DING!

Nolan Patrick’s eyes snap open at the bus window, which displays the breezing suburban city. He peers down to slip his phone out of his hoodie’s pocket and look at the screen.

His lock screen is lit up with an email notification. He opens it up.

Sounds good. See you at one today.
Coach Clayton.

Nolan glances at the time. “12:55 p.m.”

Nervousness gushes through him, causing him to turn to the window of the bus again. He clutches onto the sides of the hood over his head as the scenery whizzes by him. Trimmed trees and four-door cars zip under the clear blue skies. Rolling up to him is a cream-colored one-story building.

Nolan’s eyes widen at the sign of the building: “City Ice Rink.”

The bus slows to a halt in front of the rink before hissing and sinking to the sidewalk’s level.

With a huff and a roll of his shoulders, Nolan rises to his feet and shuffles across the two seats in his row. Sitting on the seat at the edge of the row is his hockey bag, which he slings over his shoulder, and his stick, which he takes up with his free hand. He then strolls down the aisle.

Although the skies are clear, the air is chilly and crisp. Nolan’s cheeks burn a bright red as he shuffles across the parking lot, heading toward the stairs to the building.

He hops up each one, scuttles across the platform, then exchanges his stick to his hand with the bag to throw the narrow entrance door wide open. He slips inside as the door begins to close on him.

Slightly huffing, Nolan darts his eyes around, observing his surroundings: he is in a foyer, where a wall made out of transparent material marks the area to his left. To his right is a window displaying the cute and cozy rink shop. Jutting out of the window is a small platform to serve as a desk and a sliding window behind it. On the other end is a door that serves as a barrier between the rink and the foyer.

Nolan shuffles to the platform and stands in front of it, gripping onto his stick while pressing his arm against the strap of his hockey bag tightly. He gazes into the window with lost eyes.

On the other side is a brunette lady with black, round ears brushed with white and orange planted on her head. She is engrossed in typing on the computer to the right before she turns to him.

She pulls the window open and gives him an attentive look. “Yeah?”

“Uh…” Nolan adjusts his hockey bag’s strap. “I have a meeting with Coach Clayton.”

She nods with an “o”-shaped mouth. “Right. He warned me about you coming around.” She presses a button, causing the door to Nolan’s left to buzz. “Come on out, and I’ll lead you to his office.”

Nolan steps over to the door and huffs as his eyes meet the handle. He swings the door open and slides out into the frigid atmosphere of the ice rink. The chlorine-like scent fills his nose.

The rink itself is to the left, with an ice resurfacer rolling on it. On the other end, high up with the flags, is the scoreboard, which is showing the time in bright red digital lights: “12:59.”

“Alright, follow me!” The cashier’s voice chirps to Nolan’s right.

Nolan swings his head to her direction just as she crosses his path to take the lead. He follows her down the walkway between the rink itself and the skate rental station adjacent to the rink’s café.

His eyes are captured by her slim orange and black-striped tail hanging down from her black pants and curling up at the tip. He inhales and holds his breath in an attempt to subdue the fear rising in him.

They turn left along with the bend of the rink’s boards, entering a narrower area with the boards to the left and now the bathrooms to the right. Just as there is a corner to give room for the jutting benches of the ice rink, there is a discreet staircase digging into the wall.

She turns right to the staircase and climbs them up. Nolan creeps behind her, gripping onto his strap and stick with a clammy hand. He halts at the step below the small platform and turns to his right, where a door is situated in a dimness.

“Coach Clayton.” The cashier knocks on the door thrice. “Your new recruitee is here to see you…!”

“Good,” a gruff voice rumbles from the other side. “Send him in.”

Nolan freezes at the sound of the intimidating voice.

She then turns to him with an innocent smile. “Good luck.”

Just as she slips past him down the stairs, Nolan turns his head back up with fear-filled eyes at the door in the dark.

With a long exhale, he steps up onto the platform, turns the knob, and pushes the door open.

The room is a surprisingly pleasant sight: the walls are cream-colored with a window radiating sunlight to the left, giving the room a clean aura. However, it is small and squared, mainly due to all the clutter. Tucked in the corner is a filing cabinet and a box filled with clothing on the floor. Stacks of papers clutter the desk’s top and line the walls. Frames of hockey in action and the rink’s multiple jerseys adorn the walls.

With its right end on the left side of the wall is a wooden desk, also decorated with stacks of papers and files; a computer sits at the corner of the desk and the wall.

Behind the desk sits Clayton Keller, a brunet man with a light mustache, and thick eyebrows. He wears a maroon-colored cap, which makes his fluffy hair stick out. Behind the glasses on his face are sharp, deep blue eyes, perfect for the austere expression on his face.

Nolan though, fighting to keep a matching serious look, has hesitant eyes on the coach’s head: Protruding from his head is a pair of dark brown pointed ears with tufts of lighter-colored fur.

