Ice Cold

𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐤𝐞

I don't bother looking back as I stroll my way towards the changing rooms, bag slung leisurely over my shoulder. I carry my stick in my free hand, tape wrapped around the wood. A lot of my teammates have names scrawled beneath the tape, for 'luck', but I have nothing. I don't need luck to win, which is why I'm the Captain. By the time I reach the door, the rest of the team are already inside, unpacking their skates, pads and jerseys from their bags. I follow suit, dumping my bag down onto the bench as I sink down beside Tyler.

"Hey, man."

He glances up at me upon hearing my voice, whilst we both occupy ourselves by lacing up our skates. At first, I don't notice his smirk, but it become obvious when he speaks.

"April Fools gets hotter every day."

I blink.

"Huh?"

"I know you hate her and all, but you're not blind, right?"

I scrunch my nose in disgust. April Jones is many things, but 'hot' is not one of them. She's more easily described as..plain. Brown hair, long because she hasn't touched it in her life, blue eyes (not the bright kind, they're just...blue), short and slim- because most figure skaters are. I haven't even seen what she's like on the ice, but she's probably just as plain as she is off-ice.

"...Tyler, I think I might be blind."

Tyler snorts at this, though quickly covers it with a half-assed attempt at a cough as Couch Miller strolls in. Technically, he's not supposed to come in without knocking, but he doesn't care. He's been training most of us since we could walk. Coach Miller is of average height, but makes up for it with his broad shoulders and thick chest. His once-brunette hair is greying and thinning at the edges, and he wears a permanent pissed-off expression. We've been calling him Coach Bitch-Face for several years now, and he hasn't caught up to us. Thank God, otherwise he'd have us doing sprints off-ice for weeks.

"Listen up, team. As you are aware, we've got a big game this weekend- that means big competition, big crowd, lots of scouts. And, beating these guys will mean advancing in the New Year Tournament. So, practice hard today...all of you."

He gives us all a long stare, before turning on his heel and making his way out of the changing room. As soon as the door closes, we erupt into conversation, yet quicken our getting-ready process. Once Coach leaves, it means we have approximately two minutes before he starts yelling- and we do not want him to start yelling.

Exactly two minutes later, the whole team bustles out of the changing room and gets out onto the ice. We take a few laps, before lining up at Coach's command. Coach never really gets on the ice like he used to, but he is still plenty loud from behind the wall.

"I want three individual laps down the ice- pivot between each length, crossovers on the way, consistent speed and a clean stop when finished. After that, it's all stick-work today."

A simultaneous groan can be heard from all of us as Coach finishes up, because today can be clearly marked as an Evaluation day. We call them this, because there are some practices Coach holds that involve individual execution of skills. This way, Coach can evaluate our balance, crossovers, pivots, strength, speed, footwork, technique...the list goes on. We all know these types of practices are important, especially because it helps Coach decide who's benched for the upcoming games. However, they still suck. I sigh, moving to the front of the line to begin the drill- as Captain, it's my responsibility to go first. Or, as Coach puts it, 'show them how it's done'. And that is exactly what I do.

Three hours later, I haul my skates into their bag, reaching to put on my sneakers. The rest of the team pack up their own things, yet not much is said between us- we're exhausted. Practices are always hard, but this one needed an extra push. Of course, it's because of the game on Saturday- we'll be playing the Spitestown Spurs. They're our natural enemy, seeing as they're from the next town over. So, even though this is only the first game of the New Year Tournament, it will be one of the biggest. I groan as I straighten to full height feeling the ache of a long practice in my knees.

"Captain feeling a bit worn out, hmm?"

"Shut up, James."

I glance across the room towards my teammate, who is grinning from ear-to-ear. I love that little ginger guy, mostly because he makes up for his size with speed on the ice, but sometimes he's really not funny. He waved at me, and I shake my head, moving to leave the changing rooms. I usually drive back to Tyler's so we can catch up on homework we should've been doing instead of practice, but one text on my phone puts a stop to my plans.

Mom: Having the Jones' over for dinner, be home by 9. Xx

Me: Coming now x

I desperately want to type 'ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT' in response, but I resist the urge. Mr and Mrs Jones are literally the world's best parents besides my own, but their offspring is my sworn enemy, so obviously I don't want them around. Especially for fucking dinner in my fucking house. My parents clearly don't understand my undying hatred of April Jones, otherwise they would help me steer clear of her. I walk as I type, moving out of the rink, through the main office and out into the car park.

Me: Srry Tyler, can't come over. Hell is coming over for dinner.

Tyler: Say hi for me ;)

I grimace at my screen, before tucking my phone into my pocket, withdrawing my keys to unlock my truck. I chuck my bag and stick into the backseat first, before climbing into the driver's seat. As I reverse and drive out of the car park onto the main road, I think about how much I'd rather just stay at the rink or head to Tyler's. However, flunking out on dinner would piss both of my parents off, and I can't risk having them ground me before a game. They understand how important hockey is, so would probably let me play regardless to my home situation, but not having their support would totally throw me off my game.

It doesn't take long before I am pulling up into the driveway of my house- it isn't surprising, considering I'm only a ten minute drive from the rink. In Bluestown, everywhere is ten minutes away from anywhere. I grab my bag and stick from the back, hop out of the truck and make my way to the front door, pausing to listen for voices. I hear my mom, but no excited chatter. They're not here yet, which I realise is evident by their lack of car in the drive. Rolling my eyes at my own idiocy, I walk inside and leave my bag and seat in the hallway, strolling to the kitchen. My mom is hard at work putting together one of her undeniably delicious meals, whilst my dad sits at the counter, reading her cookbook. He looks confused, and I smirk.

"Hey."

"Blake, sweetheart, could you lay the table?"

"On it."

I respond to my mom's request with no protest, despite the fact that both didn't say hello, as if they forgot they hadn't seen me since I left for school at 8 this morning. I carefully lay the plates across the table, before reaching to place down glass cups and cutlery. We don't have quite enough cutlery for six, considering we're a family of three, so I leave what will be April's plate empty, smiling at my own evil little plan. It isn't much, but any inconvenience to her is a happiness to me. My smile drops, however, when the doorbell rings. My mom beams.

"They're here!"