Sophomore Surge

by K R Collins

  Not yet.

  By the end of the night, he will. He’s Sophie’s personal measuring stick, and she intends to beat him in every category tonight. Faceoffs, board battles, assists, goals; hell, she’ll even out-hit him if it means proving herself the better player.

  She’s going to show her home crowd she’s better than the first overall pick at her draft. Maybe, though she doesn’t hold her breath on it, she’ll convince the whole League. Concord drafted her last because they could exploit the rules, but there was a large percentage of people who thought even last at the draft was too high.

  Fuck them.

  She wins the faceoff, sparking an offensive push from her team. On her next shift, an on-the-fly change, she chases Carruthers down and shoves him up against the glass so Witzer can dart in and steal the puck.

  Halfway through the game, Carruthers seems to finally catch a clue, or he’s tired of her shoving him around. She has the puck on her stick and she’s racing up the ice when he shoulders her into Seattle’s bench. She tips into enemy territory, but she’s quickly pushed out of it. She regains her bearings and tracks him down to reclaim the puck.

  Carruthers scores to make it 4-2, a power play goal while Sophie’s stuck on the bench. She chews on the end of her mouth guard. Her team still has a lead, but she hasn’t scored which means there’s at least one category where Carruthers is beating her.

  She narrows her eyes as she tugs on Witzer’s sleeve. “We’re scoring on the next shift.”

  Seattle’s bench is still smiling when she turns the D inside-out and lifts the puck up and over the goalie’s pad. The entire stadium leaps to their feet for her goal. As they chant her name, she turns to stare down the Seafarers’ bench. There are no more smiles there.

  She grins and throws her arms out to welcome her teammates as they crash into her.

  One goal is good. Two would be better.

  There’s four minutes left in the game when she hits post on back-to-back shots. She returns to the bench, shoulders tight. If she’d pulled the puck in a little tighter on the last one, she would’ve hit top corner. And on the first one she had a fucking wide-open net and couldn’t put the puck away. Is this what Concord drafted her for? To miss the net?

  “Relax,” Merlin tells her. “It’s Seattle.”

  Exactly. “Any team can beat us if we give them the opportunity.”

  “I’ll roll my eyes at you. Don’t think the A on your sweater protects you.”

  You wouldn’t understand.

  There’s three minutes left in the game when Seattle pulls their goalie. You could only score two goals in forty-seven minutes, what makes you think you can score three now? With the extra skater on the ice, Seattle manages two solid shots on net before Teddy covers the puck.

  “Fournier, you’re up,” Coach Butler says. “Smith and Faulkner, you’re on the backend.”

  Theo and Kevlar high-five. Merlin hands Sophie a water bottle so she can have a quick drink before they head out for the defensive zone faceoff. She lines her skates up and crouches, ready. She glances up at Carruthers and grins.

  “Psycho,” he mutters as he adjusts his grip on his stick.

  After a night of losing to Sophie, Carruthers is too quick on the draw and they toss him out of the faceoff dot. She narrows her eyes, annoyed she’s lost the opportunity to beat him again. She still wins the faceoff, but her joy doesn’t last as long. A goal will make her feel better.

  As soon as she’s won the puck back to her team, she skates for the blue line. Merlin sends a stretch pass up the ice, and she chases it.

  “Go! Go!” Matty shouts from the bench.

  A glance over her shoulder shows Carruthers racing her for the loose puck. She skates harder. She’s the first one to the puck and she turns her back to him to protect it. One easy move and she can flick the puck into the net, giving herself two goals to his one. She spins around him so he’s no longer between her and the net.

  Kevlar taps his stick on the ice, letting her know where he is in case she needs help.

  She doesn’t. But then she remembers the What’s in Your Bag? segment. She hesitates for one moment before she slides the puck across the ice to her d-man. He taps the puck into the empty net, and the crowd cheers for him.

