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faces, their flat palms pounding on the glass as we passed. Once their cheering turned to booing, we didn’t need to look to know the other team was here. Tonight we were against Neshanic High. They were always a shoe-in for playoffs with some really huge defensemen. Defense won championships, everyone knew that. While our defense was just as good, we needed our offense to out-skate them. We needed Robbie to beat them.
    All our teammates who weren’t starters slipped off the ice to the bench. I lingered, glancing at Coach who nodded for me to stay on. It was a gimmick having me on the starting line-up, especially when I’d end up playing less than seven minutes a game, but coach thought it might intrigue scouts and give them ideas, like with the Sedin twins.
    Overhead, one of the broadcasting kids called, “At left wing, number nine, Raideeeeeen Hollennnnn.” I don’t remember a time when Raiden and Robbie weren’t on the same line. They were a dynamite duo on the ice and best friends off it, earning them the Rail Road Line nickname, which I thought was really dumb. Raiden grinned crookedly at my brother as the announcer said, “At center, number sixteen, Robbbbbbiiiiieee Bettterrrrby!”
    The crowd erupted for my brother, crazy enough for us to feel the vibration through our skates. Most of the guys were good, several would be drafted, but Robbie was the one who was signing autographs already. Robbie didn’t soak the attention up. Up until a year ago, he used to engage the crowd, showboat a bit. Now, he gazed ahead at the American flag, grin removed from his face, eyes narrowed in concentration, or prayer.
    Their cheering didn’t die as the seconds passed. I doubt anyone heard the announcer call me—Tristan Betterby, number forty-eight, at right wing.
    I looked at my twin as the announcer moved to our defense—Smitty and Durrell, and finally Janek, who elicited a roar as loud as Robbie’s. Janek wouldn’t be draft-eligible for another year, but if he were, it’d be a coin toss whether he or Robbie would be drafted first.
    “And now,” the announcer continued, “to sing our national anthem, let’s welcome Keisha Lewis.”
    I couldn’t help but smile. Keisha was a really great singer and one of the few in the theatre program who already committed to the New School as a junior. We had the same circle of friends, and now shared an acting class ever since I grew the balls to enroll in the one that started in January, but we never hung out on our own. Heather was always there.
    Keisha wore one of Robbie’s spare jerseys. She was tall, but the jersey dwarfed her. The red complemented her dark skin and hair, today styled out and around her head like a halo, but the bulkiness of the jersey combined with her skinny jeans and tall boots made her look like she was wearing a poncho.
    She waited for all of us to take our helmets off before she took a breath and began. If I weren’t on the ice, I’d be cheering her on as she belted, “ And the rockets red glare,” the way everyone else in the stands did.
    As Keisha finished, there was extra commotion. I turned my head to see the rest of the theatre kids there, whooping and hollering Keisha’s name. I couldn’t have missed them in warm-ups; they must have come late and wormed their way to the glass. Heather stood in the front next to Craig, one of the best dancers in the theatre program and the leader of the self-dubbed “Gay-Bros.” Heather waved at me and mouthed something I couldn’t read. Craig pulled his shirt up and pressed his bare chest to the glass. I tried not to laugh as I put my helmet back on, double-checking to make sure the cage was secure before I took my position at Robbie’s side. It was time to buckle down.
    The referee moved between Robbie and the opposing center. They kept their heads low, coiled, ready to spring.
    As soon as the puck dropped, Robbie was on it. He sent the puck back from the face off to Smitty as Durrell rammed one of their