Asher

By the time game night rolls around, I'm wound as tight as a coil. I stretch a bit to ease the tension in my back, but it does little to help. Lifting my leg to rest it on the bench, I shift my gaze to Zach as I pull on my gear. Dude's struggling to distinguish between his left and right shin guards. A ghost smile makes its way on my face, and Zach doesn't miss it.

"Yo, Reed, get that shit-eating grin off your face," Zach mutters. "You put your skates on the wrong way that one time, I ain't forget."

"What grin?" I smile innocently. "And you had them right the first time."

He groans, pulling his socks off more violently than necessary as he swaps his guards for the third time in the last ten minutes. I snicker to myself. He didn't have them right the first time.

When I chuck my jeans into my duffel bag, a red blur tumbles out of the pocket. Frowning, I reach down to find a red ribbon. It comes back to me in waves. This is Wren's ribbon—the one I stole a few days back at Dunkin'.

Half of me has the strange urge to tie it around my wrist as a sort of lucky charm, but the other half doesn't believe in luck or superstition. Eventually, the latter wins, and I shove the ribbon into my duffel along with my jeans, making a mental note to return it to her later.

Now that some of the anxious energy has rolled off my chest, I start tying the laces to my trainers, which some of us wear to avoid walking around with skates on. The game's against Maris Stella, one of the best high school teams in the state. For the last five years, Eastview seniors haven't won against Maris Stella. That thought alone adds a lot more pressure on my shoulders than there already was.

"I think I'm going to shit myself," Harvey murmurs.

"It'll be fine," I say. "Don't worry about them; stick to the game plan and we'll be good." I stare at them. Determination fills me as they raise their heads, promising to play their best.

"Yeah," Daniels says to Harvey, patting his back. "We'll be fine, Oompa Loompa."

"That's so funny." Harvey throws his hands in the air. "So freaking funny, man."

I roll my eyes with a lingering smile, ignoring their banter. Today's game is at Lynwood, meaning we don't get the extra warm-up time on the rink that we normally do. Taking my phone out of my duffel, I check that I haven't gotten any new messages from my mom. Coach pops his head into the changing room. "Everyone out in five! Meet me at the benches on the far right."

A few of the guys follow me out and we walk along the hallway leading to the large, transparent doors. The clamor gets louder as we get closer. A rush of cold air strikes me as I trudge to where Coach is standing.

When I reach him, I sit down, placing my helmet and mouth guard next to me. The rest of my team arrive, and they sit and start shit talking our opposition. Coach told me that there would be some important people in the crowd today. Scouts.

"Okay, boys!" Coach says. "This is the second game of our season. The first one wasn't the greatest, but we've improved during practice these past few weeks. I know it's hard adjusting to new positions." He pauses to look at Miller, our center, and Harvey, on defense. "But it's no excuse. You all know who's starting: Reed, left winger, Miller, center, and Knight, right winger, Chandler and Harvey at the back. For today, I want to go back to our original setup—Knight, back up Reed." He looks over at Brody, who gives him a firm nod. "The rest of you are on the bench for now. Get ready to go on now, and Chandler, for heaven's sake, keep your damn mouth guard in! Break a leg, boys."

After Coach leaves us, we put on our guards and helmets, then huddle up. We stand in a circle, looking at each other before letting out a loud cheer: "Eastview!"

We line up, then walk onto the ice. I can't help but smile at the smoothness of the surface and the bite of cold air at my face as I glide to take my position. But my smile diminishes as a sense of uneasiness washes over me. I look down at the ice that has a red line streaked across it. I stretch my neck. Rolling it, I try to get rid of that feeling.

But when I lift my head, I catch sight of him. Drew McKay. The boy who almost got me expelled in the eighth grade because he thought that breaking into school, ruining private property, and trying to change legal documents was fun.

I had said no, but Drew broke into the school anyway, and when he was caught? The asshole implicated me. And when I said I didn't have any part of it, he called me a snitch. He eventually left, and I often found myself questioning why I had been friends with McKay in the first place.

He gives me a smirk I'd like to believe has no malicious intent and takes his position right in front of me.

"Long time no see," he says. "Reed."

Yeah, it was definitely malicious.

"McKay," I say, acknowledging him with a tight nod of my head. As much as I feel anxious, I'm not going to let this affect the game. Personal matters stay out of the rink. Staring at the referee, I wait for him to drop the puck so that we can start. He blows the whistle. The puck drops, and my chest caves.

