In Sequence | H.S.

24.

Harry.

"God damn it, Carlson!" Another missed goal. The damn kid hasn't scored a single point since we hit the ice. It's just practice, but what's done in practice is a direct result of what our games are going to look like and I'm not about to let a rookie earn us the first loss of the season. "Get your shit together!" I yell into my mouth guard, ramming my shoulder into his as I skate past him.

Carlson tumbles backwards at my collision, but he manages to stay upright. It's the only fucking skillful thing he's managed to do so far. "I'm just w-warming up." He stutters, repositioning his grip on his stick.

"We finished warm-ups ten minutes ago. Practice doesn't get put on hold because you can't fucking keep up." I skate circles around him as he stands still, eyes looking forward to meet mine with every lap.

"I'm trying my best." He blabs out one of the affirmations he probably learned from Madelyn, jaw clenching as Coach blows his whistle.

"Styles, the only one that gets to taunt my players is me! Leave him alone!" Coach's voice echoes from the stands, shooing me away from Carlson with a quick wave.

"If you want to play like a rookie, join the college league." I mutter in Carlson's ear as I pass by him on my way back to center. "Maybe you're better off there anyway."

"What was that about?" Miles shouts from his position in the center of the goal. "It's the last practice before break, this isn't life or death."

"If he's going out on break like this, who's to say he won't come back the same way, if not worse?" Half the time, it feels like I'm having to fulfill Miles' role as Captain. He's too damn soft to be a leader.

"I won't come back worse." Carlson defends himself, cheeks reddening in frustration. That's it, Rookie, let's see some emotion in the game. I know what this kid needs to be successful on the ice, I was this kid a few years ago. Now look at me. I'm doing for him what Mitch did for me.

"Your stats are down, you really expect me to think you're not getting worse?" I get in his face, a smirk burning hot into my cheek.

"Fuck off." He mumbles, teeth grinding into his mouthguard. Discomfort starts playing a part with his posture, his shoulders rolling back as he tries to make himself appear bigger and more defensive.

"Play better or get the fuck off of NHL ice." I counter, knocking my knuckles against his helmet. "I'm starting to wonder if you even deserve to be on this team." I can see the moment I snapped him, his pupils dilating by a millimeter, the corners of his mouth downturning. Carlson's complexion fumes with frustration as his hockey stick is lifted horizontally, gripped in both hands. One harsh shove to my chest sends me gliding backwards as amusement seeps from my pores, offering a round of applause as I trigger his competitiveness.

"Fuck off!" He shouts in my face, going down in history as the first time I've ever seen him angry. I know why he's playing weak today, hell, we all do. His breakdown in the locker after the last game told the story of a kid that is healing from a seven year old wound.

Thanksgiving is hard for him; the entire month of November is. For most people in America, it's filled with gratitude and traditions, but for Carlson, it's a month of mourning. Not only did so many of his traditions fade away with her demise, but her death date came the day before Thanksgiving. He's never actually said how she died, just that it was around this time. He's been getting in his head too much lately, and while getting in his face and tearing down his game seems like an aggressive, counterproductive approach, he needs it, and I know it'll do him some good.

"Now fucking play like that." I challenge him, watching as his chest heaves with deep and annoyed inhales.

"Fuck you." He finally huffs a variance of the phrase as he gets back into position to run two-on-two drills with Ian versus me and Mitch.