Kayden sounded practically tongue-tied trying to come back at me. It was kind of satisfying, but I suppressed my laughter. No matter what I said, he would just stand there with no clue how to respond. Like I said, you’ve got to do that with these guys, and this one worked like a charm.
Just so you know, it’s not about the money. I mean, I’m a broke college student like most others, but I didn’t make that bet to get rich. At first, I thought I’d done it to prove a point, but that didn’t sound right either. The idea of me scoring one more win over this neanderthal motivated me so much I wanted to rub my hands together thinking about it.
Full disclosure: since Kayden stopped me by the food court, I’d spent a lot of time thinking about other things too. Kayden’sgreen eyes, for starters. His impossibly perfect smile. It didn’t matter that he was a jackass. Now that I’d noticed that smile once, I couldn’t pretend like I hadn’t seen it—or that I hadn’t almost lost myself in it.
I didn’t know. The smart thing would be to forget it completely. Weird thoughts aside, we had a game to play. Exhibition or not, I was a competitor and couldn’t allow any distractions.
“Don’t worry about beating me,” Kayden said. “You should worry about beating these guys. I hear they’re a bunch of thugs.”
“They don’t scare me. I’m going to go out there and do what I’ve always done.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.”
For an exhibition game, the Larkin Lions had drawn a pretty decent turnout at Alumni Arena. “Decent turnout” in this case meant the stands were half-full, which would at least give us a sense of home advantage. Back home, our arena was always jam-packed.
We took the ice, lining up at the blue line, and faced the flags for the national anthem. Like back home, they played bothThe Star-Spangled Bannerand at each game because of our proximity to the border. Before the anthems started, I glanced at Kayden, whose eyes had stayed fixed on the flags. Thank God. He wouldn’t notice me looking at him.
It's his hair, too, remember?I told myself.Not just his eyes. You noticed he had really nice hair. Something about how it hangs over his forehead and you dreamed of him brushing it away with his hand. You’ve never noticed any of those things about a guy before, but there’s a first time for everything.
Right. That had to mean something. I didn’t know what. Now wasn’t the time to get wrapped up in that stuff, though. We didn’t just have a game to win. Beating Kayden in our bet meant even more to me now.
I will say that I noticed a different vibe when we took the ice. It wasn’t from playing in the United States instead of Canada either. Kayden had said Rochester U was tough. From what I could tell, their players definitely looked bigger and stronger than the high school players I’d competed against back home.
Oh, who am I kidding? They looked like they could make mincemeat of my competition back home. Take Trevor Trombley for instance. Even with the glaring gap in his teeth, he could probably chew nails and spit out quarters. But I felt up to the challenge. I’d already told the team they could count on me, and I wouldn’t let them down.
At center ice, I poised myself, waiting for the referee to drop the puck. I stared into Trombley’s eyes. He was at least three inches taller than me and must’ve outweighed me by thirty pounds. Losing myself in the moment didn’t feel new at all. It had happened all the time back home. That just meant I’d become laser focused. The key was to stay loose as possible while keeping that focus. But this look was new to me. Trevor Trombley didn’t just stare me down; he looked like he wanted to eat me for lunch.
I didn’t sweat that either. It was all part of the psych-out game that hockey players like to pull on you. I learned quickly that you can’t fall for these tricks, giving the upper hand to another player. I kept my eyes fixed on Trombley, refusing to blink.
When the referee dropped the puck, I thrusted myself forward, making an immediate play for it, but Trombley beat me. Worse, he drove his shoulder into mine the moment he had control of it, stunning me.
I chased after him, determined to steal the puck. He drove an elbow into my side first, but I pushed my stick in front of his, swiping the puck away. Then I swung around, heading for Rochester territory, hoping to leave that goon behind. He movedway faster than expected, though. Trombley kept pace, checking me into the boards harder than any player had since I’d first laced up a pair of skates.
Worse, I lost the puck. That’s right, I stole the puck from him, and then I lost it. That’s how hockey goes sometimes. It’s not the end of the world. I tell guys that, so they don’t get discouraged. What came after bothered me, though. Kayden slipped in, swiped the puck from Trombley, and managed to keep up with the guy.
Look, I’m always happy to see a teammate play well, even if I’m having a shitty game, but that principle doesn’t apply to Kayden Preston.
Trombley gave Kayden a hard shot into the boards, but he didn’t lose the puck. He even took a shot at the goal but missed. I won’t say that made me happy, but it didn’t disappoint me either. Of course, I wanted to win, but needed it to happen on my own terms.
The referee positioned himself to drop the puck again, this time from the right side. Kayden against Trombley this time. Trombley stared him down as fiercely as he had me. I hoped to God my teammate had the same nerves of steel. When the puck dropped, Trombley snagged it away before Kayden could act and darted straight up the ice for our net. I trailed him, catching up, but soon found his stick wedged between my skates.
And I wound up flat on my ass.
The referee blew the whistle to stop the play. “Two minutes for tripping,” he announced to the crowd.
Coach Hardison took that opportunity to pull Kayden and I off the ice and sent the next shift into action. Kayden parked his ass right next to me on the bench. Of course he did. And next, he would tell me exactly what was on his mind.
He wouldn’t have been Kayden Preston if he’d kept his mouth shut.
“Want to fork over that twenty bucks right now?” he asked.
“What are you talking about?”
“What am I talking about? You’re getting your ass kicked out there. You won’t be scoring shit, dude.”
His outstretched arm, directed at the ice, underscored his point.
“I’m not getting my ass kicked,” I said. “I’m . . . “
