“So?” I asked back.
“Burgers or Mexican?”
I chuffed a short laugh and Duncan yipped. “Burgers,” I said. “The bigger the better.”
Duncan yipped again.
I closed my eyes and worked on not falling asleep to the hum of the truck’s engine and the happy thump of Duncan’s tail.
Sixteen
The burgers were huge. Four meat patties, four buns, about half a pound of bacon, and a pile of onion rings topping them off. Graves opted for the drive-thru and parked behind the game store next door so we could all eat.
Just because Graves hadn’t shifted into his wolf form—if that was his marked form—didn’t mean he wasn’t hungry. He had skated hard tonight too and the Tide had played a brutal and aggressive game.
Duncan chowed down in the back seat and I lost track of time while I worshiped the fast food heaven spread out on the white paper bag before me.
We didn’t talk. I didn’t want to talk. But after the food was gone, I was pretty sure Graves would want to talk. Maybe lecture.
To my surprise he just wiped his hands with a couple napkins, wadded them up and threw them in the takeout bag, which he tossed between us. I reached back for Duncan’s papers, then added those and mine to the bag.
“What’s your address?”
Oh. So maybe there wouldn’t be a talk. I let out a relieved breath and I told him our address.
I had a bunch of questions running through my head about tonight, about him being there like he was waiting for us, about why the cats responded to his dominance: he was a wolf, right? Still, I didn’t ask any of them.
I told myself I was too tired.
But mostly I was just raw from being exposed. Now more people knew I used magic. People with cameras, social media accounts, police officers. People who had called more people who had come to see the disaster.
The disaster of a wizard who just wanted to be a hockey player. There was, however, one question on my mind I wanted an answer to.
“What is the song?”
Graves glanced over at me as he navigated the narrow streets. “What song?”
“You whistle it all the time.”
“I whistle a lot of songs.”
“No, it’s the same one. You whistle it when we’re on the ice. All the time. It gets stuck in my head.”
I hummed the beginning of it, and Graves winced.
“Just something I heard. And liked.”
“Right. I get that. What is it?”
“It’s a Decemberists song.”
“Nice. Which one?”
“‘The Shankill Butchers.’”
“That’s. That’s dark, Graves.”
“Sometimes it suits the mood.”
He gave me a measuring look, and I had no idea how to respond to that. If I remembered the lyrics to the song right, it was a warning about a group of butchers drinking a lot of whiskey, polishing their knives and cleavers and then heading into town on a wicked wind to kill people.
That’s the mood he was in when he played hockey? That was the song that came to mind when we were digging out of a losing streak?
“Damn, Graves.” I held out a hand for a fist bump.
“Don’t read that much into it, kid. There are a lot of songs that get stuck in my head.”
I waggled my fist. “Still, damn.”
He sighed and gave me a bump. “This it?”
He had pulled up in front of our house. I was tired from the game, angry we’d lost (just because I was a good loser didn’t mean I wasn’t disappointed in our play) but also excited to play the Tide again so we could take away a win.
Add to that the echoes of magic chiming half-heard songs in my head, which now included crazed butchers, and I was crazy-beat.
“So, thanks,” I said before I opened the door. “For the ride, the food, and for showing up in the garage. I swear I didn’t do anything to piss off Steele. I didn’t know he was there until Duncan was going all wolf.”
Duncan growled softly.
“Yeah, yeah,” I said. “Big fierce protector. Like I couldn’t handle it.”
He stuck his cold, wet nose in my ear, which he knew I hated.
“Gross.” I jerked away and wiped at the side of my face. I pushed on the door handle.
“Hazard.”
I paused, one foot on the edge of the open door.
Graves’s desert-colored eyes almost glowed in the low light. Shadow from the street lights carved his face into edges and I wondered what beast lived beneath that human mask he had on.
“I don’t want you leaving games without me. Steele isn’t the only player in the league who has problems with wizards.”
“Thanks but no thanks, Graves. I don’t need you to hold my hand while I cross the street. I can take care of myself. With or without magic. Plus, I already have one wolf who follows me everywhere I go.”
Duncan growled an affirmative.
Graves tried to out-stare me, but I grew up with a wolf who tried that for like a year straight. Never worked. Maybe because I’m a wizard and immune to the alpha stare, or maybe because I knew how to ignore what people told me to do.
It was even easier than ignoring what magic told me to do.
“See you tomorrow,” I said. “Early skate. Lucky us.”
Graves exhaled quickly enough his nostrils widened. Then he shifted his shoulders and lifted his head. A small smile tipped his lips and it was all human.
“Does a man good to remember he’s part of a team,” he said with a little extra drawl in it.
“Which means?”
“Humor me, Hazard. I’ve been in this league longer than you’ve had big boy skates. Don’t leave the gates without me.”
I rolled my eyes and shrugged. “Fine. If you’re around we’ll walk out together. I’m not holding my breath, though.”
I shoved out of the truck, and stood aside so Duncan could jump out. He paused, stared back through the door at Graves who was staring at him too.
