Jerkbait (3 page)

4

W
e shifted our weight from skate to skate while we waited in the tunnel that led from the locker room to the ice. Leading our pack would be Janek, our starting goalie who was brought to our school on full scholarship plus stipend from the Czech Republic, and bringing up the tail was Ray-Ray, our back up. Most high school teams were less formal than ours, but parents got what they paid for. With Briar Rose’s obscene tuition, parents expected the best. We had an NHL-size arena that could hold up to two thousand spectators, enormous locker rooms, showers, and fitness lounges. Students sang the national anthem, announced the play-by-play, and picked which songs to blast during stoppage of play. It might have been high school hockey, but we were so good we usually filled every seat.

Robbie tapped everyone on the shin with his stick, proudly wearing the A on his chest. At the start of the season, Dad lost his shit when Robbie wasn’t given captaincy; instead, he shared the role of alternate, but Robbie said it was better that Beau got it. He and Coach Benoit told Dad it was to make him look humble to scouts, but I’d overheard them talking once. Robbie begged to not be given the C, and Coach only gave in once Robbie started getting hysterical.

A horn blared. It was time. Lights flashed across the ice as Janek burst through the gate, leading us in a fast lap around half of the arena. We sped after him, torsos ducked as people cheered. We recognized our schoolmates’ faces, their flat palms pounding on the glass as we passed. Once their cheering turned to booing, we didn’t need to look to know the other team was here. Tonight we were against Neshanic High. They were always a shoe-in for playoffs with some really huge defensemen. Defense won championships, everyone knew that. While our defense was just as good, we needed our offense to out-skate them. We needed Robbie to beat them.

All our teammates who weren’t starters slipped off the ice to the bench. I lingered, glancing at Coach who nodded for me to stay on. It was a gimmick having me on the starting line-up, especially when I’d end up playing less than seven minutes a game, but coach thought it might intrigue scouts and give them ideas, like with the Sedin twins.

Overhead, one of the broadcasting kids called, “At left wing, number nine, Raideeeeeen Hollennnnn.” I don’t remember a time when Raiden and Robbie weren’t on the same line. They were a dynamite duo on the ice and best friends off it, earning them the Rail Road Line nickname, which I thought was really dumb. Raiden grinned crookedly at my brother as the announcer said,
“At center, number sixteen, Robbbbbbiiiiieee Bettterrrrby!”

The crowd erupted for my brother, crazy enough for us to feel the vibration through our skates. Most of the guys were good, several would be drafted, but Robbie was the one who was signing autographs already. Robbie didn’t soak the attention up. Up until a year ago, he used to engage the crowd, showboat a bit. Now, he gazed ahead at the American flag, grin removed from his face, eyes narrowed in concentration, or prayer.

Their cheering didn’t die as the seconds passed. I doubt anyone heard the announcer call me—Tristan Betterby, number forty-eight, at right wing.

I looked at my twin as the announcer moved to our defense—Smitty and Durrell, and finally Janek, who elicited a roar as loud as Robbie’s. Janek wouldn’t be draft-eligible for another year, but if he were, it’d be a coin toss whether he or Robbie would be drafted first.

“And now,” the announcer continued, “to sing our national anthem, let’s welcome Keisha Lewis.”

I couldn’t help but smile. Keisha was a really great singer and one of the few in the theatre program who already committed to the New School as a junior. We had the same circle of friends, and now shared an acting class ever since I grew the balls to enroll in the one that started in January, but we never hung out on our own. Heather was always there.

Keisha wore one of Robbie’s spare jerseys. She was tall, but the jersey dwarfed her. The red complemented her dark skin and hair, today styled out and around her head like a halo, but the bulkiness of the jersey combined with her skinny jeans and tall boots made her look like she was wearing a poncho.

She waited for all of us to take our helmets off before she took a breath and began. If I weren’t on the ice, I’d be cheering her on as she belted,
“
And the rockets red glare,”
the way everyone else in the stands did.