  Sophie shoulders past Carruthers, barely even noting the slumped, defeated posture she was hoping he would have by the end of the game. She rubs her glove over Kevlar’s helmet.

  “You had it,” he says.

  “I didn’t want to take the chance.”

  Besides, a goal and an assist are still better than Carruthers’s single goal.

  They play DC to end the first month of the season and lose, 1-3, in front of their home crowd. Disappointment settles, an ache in her chest, one she won’t be able to dislodge until next game when they have a fresh opportunity to win. This has been the biggest adjustment since entering the NAHL. She loses a lot more.

  They weren’t undefeated for four years at Chilton, but they won the majority of their games, and they went to the playoffs every year and won it all three times. Here in Concord, they can’t even make it to the first round of the playoffs. This year. We step up, we play better, and the playoffs are within our reach.

  “Your team combined to score ten goals in the previous two games,” Marty Owen says. Sophie leans back in her stall and waits for the follow-up which will turn what could be a compliment into a certain criticism. “Tonight, you only had one. Did you burn yourselves out?”

  Stupid fucking question. She eyes his suit, loose again, and thinks about giving him her tailor’s number. She wouldn’t inflict him on her least favorite tailor, though, let alone the one she trusts to make sure she’s presentable for games. “The puck didn’t go in tonight. We’ll review the game tape, learn what we can, and move on.”

  “You won more games than you lost in October. It’s a much better start than last season.”

  Sophie offers Ed Rickers a fleeting smile. “We’re a better team than we were last year. Our GM made some important moves this summer, and we’re settling into our new lines. The more we play together, the more we’ll improve.”

  “You scored your thirty-eighth career goal tonight,” Owen says. Again, Sophie waits. “Dmitry Ivanov scored his fiftieth.”

  There it is. Knowing this footage will be played on all the major channels, dissected by analysts with nothing better to do, she makes sure she smiles, supportive of her fellow NAHLer. “Let me guess, it was on the power play?”

  “He sniped it right from the hash marks,” Rickers answers.

  “I’ll have to congratulate him once we’re done here.”

  “I thought you were rivals.” Rickers smiles, teasing.

  “We’re competitors and we push each other to be better, but once we’re—” she catches herself before she says out of our jerseys—“once the game is over we’re friends.”

  “When will you score your fiftieth?” Owen asks.

  “Hopefully this season but I’m not focused on it.”

  She sticks a candle in her brownie and lights it before sending a picture to Dima. She blows the candle out and takes her brownie and an ice pack back to her couch. She stretches out, ice pack on her shoulder and brownie balanced on her stomach.

  Dima calls instead of texting her back. “Brownie for me?”

  “Depends, how fast can you get to Concord?” She takes a big bite of her dessert. “Clock’s ticking.”

  “Mean.”

  She laughs, refusing to buy it for a second. “You scored your fiftieth goal tonight, and you’re telling me your teammates aren’t celebrating?”

  “Vodka shots but you make brownies.”

  “A whole pan of them. And since I don’t have a roommate, I don’t have to share.”

  “Terrible at share. Even with roommate.”

  “Nah.” Another bite and her brownie’s almost gone. “It’s only you I don’t share with.”

  He makes an outraged sound before his attention’s d
ragged away by someone shouting on the other end of the line. Sophie finishes her brownie and debates how much she wants another one. Is it worth getting off the couch? She wonders if she should tell her trainer laziness saved her nutrition plan tonight.

  “Party time,” Dima says. “Because I’m most famous.”

  “For tonight. I’ll have to score my first hat trick next game to take the spotlight back. You know, because I’m so bad at sharing.”

  Dima’s still laughing when he hangs up.

  “Bors!” Merlin greets, already drunk by the sound of his voice and the way he sways alarmingly to one side as he greets her. Sophie laughs and rushes over to catch him before he takes out any of their teammates.

