The Riot Dorms are called the Riot Dorms for a reason.
When we get there, the entire building is shaking. Like, structurally vibrating. There's music blasting from at least six different rooms, people hanging out windows, and someone's set up a beer pong table in the middle of the hallway on the second floor.
"This is a fire hazard," I say, because apparently I'm 80 years old.
"This is college, baby!" Jax screams, already three beers deep despite the fact that we walked here from the rink.
We squeeze through a crowd of people and into someone's room that's been converted into a makeshift club. The lights are off except for some RGB strips, there's a guy DJ-ing off his laptop, and it smells like cheap vodka and terrible decisions.
"SHOTS!" someone yells, and suddenly I'm holding a red solo cup filled with something that smells like it could kill me.
"What is this?" I ask.
"Don't ask questions," Lena says, taking hers and downing it without flinching. "Just drink."
I take a sip and immediately regret every choice that led me here. It tastes like gasoline mixed with regret.
"Holy shit, that's awful."
"Welcome to college," Maya says, appearing next to me with a smile that makes me nervous. "Having fun?"
"Are you about to tag me?"
"What? No." She laughs. "I'm just asking if you're having fun."
"That's exactly what someone about to tag me would say."
"Evan, if I was going to tag you, you wouldn't see it coming." She pats my shoulder and disappears into the crowd.
I'm definitely going to die.
An hour later, I'm drunk. Not like blackout drunk, but definitely "making decisions I'll regret" drunk. I've played beer pong (lost), attempted to dance (horrifying), and had three separate conversations I don't remember.
I'm standing on the balcony getting some air when someone sits next to me. It's a girl I don't recognize—dark hair, Northwood Hockey shirt, slightly tipsy.
"You're Evan, right?" she says.
"Uh, yeah. How do you—"
"You were sitting with Derek at the game. I'm on the women's team. Goalkeeper." She extends her hand. "Sophie."
"Oh, cool. That game was insane."
"Right? Virtanen's a fucking beast." She takes a sip of her drink. "You play?"
"Hockey? No."
"You should try out."
I laugh. "I can barely skate."
"So? Half the guys who try out can't skate either. Club team's doing walk-on tryouts tomorrow." She shrugs. "Could be fun."
"I don't know, I'm not really—"
"Dude, just try it. Worst case, you embarrass yourself and never go back. Best case, you're secretly a prodigy." She stands up. "Tryouts are at 6 AM at the rink. Show up or don't."
She leaves and I'm left sitting there thinking about how I've never played hockey in my life and this is probably a terrible idea.
Which is exactly why drunk me decides it's a great idea.
I pull out my phone and text Jax.
Me: im trying out for hockey tomorrow
Jax: LMAOOOOO
Jax: wait are you serious
Me: yeah
Jax: BRO
Jax: okay im coming to watch
Jax: this is either gonna be legendary or hilarious
Me: probably both
I wake up at 5:30 AM with a headache, regret, and the vague memory of agreeing to something incredibly stupid.
My phone buzzes.
Jax: you better not pussy out
Jax: im already here
Fuck.
I roll out of bed, grab whatever clothes look athletic, and stumble out the door. Ollie's awake, somehow, staring at his laptop.
"Where are you going?" he asks without looking up.
"Hockey tryouts."
"You play hockey?"
"No."
"Then why—"
"Don't ask questions."
The walk to the rink is cold and dark and I'm questioning every life choice. When I get there, Jax is waiting outside with coffee and the biggest grin I've ever seen.
"I can't believe you're actually doing this," he says, handing me the coffee.
"I can't either."
"Do you even have skates?"
"...no."
"Bro."
We go inside and there's a table set up with a bored-looking guy behind it. His nametag says "ASSISTANT COACH WILLIAMS."
"Name?" he asks.
"Evan Ross."
He looks me up and down. "You play before?"
"No."
"Can you skate?"
"Define 'skate.'"
He sighs and hands me a waiver. "Sign this. It says if you die, it's not our fault. Rentals are over there." He points to a dingy closet. "Find skates that fit. Tryouts start in ten."
I grab skates that are probably two sizes too big and sit down to lace them up. My hands are shaking, which is either nerves or the cold or both.
"You got this," Jax says, way too enthusiastic for 6 AM.
"I'm going to eat shit immediately."
"Probably. But think of the story."
The rink is already filling up with guys who actually look like hockey players. They're stretching, taping sticks, talking strategy. Meanwhile, I'm trying to figure out how to stand up in skates.
I shuffle onto the ice and immediately almost fall. Someone laughs. Cool, great start.
"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!" Coach Williams is standing at center ice with a whistle. "We're doing basic drills. Skating, passing, shooting. If you can't keep up, get off the ice. Got it?"
Everyone nods. I'm sweating already.
The first drill is just skating laps. Simple, right?
Wrong.
I push off and my legs immediately go in different directions. I windmill my arms, somehow stay upright, and start moving. It's not pretty, but I'm not on my ass, so that's a win.
Expect then something weird happens.
After a few laps, my body just... figures it out. Like muscle memory I didn't know I had. I'm not fighting the skates anymore—I'm gliding. My stride gets longer, smoother. By the fifth lap, I'm passing people.
"Yo, Ross, you said you couldn't skate!" some guy yells.
I don't respond because I'm too focused on the fact that this feels natural. Like I've done this before, even though I definitely haven't.
Next drill is passing. Partner up, pass the puck back and forth while skating.
I get paired with a guy who introduces himself as "Kyle" and immediately looks annoyed that he got stuck with me.
"You know how to pass?" he asks.
"I'll figure it out."
He sends the puck my way. I watch it slide across the ice, position my stick, and—without thinking—send it right back. Tape to tape. Perfect.