I don’t know what those two said to each other, or even if they did. But Duncan’s ears twitched, then he turned, stuck his freakishly cold and disgustingly wet nose into my palm.
“Jesus, Duncan. Personal boundaries.”
He blew snot on my hand, which I tried to wipe in his stupid fur as he bounded off toward the house.
The front door opened and Mr. Spark stood there in his bathrobe, pajama pants, and glasses. It wasn’t until I was on the front step and walking through the door that I realized Graves had waited until I was in the house before he finally drove away.
What? He was going to drive every person on the team home now? I snorted at that idea, then realized he wouldn’t have to drive anyone else home. Only wizards were weak enough to need bodyguards.
Great.
Seventeen
The envelope was bent, crumpled, and looked like it had been wet at one time. I picked it up off of my closet floor and read the front. Just my name, printed out.
It took me a minute, but I finally remembered where I’d seen it. That night at the press conference. It had been on the table, waiting for me.
I had totally forgotten about it.
I changed into sweats and a T-shirt—no one was getting anything fancier out of me at four o’clock in the damn morning—then sat on the edge of the bed and tore open the envelope.
One page with text that said: This league takes out the trash. You don’t belong here, Wizard. Get the hell out before you end up—
And beneath that was a photo of a stuffed doll with a wizard’s hat on its head. Cute, except the doll was beheaded, naked, and the chest was torn up so that all the stuffing puffed out of it like squeezed mayonnaise.
I sat there staring at it while a weird numbness spread over me. This was a threat. Or a promise. And the last person who had called me trash, “wizard trash,” was Steele.
He’d tried to attack me in the garage too. And he’d nearly given me a concussion.
It
occurred to me that this was something I could use against him to make him stop harassing me. Something I could take to the police if things got out of hand.
Or it was just one guy with a grudge who was stupid enough to think one threatening arts and crafts project would keep me out of hockey.
I folded it back along the creases, wrestled it back into the envelope, then tossed it into the top drawer of my nightstand.
This had happened before the game, before the garage. Now that we’d played, I figured we’d work out our differences on the ice. He didn’t have to like me. I sure as hell didn’t like him. But I wasn’t going anywhere.
I had a game to play.
By the time I made it down to breakfast, I knew the standoff in the garage was all over social media. It was all over the morning news. I couldn’t bring myself to actually look at the video. Didn’t want to see myself standing there in the middle of a stupid catnip and rubber ball tornado.
What had I been thinking?
At least the magic I’d thrown back at the Avalanche’s camp had been flashy and kind of cool.
Rubber squeaky balls and cat weed. Seriously?
The newscasters smiled about it, but they also seemed kind of amazed.
Probably amazed at what a stupid waste of magic it was.
Duncan hadn’t said much, except for the big grin he gave me over the breakfast table, and the comment: “That magic. That magic, dude.”
I shook my head at him, then ate enough eggs and oatmeal to make me want to go back to bed.
We didn’t argue when Mr. Spark—Sean—offered to drive us in to practice.
Early skate was me, Duncan, Graves, JJ and Watts, who did not look happy about the early call, and Coach Clay. I’d expected to have to skate ’til I puked, but for whatever reason, Coach didn’t even have us change into our full gear. We hit the ice in sweats and skates, and ran through drills.
He was running them with us too, a constant, calm voice that held confidence instead of anger. He wanted us to get this, to get into step with each other, to develop a better sense of how we worked together on the ice.
Since we all played fourth line, I figured it was about time we nailed this down.
I pushed everything else away, the magic, the letter, the video—well, videos—and focused on making every action good, clean, precise.
By the time the rest of the team showed up for practice, I was loose, relaxed, and ready to play.
I opened my locker to change into my gear. Dozens of bouncy balls fell out and boinged around the room. All the boys in the changing room laughed.
“Well, I guess we know who has more balls than anyone else in the room.” I grinned even though I felt sick to my stomach. As far as pranks went, this was harmless. Funny too.
“Nice moves last night, Wiz.” Watts slapped me on the back. There was that nickname again. “Maybe next time you can make it rain mice or something really flashy.”
“Like I’d want mice falling on my head.” I pushed a few more bouncy balls out of the way. “Or anything flashy.”
“You…you do know that magic you did was flashy?” Watts asked. “No? Then what the hell would you call it?”
“Wasteful.” This was from our captain.
“It was not wasteful,” Duncan said, quick to my defense. “It was awesome. Those cats went crazy for the nip and man…all those balls.”
I sat on the bench, Duncan next to me. He was grinning and bright-eyed and absolutely unapologetically happy. That kind of energy, that kind of happiness was sort of contagious.
I felt my shoulders lower, my breathing even out. I ducked my head and fiddled with the laces on my skates, intent on gearing up and ignoring everything else.
Still, I could see our first line centerman, Upshaw, out of the corner of my eye. He was smiling back at Duncan just as wide.
“Balls,” Upshaw said with a chin tip.
“Balls,” Duncan agreed.
Wolves.
“Were they solid?” Upshaw asked as he shrugged into his jersey. “They looked solid.”
“Totally,” Duncan said. “They had chew.”