  Bors the Younger is the knight Sophie was assigned because “you’re young and boring” but joke’s on all of them because she looked him up and he slayed three dragons with a single swing of his sword, officially making him the coolest knight. She steadies Merlin and can’t help but tug on the long, white beard he’s wearing to help complete his costume. She lets the elastic snap back against his chin and he steps away from her with a scowl.

  “Respect the beard.”

  She laughs again, unable to help it. “You’re wearing a dress, a fake beard, and a sparkly hat. There is no respect for you.”

  “They’re robes! And I look good.” He gestures to himself and sloshes beer down the front of his robes. He frowns at the spill before he shrugs and chugs the rest of his drink.

  Sophie leaves him to his drinking and wanders deeper into the back room of the club so she can greet her other teammates. Zinger offers her a drink but she holds up her bottle of orange Gatorade and tells him she’s all set.

  “Let me know when you need a refill,” he tells her.

  She nods and shifts over to where Witzer, who is actually in a dress, is being wrangled into a picture with Kevlar and Theo, who are Galahad and Percival respectively. They spot her and drag her into the picture. She ends up squashed between the two d-men, both of them leaning heavily on her. She’s strong but not this strong.

  She walks them backward until they can lean against the wall. “How early did you start?”

  Theo holds up a plastic goblet covered in gold glitter. “We went in search of the Holy Grail and it was full of beer. Want some?” He holds the cup up to her lips, but she weaves away from him and shows off her Gatorade.

  “I brought my own.”

  “Good plan.” Theo pats her cheek, and his hand is warm and damp from the heat of the club. “We can’t share drinks. It’s how the mumps spread.”

  “Okay, buddy. Next time you refill your grail maybe some water?”

  “You’re the smartest of us all,” Kevlar says.

  “I’m the fairest!” Witzer interjects.

  “That’s Snow White, you dumbass.”

  The two of them bicker until Theo shoves off the wall and steps between them. They both fall silent and turn to him. “Where’s King Arthur? We need a picture with all of us.”

  They follow Theo until they find Matty, stretched out in a booth with a lopsided crown on his head and a beer in his hand. As they approach, she realizes the crown isn’t only lopsided but it’s handmade with pink and purple rhinestones scattered across it.

  “Yeah, yeah,” Matty says, waving his hand for her to laugh. “My kids made it.”

  Sophie holds up her shield, a piece of painted cardboard with a condor on it. “This is left over from Kaylee’s Halloween costume last year.”

  “Matty!” Theo shouts, far too loud for how close all of them are. “We need a picture!”

  “How many fucking pictures do we need?” Matty grumbles but he hauls himself out of the booth and they flag down a waitress to take their picture.

  Afterward, Sophie steals Kevlar’s phone so she can send the picture to herself. It’s the five of them, Matty’s crown almost as tall as Theo. Sophie’s squished between Theo and Kevlar again, but Matty’s hand rests on her shoulder. Witzer stands in front of all them and he hikes his dress up to show off his hairy legs. She laughs and, deciding no one looks incriminatingly drunk, sends the picture to Dima.

  He sends her one back of himself in his Catwoman costume which is entirely too much spandex for her to have to see him in.

  Chapter Nine

  CONCORD STARTS NOVEMBER the same way they finished October, by losing. They hit the road for three straight losses and return home only to lose against New Orleans in overtime before losing to Detroit in a shootout.

  It isn’t exactly the kind of play she was hoping for, especially as they fly to Cleveland for their second game against the Presidents. They’re on a six-game losing streak, about to play their biggest rivals in a hostile stadium, and in case there wasn’t enough pressure, rumors are spreading. Rumblings Coach Butler isn’t the right coach to lead Concord out of their playoff drought woes. Whispers maybe Matty isn’t the right captain for the team. People are outright saying Sophie used up all her luck as a rookie, and she’ll continue to decline until Concord smartens up and cuts her loose.

  She’s never gotten anywhere because of luck. She’s the player she is because of hard work and a refusal to quit when things are tough. She’ll bring her best game tonight, and snap this losing skid. With a couple of wins, everyone will remember Coach Butler was brought in because he has the résumé to make Concord a contender, and Matty is the best captain this franchise has ever had.

