S C O T T

"Scott Wilson?"

At the sound of my name, my head snapped up, eyes going wide for a moment. The coach looked around, though he knew exactly who I was. With my heart beating quickly in my chest, and sweaty palms despite the cool air of the rink, I cleared my throat and held up my hand confidently. He gave me a quick grin and nodded, checking my name off his paper.

Coach Monroe went through the rest of the names, rather quickly, and I made a mental check with each one, trying to place a name with each guy surrounding me. I could feel my nerves creeping up - especially each time one of the guys smirked and grinned proudly, knowing that he had a spot on the team.

Despite standing on the ice of the Marlies stadium, I could barely believe what was happening to me. The week after I graduated high school, the Marlies' coach (James Monroe, a large, scary looking guy) had come to my house and told me that I had been recruited from the Marlies. Being recruited for one of the minor league teams in Toronto was amazing. The Maple Leafs' coach came to the Marlies games to scout for new players for their team.

And now? Now I was trying out for a team that the Leafs scouted.

"Split into teams of two," Coach ordered, stomping his booted foot against the ice, "Five players on each, plus one goalie. Twelve on the ice at a time, and every fifteen minutes we'll switch out the offensive and defensive players!"

Everyone split into teams quickly. I skated over to the left side of the rink, where a huge guy I had remembered to be Dan stood. I nodded and stood next to him, waiting for the Coach's instructions. He just turned and whistled, leaving us to figure out who stayed on the ice or not - which was pretty awful, since no one had really talked with each other. None of us really knew each other's skills and weaknesses to decide who would be first string during the game.

In the end, I and eleven other players stood on the ice. A bigger guy went into the position of goalie, and the last five of our team made their way over to the bleachers. None of us knew each others skills, and I sighed quietly, pulling my helmet over my messy hair. I knew I'd have to give my everything right now, since that was how Monroe was going to determine who he wanted.

I shoved the mouthpiece halfway into my mouth; I knew in hockey you were supposed to keep it in all the way - safety reasons - but I couldn't stand the feel of it. Rolling my shoulders back, I cleared my mind of the safety of mouth-guards and focused on the game in front of us.

Dan was up at the middle, slapping sticks with the guy in front of him as they counted down until the game. I leaned forward; I was on the offensive team, with a few other guys. I didn't focus on anything else but the two guys in front of me, my eyes locked on the puck only a bit away. A few slides and I'd be right there..

The next three-and-a-half (almost four) hours were absolute hell.

I had never seen a coach yell as much as Monroe did. He yelled for every reason; whether he was cheering on the team he preferred at the moment, or yelling at someone for whatever mistakes they made. I'm almost certain that without my helmet, the noise of the puck being hit around, and my skates sliding everywhere, I would've gone fucking deaf.

And even the game itself was hell, at that. Everyone was fighting for a position on the team, meaning everyone was trying as hard as they possibly could. Everybody had been checking each other (I was guilty of it), and on more than one occasion, a few players had sat out due to busted noses or lips. The game had such little rules, making it as close to a free-for-all as it could be.

I sighed and skated over to where the benches were. My legs were on fire, sweat dripped down from my temples, and my arms burned from the amount of shots I had taken. But other than that, I felt amazing. I knew I did really well, so a few burns and aches didn't matter too much in the long run.

I dropped down onto the metal bench, and unlaced my skates. I pushed them under my bench and took off my helmet, dropping it down next to me. Taking off my gloves, I ran my fingers through my shaggy hair and sighed. All I wanted was to go home and take a shower, in that moment.

I quickly swapped out what I was wearing for a pair of gray sweatpants and a sweater, because despite the fact that I was sweating from playing, it was absolutely freezing in the rink. They had to keep it cold, I knew that. They needed the ice to stay freezing, but once I got done playing, it felt like absolute hell.

I slipped into sneakers and grabbed my bag, prepared to leave the rink. I was the last one in there, and I groaned, because that meant finding my way out by myself. It wasn't that I was scared or anything, but the building was huge, and there were more turns than I could possibly hope to remember. Shit.

I was about to walk out, when the sound of my name made me turn around quickly. Coach Monroe stood on the ice (which was a challenge, considering he was in dress shoes), and beckoned me forward. Shit, I thought, biting my lip and dropping my bag, shit, shit, shit. He hadn't stopped anyone else and asked for a word, and that fact just made me worried. I ran through all the plays I had done, trying to think of any mistakes or reasons Coach would call me out. Cursing? Checking?

With my nerves on high alert, and the fact that I was only in sneakers, I stumbled right away when I stepped onto the ice. I bit my lip to keep the string of curses at bay, and steadied myself. My cheeks were flushed bright red and I ducked my head as I walked over to him, no wanting to meet his gaze after something embarrassing as me slipping.

"Err - sorry," I apologized, even though I wasn't quite sure what I was sorry for. It just felt like the right thing to say. Coach quirked his eyebrows and I ducked my head again, cheeks flushed bright red. Scratching the back of my head, I mumbled, "forgot I took off my skates."

Coach Monroe grinned, and I wasn't sure whether it was because he was laughing at me, or because I made a good impression. So I just lifted my head back up and grinned back at him, which seemed like the right thing to do. After a few moments of awkwardly grinning at one another, he cleared his throat and I dropped my smile.

