chapter 2

Jace's POV

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‎The puck came at me low and fast. Instead of blocking it the right way, I dropped my guard. I let a guy half my speed slam right into me. My shoulder hit the boards hard. The glass rattled. Somebody on the bench swore out loud.

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‎“Whitfield! What the hell was that?”

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‎Coach yelled from somewhere behind me. His voice sounded far away through the ringing in my ears. I pushed off the boards and rolled my shoulder. I grinned at nothing. The hit did exactly what I needed it to do. For one clean second, my head was completely empty. There was only pain. It was simple, sharp, and mine.

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‎Then the second passed. My head filled right back up.

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‎I heard my mother’s voice from twenty years ago coming through the thin wall of our old apartment. Mrs. Callahan from next door stood in our doorway. She held a dish of food we didn’t need. She asked my mother whose eyes I had. It was the sweet, fake way nosy neighbors ask questions they already know the answer to.

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‎My mother just laughed. It was an easy, practiced fake laugh. She said his father’s people were just tall. That was all. Mrs. Callahan nodded like that made sense. I was six years old. I hid behind my mother’s leg. I understood right then, the way kids understand things without needing words, that no one was ever going to open that door for me. Not even her.

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‎I skated a lap to shake the memory loose.

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‎“Two minutes! Then we do line rushes,” Coach called out.

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‎I used the two minutes badly. I kept thinking about a hit I didn’t need to take.

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‎Forty minutes later, we walked into the locker room. My shoulder was stiff. I decided to worry about it tomorrow. Half the team was already loud. Wet towels snapped in the air. Two different playlists fought for control of the room.

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‎I took my pads off slowly. I half listened to Eli complain about his skate laces. That was when I saw Dez sitting two stalls down.

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‎Dez Sullivan was a walk-on player. He was nobody’s first draft pick. He made the team on pure hustle and only played when we were already winning by a lot. He sat perfectly quiet. It was not like him. He turned his stick over and over in his hands. I heard him talk to Eli in a low voice. He said he would get new skate blades by next week. He just had to sort a couple of things out first.

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‎I knew what sorting a couple of things out sounded like. I grew up speaking that exact language.

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‎I didn’t say anything to Dez. I walked out and found the old equipment manager in the hall. He had been here longer than the building had working heat.

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‎“Put a new set of blades on my tab,” I told him. “Dez’s size. Tell him it came from a scholarship fund. Make it sound like a program so his face doesn't turn red.”

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‎“He is going to ask who bought them,” the guy said.

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‎“Tell him it is not important.”

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‎“He is going to push.”

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‎“Then tell him to shut up and skate.”

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‎The equipment guy laughed and nodded. I didn't stick around. I did not want Dez to find out. I didn't want to stand there and listen to him say thank you. I never wanted credit for things like that. Credit is a leash. The second somebody knows you did a favor for them, they expect you to keep doing it. Worse, they start thinking they actually know you.

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‎My phone screen was lit up when I got to my car. Forty-one notifications.

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‎A girl from my morning class who never spoke to me wanted to know if I was going to a party Friday. A guy from high school I hadn't talked to in years begged for free tickets. Three different girls sent me messages saying "hey stranger." They acted like me disappearing for two weeks was a personality flaw, instead of just what happens when you don't have anything to say.

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‎Forty-one people wanted something from me. But they didn't know me. They built a fake version of Jace Whitfield in their heads using a jersey number and a highlight reel.

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‎I threw the phone into the cupholder. I drove home with the radio turned up way too loud.

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‎Coach caught me the next morning before I even took my gear bag off my shoulder. He waved me into his office like it was nothing. My stomach dropped. It did that every time he called me in lately.

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‎“Got a call yesterday,” he said. He didn't look up from his clipboard. “Dana Whitlock is coming to Thursday’s game.”

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‎I froze.

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‎I knew that name. Everyone who followed the league knew that name. Dana Whitlock was the biggest scout in hockey. She didn't fly out to college games unless she already had a short list of players to give pro contracts to.

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‎“Thursday,” I said. I repeated it like that might make it sound less terrifying.

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‎“Thursday.” Coach finally looked up. His eyes were dead serious. “Word is she only has her eyes on two guys in this entire conference right now. You are one of them, Jace.”

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‎He pointed his pen at me.

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‎“Do not do anything stupid between now and then.”

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‎I looked him right in the eye. My chest felt tight enough to snap.

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‎“I won't,” I told him.

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‎I had built my entire life for this one Thursday. I was going to be perfect. Absolutely nothing was going to get in my way.

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