Upshaw’s grin got bigger and now he was staring at me.
“Wiz can make anything with magic,” Duncan said. “Make it real, man. Like real real. It’s freaking amazing.”
I opened my mouth to protest. Duncan had only been there once when I used magic. He didn’t know that much about it.
Of course, I didn’t know that much about it either.
“Really?” This was from T1: Troiter.
“Really,” Duncan said. “He can do anything.”
“That’s the problem,” Lock said.
“You doubt me?” Duncan laughed.
“Not you.” Lock’s gaze shifted to me. “You think you can do anything you want with magic? That’s how it is with you? All under your control like that? Easy?”
The room went quiet. Everyone waiting for me to answer the team captain.
“No,” I said evenly. “It’s not easy. I don’t—I haven’t trained for it. All I know how to do, to control, is how I play hockey.”
Someone snorted and made some derisive comment about how well I’d done that last night too. But Lock ignored them.
“I don’t need magic on the ice. Not without training. Control,” Lock said. “You don’t know how to handle magic, you stay off the ice. Got that? No different than second- or fourth-marked staying off the ice when they lose control. They do what’s right for the team. You do what’s right for the team, and what’s right for it isn’t sloppy magic.”
My face flushed hot, but I locked my teeth together. There was no reason for me to get angry at him talking to me like I was a child. Like I was stupid and didn’t know the rules. This was his ship to steer. I was just here to row.
“You won’t have to worry about it,” I said. “The less I use magic, the happier I’ll be.”
Lock didn’t seem convinced. “As far as I can see, you being a wizard won’t do shit to help our game. So either hit the ice like a player who almost made the pros, or take your game somewhere else, Hazard.”
Duncan moved, unconsciously leaning his shoulder toward me, facing down Lock. That man would stand between me and a firing squad if he got the chance.
“I’m here to play,” I repeated.
“Good. Show me that out there. Live up to your hype.” He slammed his locker shut and stormed out of the room.
Graves had told me there were other players who didn’t like wizards. I hadn’t thought one of those players would be the captain of my own team.
He’d never indicated that he didn’t like me being a wizard in practice.
But we’d lost last night. And then I’d been caught on video playing around with magic. Yeah, I could see how it looked like I was just showboating. Using hockey to draw attention to myself, to the magic I could use.
That wasn’t the attention our team needed. We wanted to be seen because we were winners. The novelty of a wizard on the team didn’t mean jack if we couldn’t put the W on the board.
I think Duncan said something to try to break the tension in the room. I didn’t think it worked.
All I wanted to do was run drills, do them hard, ignore Lock, and get the hell out of here.
But just my luck, Coach paired me off against Lock.
Because of course he did.
Lock didn’t act like there was any tension between us, but I could feel it in the set of his shoulders, in the anger that iced up his eyes. We didn’t talk, which suited me fine.
He hated me. That was now perfectly clear.
I didn’t know why I hadn’t seen it before. But now that I did, it threw me. Threw me off my game. I lost every face-off, I missed every pass, I blew every drill.
My head wasn’t in the game. Worse, I’d let Lock get in my head. His doubt. His anger. His judgment.
He didn’t think I belonged here.
I wanted to prove him wrong, but every time I got near him, I choked.
It was so bad, Josky leaned back on the net, which I was totally not hiding behind, and reached for her water. “You okay, Wiz?”
“Don’t call me that.” It came out a little sharp. I hated that nickname.
“Crap day, huh? Well, get it out of your system now. I don’t want you stinking the bus up tonight with your mood.”
Coach blew a whistle and she went back to her place in the net, skating back and forth twice before scuffing the ice with her left skate and settling into position.
“Hazard,” Coach Clay yelled. “Here.”
Shit. I pushed out onto the ice and took my place behind the line of players.
He explained the shooting drill, and I heard him. Repeated it over and over in my head. Watched the guys execute it in front of me. Hoped I wasn’t going to have to do it with Lock.
Turned out I was paired up with Duncan and JJ.
I managed to get through the drill without making a complete fool out of myself, but I was rough, sloppy.
And I couldn’t blame it on the late night magic or yesterday’s loss. I couldn’t even blame it on Lock. This was all me. All my problem, all in my head.
After drills, Coach Clay and assistant Coach Beauchamp reminded us that we’d be leaving at three o’clock sharp to make the trip south to Redding, California.
Assistant Coach Beauchamp went over the list of what we needed to pack, what he and the trainers would make sure was packed, and where to meet the bus.
“Yesterday was yesterday,” Coach Clay said in that soft voice that hid steel behind a smile. “We learn, we grow stronger, smarter, and we move forward. That’s what I expect out of you. Learn, and move on. Let’s go forward and get our first win.”
He glanced at all of us, but I was pretty sure he stared at me the longest.
Eighteen
When’s the next game?
I’d been reading Genevieve’s text on my phone for probably three full minutes. Part of me wanted to lie and tell her some fake date. She’d already watched us lose. And I was pretty sure she’d seen what I was now referring to as my stupidous magicus in the parking garage.