Someone's nudging my shoulder. "Wake up dude, we're here."

I open my eyes, my neck all knotted up from sleeping on it funny. "Huh?" The bus rumbles to a stop and the doors hiss open, and I rub my face. "Oh."

Outside the window, a hotel is brightly lit against the afternoon sky. We just endured a seven hour bus ride to Mississauga to play the Steelheads tonight. 

Ethan slaps my shoulder and stands up, pulling his duffel bag from the racks above the seats. "Hotel time!" he says. "Are we sharing a room?"

"Yeah, sure," I say sleepily. God, I really did sleep weird on my neck. I try to rub it out as we file off the bus and into the hotel. When weekend away games are far enough, we stay in a hotel for the night. 

The hotel lobby isn't very busy, with just a few businesswomen talking on phones and a family with way too many kids. Our assistant coach, who we just call Jerry, checks us in and hands us keycards.

"You know the drill," says Coach, waving his personal key card around in the air. "Back in the lobby in two and a half hours. Be well rested and hydrated. No leaving the hotel. Do you hear me? We need this win tonight."

I could've sworn he glared at me and Matthew, but who knows for sure. There's a murmur of agreements before everyone bolts. 

"Alright, so we're room 302," says Ethan as we're crammed into an elevator. I push the third button and wince as my neck cracks. "Let's rent a movie or something."

"Sounds good to me." 

In front of room 302, Ethan slides the key card and it flashes green, and we head inside. A fairly clean bathroom, an ugly carpet, a flat screen TV, and two beds with fluffy white pillows. A large window overlooks a parking lot.

I flop on the bed furthest away from the window, like always, and stretch out comfortably on the squishy mattress. I would never say this to my mom, but I like away games because I always sleep really well. The beds in hotels are always just so comfortable compared to mine at home.

Ethan sits on the edge of his bed, flipping through the channels on the television. "Horror movie? Or sentimental movie?"

I twist to get comfortable, burrowing my head in the pillow. I slept a bit on the bus, but that was cheap sleep. This is the real deal. "You pick," I say, my heavy eyelids beginning to shut.

Ethan grins. "I know you want the sentimental movie, you fucking romantic." 

"Mm-kay."

"So gay."

And then I fall asleep, the faded scent of lemon cleaning supplies clinging to the pillow.

~

Two and a half hours later, I feel better. I chew on a granola bar as the team files back on the bus, charged with adrenaline and excitement. Ethan leads the team in cheers and chants, until five minutes later when we pull up to the Mississauga Arena, hollering and whooping. 

As we're skating off the ice after warmups, the game minutes away from starting, Ethan finds my side. 

"You know who texted me right before warmups?" he asks loudly over the noise of the stands. 

"Who?"

"Lacy."

"Lacy? Am I supposed to know a Lacy?"

"Dude! Lacy! The girl I've been texting? The one I'm bio partners with?"

"Oh, that Lacy."

Ethan scoffs, but I know he's smiling. "Stop pretending like you know who Lacy is."

"No, I know who she is! Great girl. Great, great girl."

"Shut up."

I laugh. 

"Well, what about you, Mr. Hot Shot?" Ethan says. "Do you have any lady friends you're sending special texts to before the games?"

"No."

"Oh, awkward!"

"I'm in love with hockey."

"Okay, loser."

I shove him, and he shoves me back laughing, as Coach calls us in a huddle. I chew on my mouthguard as my fingers start to tingle, and then the game starts.

We score fast. The Steelhead defensemen are slow. I fake out number 12 and scoop my puck around him, breaking free towards the net. As the goalie reacts, I snap my wrist and the puck goes sailing past his glove. Easy. 

And I do it again. And again. Matthew scores one. Another forward named Julian scores one. I score another. Ethan is making amazing saves. And everything is perfect. You know? God, I love hockey.

When I'm on the ice, I feel like I know everything. I feel even smarter than Sam. I know every move the other team is thinking, I can tell where the defensemen are going, I know where the goalie is going to go, I feel like I can see everything on the court and it all makes sense. Everything clicks in my brain. It's like the perfect equation.  

We win 6-2. God, I love hockey. We celebrate in the locker room. Matthew and I aren't even mad at each other tonight. Everything is sweat and laughter and dirty red and blue jerseys. Coach is happy.

I wish every game could be like this one.

~

Later that night, Ethan walks out of the bathroom in shorts and a sweatshirt, rubbing his damp hair with a towel. He's smiling at his phone.

"Lacy?" I ask. I showered before him. The other thing about hotel rooms - they never run out of hot water. And the soap always smells nice. At home, the bathroom is filled with women's shampoo and shaving cream and tampons and it always smells way too strong of flowers.

"Yeah," he says. He sits on the edge of his bed and texts her back, his thumbs flying across the screen. He laughs quietly at some inside joke and I turn back to my book, some obscure required reading for English class.

My phone dings on the nightstand and I reach for it. It's probably Veronica. Instead, it's Sam.

Hey! My uncle and I caught a few minutes of the Lions on tv. Great game :)

I don't know what to say, so I put the phone back down. Ethan glances up at me. 

"A lady friend?"

"Veronica," I say. 

"Hmm. Same diff."

"You weirdo," I say. I switch off the light and squeeze my eyes shut, the blue light from Ethan's phone illuminating the room. "'Night."

"'Night."

I fall asleep fast. I don't dream anything at all.