“Welcome.” Clayton pulls a hand out from his interlaced fingers to hold it out to the two cloth chairs placed in front of his desk. “Take a seat.”

Nolan approaches the closest chair and sits down.

“Well.” The coach pulls his glasses off from his face. “It’s good to get a replacement in the nick of time.” He exchanges his glasses for a clipboard and scrutinizes it. “We are in a critical time right now: we’re in the championship series, best out of five against the Fury...so far we have the lead, one to zero.”

He lowers it to hold stern eyes on him. “One of the Fury’s players got hurt, so we had to loan one of our players to them...we were short one player…” He pulls one hand off from the clipboard to hold it out to him. “Thank you for filling it in for the time being.”

All Nolan can do is nod.

“So—” Clayton mumbles incomprehensible statements under his breath as he scans the contents of the clipboard. “You have any questions, concerns, or good luck charms?” He snaps his eyes up at him.

Nolan blinks.

“What I thought.” He whips up a rabbit’s foot charm from behind his desk. “I always come prepared.”

Shock instantly grips Nolan, holding him in place.

Clayton puts the charm behind the desk, out of sight. He then stands up. “I’ll take you to the locker room. We have practice in fifteen minutes.” He rounds his desk.

Nolan follows him with his shifty eyes as he approaches him. Clayton gives him a pat of reassurance on his shoulder and passes by him.

Exerting his strength, Nolan pushes himself to his feet, gathers his hockey bag and stick, and exits the room behind the coach.

After reaching the bottom of the stairs, Clayton leads him down the dim aisle behind the benches, before coming back out into the light where picnic tables are scattered. He then approaches the other end of the large room, where two doors leading to two separate locker rooms are situated. Clayton enters the one to the right, disappearing around the corner once he enters the doorway; Nolan props his stick on the side among the other sticks and comes behind him.

Chattering and laughing clogs the atmosphere and bounces off the walls. The stale stench of worn hockey equipment also adds to the thick air. Nolan steps through the walkway leading into the room; alertness is at his surface, keeping him on his toes.

Clayton then turns left and stands in the path with hands on his hips. Nolan halts slightly next to him and peers out into the scene.

The square-sized locker room has its benches filled with all sorts of players caught up in their conversations. Their hockey bags spill out their contents at the feet of each of their owners, who are in various stages of dressing into their hockey equipment.

“I’m actually considering moving to Hawaii—” Nolan catches an olive-skinned player with black pointy ears and a matching sleek tail exclaim from the edge of the nearest bench. “I’ve been there five—or was it six—?”

The coach stares out at his team, his eyes half-opened with disapproval along with pinned-back ears. Nolan glances down, catching sight of the coach’s tail: Golden, fluffed fur makes it up with dark brown streaked within the fur and coated at the tip. It wags to the left.

“No,” the hockey player continues over the cacophony, “—maybe it was seven...and a half—”

“Oooo…!”

Almost everyone, including Nolan, whirls their heads to the source of the howling.

Clayton relaxes and lowers his face from craning it. The room is now silent, except for one unattentive player:

“No, it was five times,” the hockey player continues, “I’ve been there five— But I thought I went there six times because—”

“Hey!”

Clayton snatches a skater glove from the bench beside him and chucks it at the chattering hockey player.

The hockey player emits a scratchy yelp before toppling to the ground with the glove.

The coach turns back to his team, noticing everyone now holding attentive eyes on him.

“This is Nolan—” He holds a hand out to Nolan. “—our replacement for most likely the rest of this postseason.” He drops his hand. “Give him a warm welcome to the Brave.”

Everyone claps with warm smiles. Nolan feels his cheeks burn with embarrassment.

Clayton then takes down a clipboard from the wall beside him, looks at it with a pen in hand, and barks:

“Chychrun!”

Jakob Chychrun, the okamimimi, or the coywolf, looks up from slipping on his suspenders. “Here!”

“Clague!”

Kale Clague, the nekomimi, or the Bombay cat, who is laying on his back, halts playing with the glove. “Hi, Coach!”

“Hart!”

Carter Hart, the kumamimi, or the grizzly bear, grins from ear-to-ear with his small, furry brown ears sticking out from each side of his head. “Always here, Coach!”

“Howden!”

Brett Howden, the okamimimi, or the red wolf, peers up at him with a smirk while taping his stick. “Long time, no see…!” he remarks with a playful tone.

“Hague!”

Nic Hague, the pansāmimi, or the black panther, is slipping on his socks. “Hello!”

“Jones!”

Max, the takamimi, or the sharp-shinned hawk, halts his bread eating. “Here, Coach…!”

“Jost!”

Tyson Jost, the yamanekomimi, or the wildcat, looks at Clayton from tying his skates. “Yup!”

“Kel…” Clayton scrunches up his face. “Oh, that’s me— Laine!” he finishes off with his usual shouting.

