Free Shut Out by Kelly Jamieson Page A

us?” he says.
    “Sure.”
    I try to sound casual, but I mentally smack myself at my excitement of maybe finally fitting in.

Chapter 8
Jacob
    Saturday night, we’ve just finished our first game of the year, the exhibition game at home against Queen’s. I’ve been waiting for this for weeks now—no, months, actually, a chance to get on the ice and shoot the puck and play a real hockey game, goddammit.
    In the dressing room after the game, I feel the difference. It’s subtle, but there’s a shift in attitude toward me. I’m included in the trash talk and high fives. The guys are all in a great mood from the win, which hopefully sets the tone for the season just starting, and I think they know that I was part of that.
    But only a part. Hockey is a funny sport because there can be individual stars—but they don’t win games by themselves. There’s no getting away from the fact that it’s a team sport. I can’t score goals unless someone feeds me the puck. Well, I can, but what I’m trying to say is a win comes from the whole team playing together and never from just one player.
    Even though I know I have talent, the hockey community teaches us to value teamwork, team success, and team rewards. A talented quarterback can be in the spotlight, but a hockey player is nothing without his team.
    The only guy who still seems hostile is Black Jack—Jack Jones, who’s been a pain in my ass since I arrived here. Our very first practice on the ice he slammed me into the boards with bone-breaking force. I had to hit him back to maintain respect, but that seemed to piss him off even more. Honestly, he’s kind of an asshole. He’s a senior, so he’s been playing on the team for a few years, and I have total respect for the veteran players and try not to overstep my newbie boundaries, but he’s not that great of a player and I’m starting to think he’s a little bitter about that. Three players on our team have already been drafted into the NHL, but not him. Plus, he’s selfish with the puck and some of his hits are bordering on dirty. But I ignore him because the others seem to be more accepting of me.
    Adrenaline is still buzzing through my veins from the game and my muscles feel pleasantly tired. I’m gonna have a huge goddamn bruise on my calf from that shot I blocked—what the fuck was I thinking? This was only an exhibition game, there was no need for heroics. But I’m desperate to show everyone I belong here. And maybe I also need to show
myself
I belong here, and restore a little of my damaged self-worth.
    With hockey. It’s who I am. I love it and it felt fan-fucking-tastic to have a stick in my hands and my blades scraping the ice. I love watching plays develop around me, knowing intuitively how to respond, where to go so the puck is on my stick. I love spotting a lane and that moment when I shoot the puck and then wait and watch the twine bulge. The crowd cheers and it’s such a fucking rush. It’s addictive.
    Buck and I first go back to our place to change, because we’re not going to that party in our game-day suits. Especially Buck, who’s wearing some god-awful shiny silver suit that makes me want to cover my eyes. He seems to think he looks all that in it.
    I quickly pull on a pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a gray V-neck sweater, all clean thanks to Buck’s laundry lessons this morning. I have to admit he knows what he’s doing when it comes to laundry. He’s wearing designer jeans and a crazy plaid shirt.
    As we walk to the party, I ask, “So who invited us to this? Whose place is it?”
    “Natalie. She invited Barks but told him to invite whoever he wants, and he invited us.” Barks is Adam Barker, one of our D-men.
    We enter the house and it’s the usual party scene, music playing from a sweet sound system, the living room packed. I accept a beer someone hands me, and Buck and I clink our bottles together in a celebratory toast.
    “It’s only the first game,” he says.
    “We