  Sophie misses two easy shots on net during warm-ups. She circles to the back of the line, her stick clutched tightly in her gloves. It’s been three games without a point for her. If she scored against New Orleans, they could’ve won in regulation or even OT. If she scored against Detroit, they wouldn’t have gone to the shootout.

  She has an A on her sweater now. It means she’s supposed to lead her team, and leaders score important goals in big moments.

  “We’re winning this one,” she tells Merlin. It’s become automatic to say, something expected of her rather than something she believes.

  She clangs her next shot off the post, and she bites back a frustrated growl. She can’t even hit an open net.

  “You’re getting all your misses out in warm-ups,” Merlin says. He smiles, but it’s the same smile she’s worn the past two weeks; it fools the cameras but doesn’t make it all the way to the eyes.

  She hits the post on back-to-back shifts to start the game.

  The crowd chants “Hayes is better.”

  She skates back to the bench after a third unfruitful shift and drops hard into an open space. “They do realize he hasn’t scored either, right?”

  “Relax,” Witzer says.

  She grabs a water bottle and sprays some water on her face to try to cool down. It’s better than snarling at her linemate. He doesn’t know what it’s been like for her, going up against Hayes for the past five years. Every single game, she has to prove herself better than him or it’s like everything she did before was erased.

  She scored a Chilton Academy record six goals in a game against the Weston School her junior year. It was a double hat trick, and she added four assists to her point total, giving her a ten-point night and another school record.

  The next time she faced Hayes, she was held off the scoresheet. Hayes had an assist on an empty net and people were quick to jump on the decline on her career. So no, she won’t relax.

  Every time they’re on the ice together, it’s a story. They’re rivals. Bullshit. He’d be nothing without her. She’s the one who has set records since she first hit the ice. She’s the one who had to fight against an entire system in order to play. No one would even know his name if he didn’t make such a big deal out of losing to her.

  She goes out for her next shift, determined to make something happen. If she can’t put the puck in the net herself, she’ll have to make space for her teammates and then set them up to score. Only, no one’s been on a streak recently so when she passes to Merlin, he shuffles it to Witzer who sends it to Theo and no one shoots.
>
  Theo’s return pass is picked off by Hayes, who streaks down the ice. Only a quick glove by Lindy keeps the game tied at zero.

  Sophie skates to the bench, even more frustrated than before she started her shift.

  “You need to shoot more,” Coach Vorgen tells her.

  She grinds her teeth into her mouth guard so she doesn’t say anything.

  Cleveland scores the first goal of the game when Olsson takes a shot from the point, and the puck deflects off Spitz’s skate and into the net. Sophie’s on the ice for the goal, boxing Hayes out, but she lets up as soon as the light flashes. Her stomach sinks, disappointed. She hates being on the ice for a goal against, because it means if she’d done more, she could’ve stopped it. If she’d held Hayes up when he carried the puck in, she could’ve forced an offside or if she’d been quicker, they could’ve cleared the puck out of the zone.

  All those ifs will help her prevent the next goal, but it doesn’t do anything to negate this one. She pushes her irritation down and skates over to Lindy to tap his pads with her stick. It wasn’t his fault the puck went in. He was squared up to Olsson, and it would’ve been an easy save if the puck hadn’t changed direction at the last second.

  She skates with Spitz to the bench. He looks gutted and avoids Coach Butler as if he’s afraid he’ll be benched for the rest of the game if he’s noticed.

  “Chin up,” Sophie tells him as they sit down. “We still have a lot more game left to play.”

  Two minutes later, she’s on the bench when Garfield and Nelson collide at center ice. They’re still untangling themselves when Farage puts the puck past Lindy.

  Nil-two.

  As much as she hates being on the ice for a goal against, she hates being stuck on the bench watching even more.

  “It’s only two goals,” Matty tells them during intermission.