. Well, a text. Right before the game.”

  “Same content?”

  “No. This time it was a wolf doll with its head cut off.”

  He was quiet a moment. Finally: “Duncan?”

  “I thought so. Yeah. And when Steele pounded him into the boards, that was a dirty hit. That was intent. And I thought…I thought…”

  “You thought he was trying to kill your best friend. Your brother.”

  I swallowed, but didn’t say anything. Tears stung the edges of my eyes and I didn’t want Coach to know how raw I still was.

  “Do you have any proof it was Steele?” Coach’s voice was calm but there was something more to it. A banked fury. That comforted me more than I expected.

  “No.”

  “Do you still have the text?”

  “I…deleted it.”

  He looked over at me, then took a shot at the goal at the other end of the ice. Hit it dead on. Since it was night and the rink was officially closed, the light didn’t go off.

  “If that happens again, I need you to tell me. Immediately. The instant it happens.” He waited, not moving across the ice to dig the puck out of the net, not doing anything.

  I met his gaze.

  One thing was clear about Elliott Clay, he was steady. Patient. But he did not stand for bullshit.

  I owed him the truth or nothing. Owed that to the team.

  “I’ll tell you. I promise. Coach…” I swallowed to steady my voice. “I haven’t been playing at my best. The whole getting kicked out of the NHL before I could even be a part of it was, uh, hard.

  “But that’s in the past. I know I can be a great player. I believe that. I’ve worked hard for that. I don’t know how the magic I have fits in with that, but I’d give it up in a second if it meant I could play even one more minute of hockey.”

  He stared at me. A lot of cat in his gaze.

  “Do you have a personal issue with Steele?”

  That kind of threw me, but it made sense. It was only after Steele had shifted that I went magic crazy. “No. He doesn’t like me, but I can handle that.”

  He dug the puck out of the net then started moving toward the goal. I followed along.

  “Tell me this,” he said as he moved the puck. “Do you want to be in this league? Play in this league for our cup, for the Broughton? An honest answer would be best here, Hazard.”

  He knew I had NHL aspirations. Dreams. But…there was something about the WHHL that was growing on me. I’d been quick to judge it as the very thing Coach Clay was trying to drag it up out of: a blood sport, a freak show, a parade of random exploitation.

  Not hockey.

  But I was wrong. It was very much hockey, in some ways, even more so.

  We were doing everything the guys in the NHL were doing, with more stacked against us, and a hell of a lot less pay, support, and luxury accommodations.

  This was hockey. Brutal. Beautiful. This was my game. This was my league. It was about time I accepted that.

  I was a competitive guy. You had to be to play this kind of sport.

  I wanted to prove that I was the best damn hockey player in the world.

  I wanted to do that right here in West Hell on a team that was as good as or better than any non-marked team in the NHL.

  “Yes,” I said. “I want to set the WHHL on fire.”

  “You’ve done enough with fire, don’t you think?”

  “I mean, I want to win. Here. In West Hell. I want the Thunderheads to take the cup. And whatever I need to do to be a part of this team, to make that happen, I’ll do.”

  “Anything?”

  “Anything.”

  He nodded.

  Duncan was back, coming our way slowly to give us time to talk. With his wolf ears, I knew he could hear us, even from across the ice. The only reason he hadn’t heard Coach when we first got here was because Coach was very, very quiet on the ice.

  Cat.

  “Then you’re going to train with me. Every day. You’ll go on the road with us, and we’ll train before or after games. I will give you homework. I’ll be in your head, Hazard.”

  “Yes, sir, Coach.”

  “And I’ll be pushing more than just your hockey skills. I’ll push you. You’re gonna miss your bed because you’ll be asleep before you reach it, understand?”

  “Yes, sir, Coach.”

  “I’m going to do the same with your magic. And if you pull one more asinine move like you did in Tacoma, the league won’t have to decide if they should write up new rules to punish you. Understand?”

  My heart was hammering. I was excited, happy, terrified, determined, and so very, very grateful.

  “Yes, sir, Coach.”

  “Good. I want to see that note. I want to see any other things like that you receive. Not because you can’t handle it, but because you are my player, Hazard. And I keep my players safe.”

  “Yes, Coach.”

  “Now get the hell off the ice and get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow. An hour before early skate. You too, Mr. Spark.”

  Duncan gave me the I-hate-you eyes. “Yes, Coach.” He glared at me all the way back to the locker room, but I could only grin.

  Thirty

  I gave Coach the crumpled letter while Duncan was in the bathroom. I still hadn’t told Duncan or Mr. and Mrs. Spark about it yet. I’d done enough to make them worry and didn’t want to add to the pile.

  Coach read it, then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  “I need to report this to the commission. If you receive any more threats, this will be evidence.”

  “It’s just a letter.”

  “I’m saying it’s more. I need your permission for me to handle this.”

  I could hear Duncan heading toward Coach’s office, yawning and groaning.

  “Okay,” I said. “If you think that’s best.”

  “It is.” He opened a drawer, flipped through paper there, and placed the envelope inside.

  Duncan
zombied his way through the door and into a chair, rubbing at his face with both palms.

  “So what do you think about meditation?” Coach Clay leaned back in his chair turning one of those happy little rock guys over in his fingers.

  “I’ve never tried it,” I said.

  “Well, today’s your lucky day.”

  “Hippy shit,” Duncan whispered a little too loudly. I elbowed him in the ribs to shut him up. He grumbled something about not enough coffee in the universe.

  “I don’t care if you think it’s hippy shit, bullshit, or dumb shit, it is the shit that works.” Coach set the little rock guy down on a pile of straightened paperclips.

  “The game starts in our heads, gentlemen,” he said. “It has to. Those of us who shift are always aware of the other side of us, the animal wanting its turn at the wheel. Those of us who cast spells are always aware of magic itself, looking for a door, a way to take a form in this world. Question, Hazard?”

  “Those of us, Coach? Are you a wizard?”

  “No. But you don’t think you’re the only wizard I’ve known, do you?”

  As a matter of fact, yes, that’s just what I’d thought. Which was stupid. Of course he knew other wizards. I was not a unique person in this world. Not because I was a wizard.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  Duncan snorted, then yawned extra long.

  “Meditation,” he said, trying to make his eyes extra wide and awake, even though I knew he’d gotten less than four hours of sleep a night over the last few days. “Sounds fascinating. Let’s do it!”

  Coach Clay just shook his head but there was a fondness in his eyes. Yeah, Duncan was a hard guy not to like.

  Honestly, it wasn’t too bad. I had expected to sit on the floor with our eyes closed in total silence or something. But Coach put on a soundtrack of ocean, rain and soft bells.

  We stayed seated in his office. The chairs were pretty comfortable. Coach talked us through what we should be doing, what we should be paying attention to.

  His voice was easy, the voice of someone who knew how to read poetry, or maybe sing. Or maybe just someone who knew how to boss around a hockey team.

  “Let your tongue drop away from the roof of your mouth, I’m talking to you, Spark. Feel the outside corners of your eyes soften and sink like your face is made of warm wax, Hazard.