Patrik Laine, the sasukuwatchimimi, or sasquatch, with his long, stringy platinum blond beard, rises up from next him.

Clayton turns to look at him. He shoots him an apathetic look. “You can say ‘here' next time.” He then turns back to his clipboard as Patrik sinks back into his bench.

“Middleton!”

Keaton Middleton, the samemimi, or the tiger shark, halts from taping his socks. “‘Sup, Coach!”

“Oettinger!”

Jake Oettinger, the inumimi, or the Great Pyrenees, pokes up from strapping his leg pads. “Woof!”

“Patrick—” He rotates his pen to Nolan. “That’s you— Puljujärvi!”

Jesse Puljujärvi, the kawausomimi, or the Eurasian otter, pokes his head out from his shoulder padding. “Here-y, Coach!”

“Steenbergen!”

Tyler Steenbergen, the jagāmimi, or the black jaguar, looks up from strapping his shin guards. “Howdy!”

“Välimäki!”

Juuso Välimäki, the okamimimi, or the maned wolf, gazes at him with heavy eyelids. His closed hockey bag sits at his sneaker-cladded feet. “‘Sup…”

“Yamamoto!”

Kailer Yamamoto, the itachimimi, or the Japanese weasel, nods toward Clayton as he adjusts his elbow pad. “Good morning, coach.”

Clayton hangs his clipboard back in its place. “Be on the ice in seven minutes.”

He then sits on the edge of the bench to his left and begins to unzip the hockey bag at his feet.

The chattering resumes, muddling Nolan’s thoughts. He peers out with worry, his eyes wavering around the room. They land on an empty space in between Carter and Brett on the other side of the room.

Nolan readjusts his strap on his shoulder, strides across the room, and settles down on the bench. He drops his bag on the floor and unzips it.

“Coach is good to ya?”

With his hands in his bag, Nolan snaps his head up to his left.

Carter is peering down at him as he secures the straps of his leg pad around his calf. “Yeah, he leaves me speechless as well.” He chuckles at his awful joke.

Nolan blinks at him.

He snaps his last buckle before holding his hand out to him. “I’m Carter.”

Nolan flicks his eyes down at his awkwardly-positioned hand. Hanging on his wrist is a metallic bracelet, a black rubber bracelet and a green, white, and yellow marbled bracelet.

He holds himself from snorting and just goes along with the awkward handshake: He holds his left hand out.

Carter shakes it. “And you are…?”

With agitation rising due to the shaking, Nolan pries his hand away. “Nolan.”

Carter straightens up. “Nolan! You must be a defenseman.”

“Centre.”

“Oh.” Carter shoots a confused look at the coach across the room.

“No D-men were available,” a cool voice clears up from their right. “That’s why we got a centre.”

“Oh, okay…” Carter turns to his right and slightly leans forward to make eye contact with Brett. “No hard feelings, being a centre yourself?”

Brett shrugs with an indifferent expression. “No. We’re a team.” He turns to Nolan. “I’m Brett, by the way.”

Nolan gazes up at him. He freezes at the sight of his bright, rusty red, pointed ears poking out from his curly, dirty blond hair.

“He’s Nolan,” Nolan hears Carter chirp from behind him.

Brett scans him from head to toe with suspicion. “So...uh…” He locks eyes with him. “...what species are you?”

Anxiety twists around Nolan, holding his body in place. Slowly, Nolan turns his head to the left to look out into the locker room.

His new teammates converse with expression and laughter, caught up in their safe world. They happily expose their diverse ears and tails without a care.

Nolan rotates his head back to peer at the other two teammates gazing down at him. Their ears are up and alert, including Brett’s slim, yet fluffy, black and rusty-red tail.

“I’m…” Nolan forces out, “...a...polar bear.”

Carter’s eyes light up with a gasp. “No way! I-I’m—” He slaps his hands against his chest “—I’m also a bear! A grizzly bear!”

Nolan pushes a closed smile upon his face.

Carter gazes out in wonder at the locker room. “I thought I was gonna be the only bear on this team until I retire… But nope!” He whirls back to Nolan with a huge grin. “I got a buddy!”

He then dives in and pulls him into a bear hug. Nolan’s muscles twitch with the urge to escape his strong arms; yet he forces himself to stay still.

“Cute,” Brett remarks dryly from behind Carter. “Very cute.”

Carter pulls away, aiming furrowed eyebrows at Brett. “What are you so bitter about? You got your canine friend over there!” He holds his hand out to Clayton, who is on his feet in his full gear, clipping on his helmet.

Brett has calm eyes on his coach. “Nah, nah.” He crosses his arms. “It’s not that…” His voice trails off as he slides his eyes to Nolan. He sniffs.

Nolan eyes him, unsure.

Brett then turns back to his bag.

Nolan turns away with his hands stuffed under his arms. He presses his focus on his hockey bag as a distraction from his uneasy emotions.

Notes