As Keisha finished, there was extra commotion. I turned my head to see the rest of the theatre kids there, whooping and hollering Keisha’s name. I couldn’t have missed them in warm-ups; they must have come late and wormed their way to the glass. Heather stood in the front next to Craig, one of the best dancers in the theatre program and the leader of the self-dubbed “Gay-Bros.” Heather waved at me and mouthed something I couldn’t read. Craig pulled his shirt up and pressed his bare chest to the glass. I tried not to laugh as I put my helmet back on, double-checking to make sure the cage was secure before I took my position at Robbie’s side. It was time to buckle down.

The referee moved between Robbie and the opposing center. They kept their heads low, coiled, ready to spring.

As soon as the puck dropped, Robbie was on it. He sent the puck back from the face off to Smitty as Durrell rammed one of their forwards into the boards. I was already rushing down the ice. I might not have been the best player on our team, but I was fast as hell.

Smitty fed the puck to Raiden, who tapped it back toward Robbie. Barely two steps, and Robbie sent it back to Raiden. We’d practiced this play hundreds of times. I’d scoot up the outside and slip in, giving it my best slap shot with Robbie there to catch the rebound while Raiden screened the goalie. If the goalie knocked the rebound out, Raiden would do everything he could to shove it in. We had a sixty-one percent success rate.

“Tristan!” Raiden yelled as he passed me the puck.

The puck connected with my stick and I took off toward goal. The crowd got louder the closer I got to the goalie. The sound of cheering and screaming was addictive. Thinking of the game as a performance revved me up.

The goalie made his move, scooting forward out of the crease, glove out. I envisioned the goal, just high of his blocker. Flashing lights, everyone cheering, especially Heather, who afterward might give me a congratulatory kiss. I pulled my stick back for a slap shot.

“TRISTAN! HEADS UP!” my brother screamed.

The hit came so fast, I didn’t know what direction it came from. My feet left the ice and I flipped onto my back, sliding until I slammed into the boards, hard. From the ice, I saw who hit me: a six-foot-three defender named Kris Jones who was just coming off a seven-game suspension. It might as well have been a freight train. A sea of booing washed through the arena. I glanced toward one of the refs before getting up to see if he’d call it—he didn’t.

As I scrambled to pick myself up, Robbie scooted between players, puck miraculously in his possession. The goalie moved toward Robbie, challenging him even farther out of the crease than he’d done with me. Just like me, Robbie lifted his stick. Tension weighted the air; everyone sucked in a breath. Robbie toe-dragged a good two feet to the side then flicked the puck up top shelf so fast the goalie couldn’t raise his glove.

The goal horn blared. Everyone screamed. Robbie did this little boogie he always did for his goal celly, fists pumping and hips wiggling. I glanced at the scoreboard: not even twenty seconds after the puck dropped, and Robbie already made it 1-0.

My eyes moved to one section of the arena that was sectioned off as an unofficial press box. A lot of scouts were typing away at their laptops, a few on their mobiles. I scanned the crowd. Our parents would be watching somewhere. At least our dad would be watching; Mom would be on her iPhone. I couldn’t see either.

We circled Robbie, tapping each other on the helmet and back before Robbie led us to the bench, fist bunched and bumping past the other players.

“Good choice, Robbie,” Coach said, rubbing and clapping his shoulders. “Smart move.”

I sat on Robbie’s other side. Coach looked at me and gestured down toward the end of the forwards. I slid to the end of the bench. I’d be on the fourth line for the rest of the game.

“It’s all right, Butter,” Coach said once we changed lines. Everyone on the team had at least one nickname. If you were really good, sometimes you had two or three. I wouldn’t have minded Butter if it weren’t for the reason. When we were freshmen, our then team captain said, “We should call you guys Butter and Margarine.”

“What?
Margarine?”
Robbie had asked. “Why the hell am I margarine?”

“Because,” he’d said with a grin, “you’re
Better Than Butter.”