The first forty minutes pass quickly. Zero–zero. We're tied. The team and I are exhausted, and as we chug our water, Coach explains a new game plan. My muscles are aching and my skates are killing me but I need to push through it. I can hardly hear Coach over the blood roaring in my ears.

Something is nagging at me though. Drew. He's being awfully quiet, sticking to the corners of the ice when we play. Something else I've noticed? Drew can't play for shit. I bet his dad waved a wad of cash at the school and Drew got what he wanted, like always. But McKay staying away from me is good, and maybe he's finally let his ancient grudge against me go. I decide to ignore him and just play the game.

The last twenty minutes on the clock starts, and the puck falls. Miller wins it and passes it to me. It glides across the ice, right onto my stick. Skating past a defenseman, I keep the puck on my stick as I move it around the players before passing it into the space in front of Brody, who skates forward to collect it. The crowd gets louder with every pass.

Come on. I watch Brody maneuver the puck toward the goa. Stepping forward, I wait to receive it, just like we practiced. Come on.

For a split second Brody looks up and makes eye contact with me. It's my cue. I push forward, calves burning, blood roaring in my ears. Now, instead of ignoring the rush in my veins, I channel it. Focus it. I'm close.

Then a giant blur attacks me from the left. Before I have any time to react, it completely wipes me out. A loud pop echoes as immense pain shoots down my leg. The cold, hard ice does very little to comfort me as my pressure points spike, and black dots linger in my vision.

The whistle is blown and slowly the cheer of the crowd dies down. People quickly surround me, peering down at me. I open my eyes; my vision is blurred.

I hear Brody's voice. "Drew? What the hell?"

"Brody." From the voice, I can tell it's Zach. "Touch him and you're suspended for the season. Let me beat this asshole up instea—"

I choke a laugh despite myself, but there's the metallic taste of blood on my tongue. Then Coach is here, above me and he's shouting for the medics. And everything goes black.

~

"I'll tell him."

Someone's sniffing, and there's a warm hand in mine. Blinding white walls are the first thing I see. And it feels like there's a boulder on my knee. I turn my head slowly to look at my mom. Red rims her puffy eyes. "Asher, honey? How are you feeling?"

I attempt to sit up but everything aches. It pulls me back, stopping me from doing anything. Panic rises in my chest. What the hell happened? Why does my knee look like that? And why does it feel like I hit my head against a fucking wall?

The doctor standing in the corner notices my confusion and alarmed look. He walks gently toward me, holding something in his hand. His white coat is embroidered with Dr. Greene. "Asher, I'm going to need you to calm down. All right? I'm here to explain everything."

Gathering my thoughts, I take a deep breath. Then everything comes back to me, and my roaring headache worsens. The game. Drew. My knee.

As realization makes its way to my face, the doctor stops in front of me. Fear makes its way up and closes my throat, making it hard to breathe.

"You sprained your right wrist and injured your knee." He pauses. There's a look on his face as he gives my mother a fleeting glance. There's a moment of silence.

"There's more, isn't there?" I ask slowly, looking at both of them.

My mother holds my hand. What's the big problem? I hurt my knee and my wrist. So what? It's not the first time. It swells up then I have to ice it and bam, done. Knee healed. Wrist healed. Then I'm back on the ice. I'm always back on the ice. What makes this time any different?

"You tore your ACL."

My world falls. Completely off its axis. And sound doesn't exist for a few seconds. I can't hear my mother or Dr. Greene. Some pro hockey players who tore their ACLs have had their careers end before they even started. So what does this mean for me?

"Is there any possibility that he can play hockey?" Mom asks, but her voice is just some noise in the distance.

"Well, as of right now," the doctor says, "no. According to Asher's chart dated around October two years ago, I believe he hurt the same knee. His left knee was already giving him slight trouble; you said he used to complain sometimes after games that it was bothering him." He glances at my mother, who nods in response as she tries to understand. "There's slightly more pressure on the recovery of his injury. After surgery and some physical therapy, he may be able to play after five months or so."

That's too late. I can't play this season. I won't be able to go to the state championship. I can't get scouted.

Mom grasps my hand tighter. "It'll be fine. You might still be able to play. Don't jump to conclusions, all right? I'm sure everything will be fine."

I'm not so sure.