The FHL Gazette

Davis unzipped his hockey bag, stared into the black canvas void, and blinked.

"Dude."

The locker room paused. Laces stopped mid-pull.

"Dude, where are my skates?"

"What do you mean, where are your skates?" came the reply from across the bench. "You had your bag in your trunk."

"Yeah, but where are my skates?"

"Check under your breezers, dude."

Davis threw his elbow pads across the floor. He dug past three rolls of half-used clear tape, a dried-up puck, and a singular, crusty skate guard. Nothing with blades.

"Dude, they're not here."

"Well, where’s your car?"

"It’s parked outside, dude!"

"Then go check your car, dude!"

Ten minutes before puck drop, Davis sprinted through the freezing arena parking lot in his hockey socks, hit the key fob, and tore open the tailgate. He searched the back seat. He searched the passenger seat. He opened the glove compartment, stared at a handful of expired registration slips, and whispered, "Dude..."

He charged back into the locker room, chest heaving, tape flapping off his shins.

"Dude, no skates. Are you sure I didn't leave them by the bench?"

"Davis, you walked in here carrying an eighty-pound bag. How do you remember your stick, your helmet, a cracked visor, and two left gloves, but forget the literal things you need to touch the ice?"

Davis just stared at his left sock with the hole in the toe, defeated, slowly realizing his ice time tonight would be spent running the door and operating the penalty box latch.

"Dude."

"Sweet."