"You were really good out there, today," he said, making my heart swell in pride because all I wanted to do was play hockey professionally, "I see why I've gotten so many calls about scouts for you, Scott. You lived up to my expectations."

Holy hell, I thought, another grin slipping onto my face easily. I had been so nervous he wanted to speak to me because of things I had messed up, but I hadn't even thought he would want to talk about the things I had done good with. My hands clenched at my sides, and I practically had to stop myself from throwing my arms around Coach Monroe.

I just beamed at him, "Thank you, Coach. Really - "

"But," he interjected, effectively cutting me off. But's were never good, "there were a couple of mistakes I caught. You don't think enough before you take a shot, for one. And your turns are sharp."

Constructive criticism was a good thing, I knew that. If no one told you what you were messing up, then you'd never get any better. But hearing your coach - the one that could help get you to the pro's - critique you was awful. I knew I should have been flattered that such a prestigious coach was telling me my flaws, but it still stung to hear.

He listed off a few more things that I had messed up, and I just kept my head ducked down in embarrassment. I knew I had to keep practicing and getting better, but I couldn't bear to stand there and listen to him say the things I needed to practice on. It might've sounded ridiculous, but I hoped, in a way, he wouldn't have even noticed any of those things.

"You are a really talented player," he said, making me scoff internally. Is that what he did - list off the bad's, and then add a compliment at the end? "You just need some practice. If you ever need to - the rink's open until eleven. You can stay as late as you need."

Was he trying to insinuate that I needed to stay later and practice?

Despite the fact that I did want to just turn and completely blow him off, I knew I couldn't do that. He was my coach, and even if I didn't appreciate the fact that he thought I needed extra practice time, I knew he only wanted to help me. If I was gonna make the Leafs' team, I'd need to be as good as possible. So with that thought in mind, I nodded and mumbled out: "Thanks, Coach. I think I'll stay after for a bit."

He jogged off the ice, which was a it shocking considering he didn't trip once. I just stood there on the ice, not really having the initiative to move. My whole body ached and I didn't think any extra practice time would help today. I was too exhausted to actually work on any of my mistakes. But I couldn't just leave, because that would've made a horrible impression.

I heard a few doors slam open and close, so I figured Monroe had left for a bit. I looked around and saw that I was completely alone in the rink. Seeing that I was alone made annoyance bubble up in my chest. Was I seriously the only player he thought needed enough extra practice?

I growled out something incomprehensible and slammed my foot down on the ice, albeit, a childish move. When I lifted my foot back up, I found myself losing my balance. I shouted and fell backwards, my ass and back slamming into the ice. I groaned out in pain and stretched out my legs, my skull throbbing.

I heard someone laugh and I shot up immediately, in a stumbling, tripping mess. I stumbled forward a few steps, my feet sliding haphazardly on the ice. My hands shot out in front of me in an attempt to gain balance, and I already saw the bruises forming on my forearms from when I had fallen. Great.

I turned, prepared to explain to Coach Monroe why I was stumbling all over the ice, and why my head was probably indented, but I didn't need to. Because he didn't stand there.

There was a girl, and she stood a few feet away, near the end of the ink. Her blonde hair was up in a loose ponytail, and she was in leggings and a Marlies sweater, the dark color contrasting with her light skin-tone. Her eyes were bright and green, and I could even see the color from where I stood. She was fit, and had perfect balance on the ice. I might've even called out something flirty to her, if it wasn't for the fact that she was hunched over laughing.

Laughing at me.

I glared, arms crossed over my chest as she continued to laugh at me. I didn't know what to say or do; except glare and hope she'd just shut up. I wasn't even sure how she managed to get into the rink, considering it was only supposed to be coaches, security, and the members trying out. And she certainly didn't look manly enough to try out for the team.

"Who the hell are you?" I snapped, and her head shot up, green eyes filled with amusement. She grinned at me, and I just glared, "No one's supposed to be in here."

She smirked now, eyes still filled with humor, "Is that so?" she asked, clicking her tongue almost disapprovingly, "Or are you just a little angry because I saw your.. mistake? It's not a big deal. I'm the only one who saw."

I didn't know what to say at that, and my jaw just went slack in surprise. She grinned in satisfaction, and I couldn't help but just stare at her. She had the nerve to somehow get into the stadium, watch me, and then make a comment about the one mistake I made? All I could think was: who the fuck did this girl think she is?

"Just so you know, you came in and saw the one mistake I made. If you had come in a few hours earlier - "

"I would've seen your choppy turns," she finished for me, making my jaw go slack once again. I hadn't even see anyone else watching our practice, let alone her, "your stick handling wasn't that great, either. But I have to give it to you, you had some pretty impressive shots, Scott."

"Who are you?" I mumbled, not really knowing what to say. She had just appeared, and was now practically pointing out all the mistakes I had made during practice. Half of me wanted to escort her out of the stadium (preferably completely out of Canada), but the other part of me wanted to know who the hell she was.

She laughed, "Oh, I'm sorry. I'm Elle Monroe. I just happened to notice your turns were really sharp and figured I'd let you know before you busted up your pretty face, pal."