Chapter 1: Dawson 1. DAWSON Nothing is as full of possibility as an empty rink. I hold my breath as I push away from the boards. It's so quiet, I can hear each cut of the blades against the ice. Best sound in the world. The rest of the team isn't here yet--I wanted a minute by myself to enjoy a fresh sheet. My hamstrings are stiff as I glide around the rink in slow, easy strokes. Just warming up. I've been training over the summer, of course, but it's been lots of weights and conditioning. Not much time on the ice. Luckily, Scott the Zamboni driver isn't immune to the Luke Dawson charm--he looks the other way and lets me in to practice unsupervised, as long as I bring him leftover pie from my parents' diner. Starting the most important season of my life in a new facility feels like a good omen. Hamilton Lakes has been constructing this three-pad rink for years, and it's already drawing people from the surrounding towns. One rink east, figure skaters with tiny bows tied onto their headphones get ready to practice their jumps. The rink to the west will soon be full of top-heavy toddlers in gigantic helmets learning how to skate. The weight rooms are state of the art. The ice is freshly cleaned. Even the locker room smells lemony. No games have been lost here yet. No bad memories haunt the bleachers. Hope hangs in the air. Thinking of the younger kids coming here to learn how to skate makes me grin. Dad used to take me to Yost in Ann Arbor sometimes, and there was nothing like looking up at the NCAA banners hanging from the ceiling. Once, I even got to practice on the same ice as some of the Wolverines during public skate time. Right now, I feel like I've hit the pause button on the movie of my life. If I scrub backward a little, I'm still the kid hoping to skate with his heroes in a few years; forward a little, if all goes well, and I'm someone the kids of Hamilton Lakes can look up to as they imagine lives bigger than this town. This place holds it all. Every shining surface reflects bright futures. And this morning, the middle rink is just for me. I speed up, my muscles warming, my breathing opening my lungs. This is the year that counts. When Coach Red gets here, I'm going to show him I'm his guy--ready to play my heart out this fall. Whatever will get me in front of the USHL scouts he brings in every season to watch his best players. "Damn!" Noah arrives with a whistle, blasting onto the ice and doing a fast lap. "Did you see the trainers' room in there? This place is almost as good as the Gamblers' rink. Not a bad way to finish my Hawks career." I hold out my fist for him to pound. Noah, captain and golden boy of the team, is my reminder of what's possible. What Red can do when he decides you're worth it. "Almost like they built it for the most beloved senior at Hamilton Lakes." Noah smirks. "What can I say? They like to keep me happy!" It's mostly a joke, but not quite. Hamilton Lakes would do anything for their athletes. We skate alone for a few minutes before the rest of the guys arrive, piling onto the ice with hoots and hollers. The JV players make the most noise, complaining about how sore they are from preseason training, looking over their shoulders to see if the varsity players are listening. Which we mostly aren't--we've already proven ourselves. But I remember what it was like as a freshman, in awe of the older guys and hoping Coach Red would decide I was good enough to play alongside them one day. One of the new recruits does a reverse crossover right in front of Red, but Coach's eyes barely flick over him. Red watches everything from the bench, Hawks hat shading his eyes and whistle poised between his lips. In contrast, Assistant Coach Dan's grin is so wide, it could power the whole rink. That guy has no poker face, and none of us can deny the magic of ice that's never been touched. Ryan whizzes by, bent at the waist and gathering steam, his blond waves just barely poking out the bottom of his helmet. "Take it easy, man," I shout after him with a laugh. "No can do!" he calls back. "I need extra cardio this season if I'm going to stay in shape for baseball! Plus"--he executes a silly bow/pirouette combination that almost makes me trip over my own skates from laughter--"half of Hamilton Lakes is counting on me to maintain my girlish figure!" I shake my head, half-admiring, half-amused. Ryan: shameless flirt, serious athlete. Hamilton Lakes doesn't pin all its hopes on one sports team, and some of the guys are intense about trying out as many as they can. Sometimes I wish that could be me. No way am I risking distraction by dating during the season like Ryan, and the idea of trying out other sports is as foreign to me as settling on one would be to him. Ever since Dad laced up my first pair of skates at two years old, I was a goner. One of my first memories is of him tugging a beanie on my head and leading me to center ice at Yost to watch the Wolverines practice. People don't know you can sit for as long as you want in the bleachers, inches from the guys slamming into the boards. Dad tucked me under his arm and explained the rules, named their maneuvers, told me stories of his own games. His voice rang with love for the sport, and it echoed through me, too. And that's