![]() “Ladies,” I greet my teammates as I flop into my usual seat. I’m heading for the pros in a few short months and I can’t frickin’ wait. I’m in a stupendous fucking mood as I stroll into the screening room at the team’s top-notch facility on the Northern Mass campus. ![]() I shove it in the tip jar, then haul my ass outside and head for the rink. “Right away!” She barks out my drink order to her colleague, adding, “Make it snappy! We’ve got a championship to win here!” And wouldn’t you know? She refuses my five-dollar bill. But the jacket I’m wearing makes me a rock star, at least for this week. It’s my turn a minute later, but when I open my mouth to order, the young barista lets out a fangirl shriek. My skates are sharp, and the ice is smooth. I can tell from his clothes he’s a simple man. And my spidey sense tells me the guy in front of me won’t order a complicated drink. I somehow got a B-minus on a history paper I wrote in an exhaustion-induced coma. ![]() Over the weekend, my hockey team clinched the first two rounds of the NCAA playoffs, and now we’re headed to the Frozen Four. The coffee shop line is a little long, but I know I’ll make it to the rink on time. ![]()
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