Puck Me, Stepbrother

My phone won't shut up. Seven AM on a Monday morning, and Mom's already texting me like crazy. "Good luck today, honey! Richard is so excited that you're trying out for hockey. He says it's a Hayes family tradition!" "I know you'll do amazing. You've always been so athletic. Love you!" I'm standing outside the athletics building with a bag of borrowed hockey gear that smells like ass. This is the stupidest thing I've ever done. But here I am anyway, because Mom sounded so damn happy when I told her about tryouts. She spent forever on the phone last night talking about how proud she was, how this would help me fit in, how Richard was excited about it. Couldn't tell her the real reason I'm doing this. That I'm sick of being the guy everyone thinks will just fuck off if they push hard enough. The equipment room guy barely looked at me yesterday. Just handed me skates, pads, a helmet, everything I need to make a complete fool of myself on ice. "You sure about this?" he asked. "Hockey tryouts are brutal." "Yeah, I'm sure," I lied. Now I'm definitely not sure. But it's too late to bail. The athletics building is huge and intimidating, all glass and steel. I follow the signs to the locker room, my stomach getting worse with each step. The locker room is full of guys who've probably been playing hockey since they were five. They're talking and laughing while getting dressed, totally casual about the whole thing. I find an empty corner and start putting on the borrowed gear. The pads are too big, the helmet doesn't fit right, and the skates feel like boats. Everything screams that I don't belong here. "You lost, transfer boy?" Shit. I know that voice. Julian Hayes is standing by a locker, arms crossed. He's already half-dressed in gear that actually fits him, looking at me like I'm some kind of bug. Of course, he's on the hockey team. Of fucking course. "Nope," I say, going back to my skates. "Just getting ready for tryouts." He laughs. "You? Hockey tryouts?" A few other guys look over. I can see them nudging each other, getting ready for a show. "Yeah, me," I say, standing up on wobbly skate blades. "Got a problem with that?" His expression changes from amusement to something else. Like he's excited to watch me fail. "No problem at all," he says. "This should be interesting." Walking to the rink is hell. Every step on these skates feels like I'm about to eat shit, and I can hear guys behind me making bets. "Five minutes," someone says. "Two minutes tops." "He'll be crying before the first drill." I ignore them and focus on not falling before I even get on the ice. The rink is bigger than I expected. Bright white ice that looks slippery as hell. Coach Williams is already there with his clipboard, looking like he could kill someone with his bare hands. "Alright, ladies," he shouts. "Tryouts, get on the ice. Let's see what you've got." This is it. No backing out now. I step onto the ice and my legs immediately start shaking. The skates slide everywhere, and for a second, I think I'm going down right in front of everyone. But I grab the boards and steady myself, then push off slowly. It's terrible. I'm wobbly and slow and obviously have no clue what I'm doing. Guys glide past me like it's nothing. "Having fun yet?" Julian asks, skating backwards next to me like he's showing off. "Just getting started," I mutter, trying not to fall on my face. Coach Williams blows his whistle and starts calling out drills. Skating around cones, stopping and starting, basic shit that everyone else makes look easy. I suck at all of it. But I'm not quitting. My legs are screaming, I've fallen three times, and people are definitely betting on when I'll give up. Fuck that. Halfway through, something changes. I start getting pissed. Really pissed. At the ice for being so damn slippery, at these guys for making this look easy, and at Julian for smirking every time I mess up. When I get angry, I get mean. Next drill is scrimmage time. Coach throws me in with some other tryouts. My skating still sucks, but now I'm throwing my body around. Getting in people's way. Making them work for everything. "What the hell?" one guy says after I check him into the boards harder than necessary. "Sorry," I say, but I'm not. I play like that the whole time. Using anger instead of skill. Can't keep up with the fast guys, but I can make their lives difficult. Coach Williams starts watching me. "Transfer kid," he shouts during a break. "What's your name?" "Bryson." "You ever played before, Bryson?" "No, sir." He nods and writes something down. Can't tell if that's good or bad. Practice goes on for two hours. Two hours of getting my ass kicked in every possible way. But I don't give up. Every time I fall, I get back up. Every drill, I throw myself into it. By the end, everything hurts, and I might throw up. But I'm still standing. Coach Williams gathers everyone around. "Results tomorrow morning," he says. "Most of you know what to expect. A few of you surprised me." He looks right at me when he says that. After everyone leaves, I'm in the locker room trying to get these damn skates off when Julian shows up. "Not bad for someone who's never played," he says. But he doesn't sound happy about it. "Thanks." "Don't let it go to your head. Making the team and staying on it are different things." I look up at him. He's back in regular clothes, looking perfect again. Not like someone who just spent two hours getting beaten up. "We'll see." The next morning, I check the roster outside the athletics building. My name is there. Third line, but it's there. Bryson Chen - Forward. I stare at it for a while, not believing it. I actually made the damn team. My phone buzzes. Text from Mom. "How did tryouts go yesterday? I've been thinking about you!" "I made the team," I text back. Her response is immediate. "OH MY GOD! I'm so proud of you! Richard is going to be thrilled! This is amazing!" I smile despite everything. She really is happy, and that makes this worth it. Even if it means getting my ass kicked by Julian Hayes every day for the next few months. I'm walking back to my dorm when I see him coming out of the athletics building. He stops when he sees me. "Congratulations," he says, voice flat. "Thanks." Practice is at six AM every day. Don't be late." "I won't." He nods and walks away. Same team as the guy who's made my life hell. Either I just made the biggest mistake of my life, or I signed up for something that might actually be good. Guess I'll find out.