been it for me ever since. I'm a one true love kinda guy. I glance up at the clock above the rink. Five minutes until practice, and I need to rehydrate before Red runs us through our paces, so I glide toward the bench to grab a water bottle from the selection prefilled by our team manager. "So, um, I was wondering if we could talk about what else I might do to make varsity this season?" Alex is saying as I glide to a stop. "Teams are already set based on last season's performance." Red's voice is clipped and low. Businesslike. He checks something off on his clipboard, his hat hiding his expression. "But focus on your stats and conditioning, for whatever team you're playing on." Alex hesitates only a second before nodding. "Yeah. Of course, Coach. I'll do my best." We lock eyes over Red's head, and I grimace sympathetically. Alex has been stuck on JV since he joined the team. When I got moved up to varsity as a sophomore last year, I'd worried it might mess with our friendship. But Alex isn't that kind of guy, and after a brief flash of disappointment, he just made me promise to pass on any new tips from Red. I'd love nothing more than to skate with my best friend, but Red knows what he's doing and I'm sure not going to mess with a winning game. Red's led this team to victory for as long as I've been at Hamilton Lakes, and he has the connections with scouts and coaches all over the country that I need in order to make moves. First, Juniors during my senior year, an amateur-level league to prepare me for college hockey. Then Michigan, making my dad proud. And if everyone's right about my potential--if I'm lucky--one day the NHL. I clap Alex on the arm, drawing my attention back from dreams that could steal my focus. "I'm happy to practice with you. You know I try to get here early most mornings." "You think that'll do it? We don't all have your talent, Dawson," he says with a self-deprecating smile. I shrug off the compliment. "Talent is nothing without--" "--good luck and hard work," Alex finishes with a good-natured eye roll. "We know. Your dad get that tattooed on your ass yet?" "Only a matter of time." I grin, though there's a weight in my chest at the reminder. This is the year I need to deliver. "But seriously. You heard Coach. Focus on your stats. I can help." "I heard him," Alex says, sighing. "Yeah. Okay. Thursday? Drills?" "You're on." I don't even mind the idea of a little less sleep. Extra time on the ice is always a win in my book. If we know what's good for us, we're going to follow Red's instructions this year. So when his whistle tweets, sharp and short to mark the start of practice, I'm already jumping onto the ice. An hour and a thousand drills later, Red claps his hands once, surveying the team over his bushy mustache as we kneel on the ice waiting for his final instructions. He squints appraisingly. "It's gonna be a good season, boys. Shower up." A sigh of relief ripples through the group, and as soon as Red nods his dismissal, the guys are on their feet and skating back toward the locker room. Red doesn't believe in going easy on us, which means the first practice back has us all wrung out like limp dishrags. The team's skating slower than my grandma, and she's had both hips replaced. "Don't forget to stretch," I call after them. But I'm grabbing some water and adjusting my skates, preparing to run a few more drills before I follow the team to the showers. Noodle legs or not, if I want this year to be my best, I need to work harder than everyone else. Red gives me a nod of approval. "I've been in touch with my friend Leo from the Steel." I stand at attention, hands behind my back, holding my breath. The Steel is one of the top Juniors teams, the very best of the USHL. As sure a jump start to a career as anything. "He's going to try to make the first game of the season. I've told him about you--best defensive forward I've coached in years--and he wants to see it with his own eyes." Red holds my gaze, and suddenly I'm not tired anymore. "Skate like I know you can, and you've as good as secured yourself a spot for next year." My chest floods with warmth. Red doesn't give compliments or promises easily. "Thanks, Coach. I'll do my best." He nods at me. "Keep up the hard work." Red follows the guys to the locker room, and I start a few laps to quiet my mind. I know I'm the best player my age in Hamilton Lakes. I even beat Noah to top scorer last year, and Red got him lined up with the Gamblers. If he can do it for him, he can do it for me. But being the best isn't enough. Talent is nothing without good luck and hard work. The motto sends a shiver down my spine, and I skate faster to outrace it, chasing the puck from one end of the ice to the other. I have enough memories to remind me how true it is--a game I'd rather forget, a conversation I replay more often than I'd like to admit, an old rink littered with disappointments. I slam the puck into the corner of the net, imagining a goalie diving for it but unable to stop its relentless trajectory. A perfect one-timer. Red's intense, but he knows what he's doing. I'm not going to let a single shot slip away this year. Excerpted from Heart Check by Emily Charlotte All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