Kyle blinks. "Okay, that was lucky."
We go again. And again. Every pass is clean. I'm not thinking about it—my hands just know what to do.
"Dude, you sure you've never played?" Kyle asks, looking suspicious now.
"I'm sure."
But honestly? I'm starting to wonder if I hit my head last night, because this doesn't make any sense.
The shooting drill is next. Line up, skate in, take a shot on the goalie.
I watch a few guys go. Some are good, some completely whiff. When it's my turn, I grab a puck and take off.
I'm at the blue line when I feel it again—that weird instinct. I know exactly where the goalie is, where the gaps are, what shot to take. I cut to the left, pull the puck to my forehand, and snap it top corner.
The goalie doesn't even move.
The puck hits the back of the net with a satisfying ping.
The rink goes quiet for a second.
"WHAT THE FUCK," someone says.
Coach Williams is staring at me. "Ross, right?"
"Yeah."
"Do that again."
I go back to the line, heart pounding. This has to be a fluke. I grab another puck, skate in, and this time I deke right, go backhand, and roof it.
Same result. Goal.
"Holy shit," Kyle mutters.
Coach Williams blows his whistle. "Ross, stay after. Everyone else, keep going."
I skate to the bench, trying to process what the hell just happened. Jax is in the stands losing his mind, jumping up and down like an idiot.
After tryouts, Coach Williams calls me over.
"You lied to me." he says.
"About what?"
"You said you've never played."
"I haven't."
He stares at me like he's trying to figure out if I'm messing with him. "You have natural pro-level instincts. Your skating's raw but your hands are insane. Where'd you learn to shoot like that?"
"I... don't know."
"You don't know."
"I just did it."
He rubs his face. "Okay. Look, I don't know what's going on, but you're on the team. Practice is Monday through Thursday, 5 AM. Games are weekends. Don't be late."
"Wait, I'm on the team?"
"Did I stutter? Get out of here."
I'm in shock as I walk off the ice. Jax is waiting for me, grinning like a maniac.
"BRO. BRO. WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT?"
"I don't know!"
"You were out there looking like a budget Crosby! Where did that come from?"
"I HAVE NO IDEA." I sit down to take off the skates. "It just... happened. Like my body knew what to do."
"That's insane. That's literally insane." Jax sits next to me. "Dude, you're on the hockey team. Do you know how sick that is?"
"I'm on the club team, not the varsity team."
"Still counts! You're a hockey player now!"
I look at my hands. They're shaking again, but this time it's adrenaline.
"This is so weird," I say.
"Weird? Bro, this is destiny."
By the time I get back to the dorm, word has somehow already spread.
"YO, EVAN'S A HOCKEY GOD NOW?" Ollie yells when I walk in.
"How do you already know?"
"Jax posted a video." He shows me his phone. It's a shaky clip of me scoring, with the caption "FRESHMAN WALK-ON IS HIM 🔥🔥🔥"
"Oh my god."
"It's got like 300 likes already," Ollie says. "You're campus famous."
"I've been here two days."
"Yeah, and you're already more interesting than me. I'm bitter."
Sam walks in holding a smoothie. "Heard you're an athlete now. Congrats."
"I'm on the club team. It's not that big a deal."
"Evan," she says seriously, "nothing at this school is 'not a big deal.' Everything gets blown out of proportion. By tomorrow, people will think you're an NHL prospect."
She's joking, but it doesn't feel like a joke.
That afternoon, I'm in the dining hall grabbing lunch when someone sits across from me.
It's Matias.
"You are Evan," he says. Not a question, a statement.
"Uh, yeah."
"I hear you try out for club team this morning."
"World travels fast."
"Coach Williams tell our coach. He says you have... natural skill." His expression doesn't change. "This is rare."
"I guess?"
He studies me for a second, those intense blue eyes making me feel like I'm being interrogated. "You play hockey before? In secret?"
"No. I swear. I've never played."
"Interesting." He stands up. "Maybe we skate together sometime. I show you things."
"Wait, really?"
"Yes. You have potential. Would be... waste... to not train." He says it slowly, like he's picking his words carefully. "I see you around."
And then he's gone, leaving me sitting there wondering what the fuck just happened.
My phone buzzes.
Maya: heard you're a hockey star now
Maya: impressive
Maya: would be a shame if something happened to you 👀
Me: are you threatening me
Maya: im just saying
Maya: you should watch your back
Maya: see you around, Evan 😊
I look around the dining hall. She's not here, but I know she's watching somehow.
I'm on a hockey team, I've apparently got some weird natural talent I didn't know about, a Finnish pro wants to train me, and I'm still playing a death game with a psych major who's definitely going to destroy me.
It's been three days.
Three days, and my life is already completely off the rails.
That night, I'm lying in bed staring at the ceiling when Ollie speaks up.
"Yo, Evan."
"Yeah?"
"Do you think you're, like... a chosen one?"
"What?"
"You know, like in movies. Where the random guy turns out to have secret powers."
"Ollie, I'm not a chosen one. I just had a good tryout."
"That's what all chosen ones say at first."
"Go to sleep."
"I'm just saying, if you
"I'm just saying, if you develop superpowers, I want to be your guy in the chair."
"Goodnight, Ollie."
But as I drift off, I can't help wondering if he's right. Not about the superpowers—that's insane. But about the fact that something's changed.
Three days ago, I was just a random freshman who couldn't skate.
Now I'm on a team, training with a pro, and somehow in the middle of campus chaos.
Maybe Ollie's onto something.
Maybe this is destiny.
Or maybe I'm just really, really lucky.
Either way, I'm about to find out.