As the game progressed, my time on the ice lessened. I was no longer the gimmick; I now was on the fourth line, dumping and chasing the puck, blocking pucks before they could get to our defense, let alone Janek.

When the end buzzer came, earning us a 3-1 victory—Robbie earning a goal and two assists—I exhaled with relief. Thank God it was over. We skated out to Janek, tapping him on the helmet per tradition before going back to the locker room. Even though we weren’t supposed to use our cells in the locker room, I texted Heather,
wait for me.

I slipped my cell back in my bag as I stripped down. Back in middle school, I used to be self-conscious about changing in front of the others. I think all of us were—the dreaded puberty years—but we got over it quickly. After playing, we were all hot and sweaty and had swamp ass and wanted to cool down. No one really looked or made jokes, except to Henry, whom we joked must have been a porn star in another life, and those were mostly in envious admiration, not that anyone would admit it.

“Good game, boys,” Coach Benoit said as we filed in and out of the showers, clapping Robbie on the shoulder with a “you’re never going to believe who was here to watch you” gesture. He led Robbie off to the side of the locker room. A huge smile crossed my brother’s face—it must have been a big name.

When the next shower became available and I walked under the spray, my heart started pounding rapidly. My head swam. I squeezed my eyes shut, hand pressed to the wall to keep me steady, hot water pounding against my forehead.

“You okay?”

I turned to see Robbie standing there, towel wrapped around his waist. The dizziness immediately cleared. I tried to cover up a bit out of habit. You’d think for all the money the school would have, they could have afforded shower curtains on the stalls. “Yeah, just was a little dizzy,” I mumbled as I stepped out of the shower.

“
From the hit? They should have called it. If I wasn’t in position to get a breakaway, I would have beat his face in.” Robbie took my place, still keeping the towel on under the spray. I didn’t know what that was about, and like hell anyone would ask.

“Sure,” I said as I left the room, grabbing a towel and drying off as I moved. I stopped halfway out and turned back to my brother. “I need you to do me a huge favor.”

“Hm?” Robbie said, a full foamy lather over his hair.

“Heather invited me to a party.”

“So go.”

I stared at him, trying to figure out a code word to remind him I had to stay by his side. Robbie looked at me blankly, then groaned as he finally got it. Rinsing the lather, he said, “We
’re all supposed to go to Durrell’s though.”

“What’s this about?” Durrell asked, stepping out of the next shower. At six-foot-two, Durrell was a menacing stay-at-home defenseman, crushing our opponents into the boards. One of those guys who was great at everything. He always made honor roll, and he’d be drafted when he was eligible next year, barely missing the high school window with a March birthday while Robbie and I made it on the last day of deadline in September. Durrell did golf and ran track in the off-season. He played guitar in a band and was even the secretary of the Political Science club. He was already offered a full ride to every college he applied to, hell, probably even from colleges he
didn’t
apply to. All the girls had crushes on him. Literally. Except the lesbians, and even then they thought he was awesome.

Because really, he was
that
cool.

“Heather’s having some people over,” I said. “Was trying to see if Robbie would go with me.”

“Can anyone go?” Durrell asked.

I blinked a few times.
“I uh. . . I don’t know. I guess a few?”

“I’m down,” Durrell said suddenly.

“. . . you are?”

“Yeah. Solidarity with Robbie.”

“What about solidarity with Robbie?” Raiden asked, walking into an adjacent shower. That was the one crappy thing about a team; there were never secrets.

“We’re going to Heather’s instead of mine to party,” Durrell said.

Raiden looked confused. Or maybe he was just squinting under the showerhead’s heavy spray. “Who the hell’s Heather?”

“She’s that girl who Tristan hangs out with all the time,” Robbie said. “You know, the one who’s in all of the musicals?”

“She hot?”

“Not my type,” Robbie mumbled.

“Then nope. I don’t know her.”

“Hey,” Janek called, Czech accent heavier the way it always was after the physical exertion of a game. Like it sucked out his energy to force an American accent. “So we’re partying at Heather’s now?”