His wolf whistle pierces the air and all eyes are on him, probably because he’s standing on a bench, bare chested. Pete’s hairy as hell. Half the time, it looks like he’s wearing a damn blanket on his chest. His beard and long hair give him a sort of lumberjack look, if the lumberjack hasn’t lived in polite society for six months or more. He looks half feral, especially now. We’re all waiting for it. In three, two, one…he tips his head to the ceiling and lets out a primal howl.
We all join in, and I’m betting they can hear us in the parking lot.
“Let’s get one thing fucking straight,” he tells us. “They’re good.”
His statement is met with boos and cries of bullshit, but Pete’s not having it.
“I said what I said. The Tits are good. Damn good. But we’re better.”
Cheers go up once more. We’re only a few games into the season, but the energy’s off the charts.
“You know what I realized tonight, boys?”
A voice calls out, “That Van’s a fucking machine?” and we all laugh. I’m glad, though, that my guys know I’ll never stop working for the win.
“Yeah, that. But also?—”
“That Norris is a goddamn octopus?” Ollie hollers. “Your shit was everywhere tonight, man. Every-fucking-where.”
Norris is stoic. He nods in acknowledgment, but I know what he’s thinking. He let three in. That’s gonna eat him up tonight, even though it shouldn’t. Any other goalie would have let thirteen in, not three. But Norris will stay long after the rest of us are gone. He and Coach will go over every shot and work to make it better. And the best thing about Norris? By tomorrow morning, he’ll have let it all go and be ready to take them down again.
“Hell yes,” Santos cries, agreeing with Ollie’s assessment. “But also?—”
More cheers and praise go up, but Santos quiets us all with a look. “This is our year.”
The locker room goes silent, which is almost unheard of. I’m not saying he’s wrong, but it’s a little early to start thinking in the long-term.
“You heard me. This is our year. Don’t shy away from it. Don’t doubt it.This is our year.Every one of us has a reason to playhis heart out this year. Our captain’s going to the big leagues, gentlemen, and he won’t be going alone. Van, we’re taking you and Book out on top this year. Franconetti, this is your year, freshman. You’re going to the draft. Rosco,” he calls and all eyes turn to last year’s center. He took a puck to the hand seconds before the first game, so he’s out for another month, at least. Poor guy looks wrecked. “Rosco,” Santos continues, “this is our year. Started out shitty for you my friend, no doubt. But we’re taking it back. You and me, we’re about to enter the real world. I’ll be getting a job and you’ll be getting a law degree. Good thing, too. I’d bet money you’ll be bailing Ollie’s ass out of jail one day.”
We all laugh at that, even Rosco.
‘This is our year, man. We’re gonna show them how it’s fucking done.” My best friend’s voice carries through the locker room as he basically takes us all to church. One by one, he tells each of us why we need to claim this season. He winds down with Mikalski, our over-excited, under-medicated defenseman. “Mickey, you hear me? This is our year.”
“I hear you, Pete,” Mikalski says, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Oh, hell no. You didn’t just lie to me, did you, Mickey? You’re not letting the asswipes from Woodcock University get in your head, are you?”
He is, though, and we all know it. Mikalski’s got talent, he just doesn’t always know how to harness it. It’s like there’s electricitypumping through the guy's body and it’s enough to light up the stadium, but he can’t find the damn plug. He was all over Wagner tonight, but it barely made a difference—the guy’s just that good. Mikalski’s focus doesn’t quite last long enough to keep up with a player like Wagner.
“I fucking hate that guy,” Mikalski says, and we all know who he’s talking about.
“Who doesn’t?” Ollie asks.
“His teammates,” Norris answers. “But only for a couple hours every week when they’re winning a game. Otherwise, that guy’s a prick.”
We nod in agreement. Dutton Wagner's pretty universally disliked throughout our conference. He’s cocky as shit, which isn’t rare in college sports, but word on the street is he’s not much of a team player. The only guy who actually seems to like him is Blue Halliday. I think they grew up together, so maybe he’s just used to Wagner, the way you get used to an annoying relative or a foot fungus.
“Fuck that guy,” Santos says, still looking right at Mikalski. “You know why, right?”
“This is our year,” Mickey says, and I can tell he’s starting to believe it.
Santos, still naked but for the towel that barely covers him, looks around the room. “What’s that? I can’t hear you.”
We shout back, loud enough so the ten people who stayed on Woodcock’s campus tonight can hear us. ‘This is our year!”
My best friend nods at me before jumping to the ground. And all I can think is that he’s right. We came so close last season, and we’re not falling short again. This is our year, and that means I need to do whatever it takes to stay on the ice, to stay focused on the goal. And if that means sitting inches away from Josie four nights a week, and acting like it doesn’t bother me at all? Then that’s what I’m going to do.
13
