Hat Trick

Hat Trick Diana Foster Contents Title Page The Fall Freefall One Two Three Four Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Downfall Eleven Twelve Thirteen Fourteen Fifteen Sixteen Seventeen Shortfall Eighteen Nineteen Twenty Twenty One Twenty Two Twenty Three Twenty Four Twenty Five Epilouge The Fall Scrape Scrape...Scrape. Tyler can almost make out the sound of skates rushing towards him, slashing against the ice. He can feel the ice on his face now, his helmet having slid somewhere else on impact. Impact. Tyler can't make sense of any of it. His head is foggy, and he doesn't dare open his eyes. He's not quite sure he could. He can taste blood around his mouth piece,can almost feel a dull ache surrounding his frame. It feels like someone else's pain. Like he's watching a slasher movie and can feel the ghost of a slice in time with the screen. He can hear muddled voices surrounding him, and he can feel a hand place gently on his shoulder. But he can only focus on the feeling of the ice. It's like it's grounding him to a reality that feels like its swaying out of his reach. He can make out his voice. "Tiger?" He sounds worried and Tyler can't place why. "Tiger...bud." And that's the last he hears. Freefall “No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear.”― C.S. Lewis One The rink looms above him, challenging him to take another step toward it. Tyler lets out a shaky breath followed by a deep one. He wills himself steady. The gym bag he hauled all the way over here hangs limply off his shoulder. And he's aware he probably looks insane, just standing here, looking up at the building like he's afraid it will bite him. He reads the words above the door, to stall time. Britney Ice Arena He wonders for only a moment who the hell Britney was. Probably a Woodridge alumnus that wanted to flex how rich and successful they were after their time here. His shoulder starts to ache from the weight of the bag and he can feel sweat pooling behind his neck. The Midwest Summer heat not quite giving way to Fall just yet has left him feeling sticky. He felt sticky yesterday as he carried his stuff up to his room in Blake hall, even when his mom's tearful goodbye filled him with ice-cold dread. He had been so okay leaving her home in Minnesota. But now, with everything so different, he could feel his throat constrict as he watched her tail lights leave the parking lot. He felt so sticky this morning on his run that it didn't even have the desired effect of clearing his head. And the harder he pushed, the more his head felt full and his body rejected the heat. And he feels sticky now . He's been standing out here too long, he realizes when he gets a glance of someone pushing the glass door in front of him open. "You coming in or you gonna stand out there all day, Rook?" The guy in front of him is excessively tall and broad, with sandy blonde hair and a generous smattering of freckles across his face. He's got this sort of lopsided grin on his face like he is so aware of his threatening build and has trained himself to make his presence decidedly non-threatening . Tyler knows his name, Eric Wellington because he was up nearly all night looking at the roster and all of his teammates stats. Well, his new teammates. And Eric is the captain. He raises a hand in an awkward hello and struggles to start his sentence. This would be easier if he wasn't so goddamn scared. Or maybe nervous? Tyler can't figure out which one it is. "I...uhm..." He trails off for a second. "I was just uhm...admiring the building." He finishes. If it was even possible, Eric's grin grows, turning even more up on the right corner. "She's a beaut isn't she?" He looks up at the same sign Tyler was just reading with a doting fondness before he looks back at Tyler. "Well come on, Rook." There's a note of encouragement there like Eric can tell how terrified Tyler is. Tyler isn't entirely sure why he feels like he can't breathe as he takes an uneven step forward and begins to walk toward Eric. Okay well, he knows. He is good at hockey, he knows that. His hands are soft and he has a speed on ice that still raises the hairs on his arms and gets his heart pounding in time with the scratch of his skates. But, he's small, coming in only at 5'8, and he's only been on the ice since middle school. Some of these guys have been on the ice so long that they basically learned to skate in the same breath as learning to walk. Some of them were signing NHL contracts and returning from prospect camps. And Tyler was returning from a Summer of grieving and learning a new normal. Tyler was recruited to play at Woodridge during his senior year. And his parents were thrilled. A scholarship to a good private school meant the world to them. They didn't mind that he was moving halfway across the country or that Tyler wasn't convinced he even wanted to play collegiate hockey. The pride in his Dad's eyes at the news led him to sign. Tyler did love hockey, then. He just couldn't find it in him to believe he deserved a chance like this. Part of him was so sure they had just read his last name and pushed him through. And then his dad got sick. Or had been sick without knowing. The pain in his hip he always blamed on too many checks and just getting old turned into full body aches, and eventually to funeral flowers. Tyler felt like he was there on the ice with him one day, chirping