A/N: READY FOR GRADING (2,924 words with DOUBLE MEDIA WEEK BONUS)

05:52 AM

An alarm goes off. You ignore it, until it becomes unignorable. You hit in its direction blindly, missing the snooze button with every swing. There's a sudden screech of plastic on wood -- a thud, followed by several other thuds and the unmistakable sound of spilling water. The alarm dies abruptly.

You groan.

That's gotta be, what -- the third alarm clock you've gone through this month?

Good job, idiot -- now you gotta run to Wallmart on-top of everything the heck else you need to get done before your flight tomorrow, and the traffic on the I-90 is gonna be a nightmare at this rate --

The traffic. Right. The reason you set the alarm in the first place. You groan again. Wriggle harder into your pillows, ignore the sweat between your shoulder blades that's been gathering uncomfortably since sunrise, as it has been since the A/C stopped working two weeks ago. You've been waiting on your next paycheck to get it fixed -- yet another thing you were supposed to have taken care of before your trip to Germany tomorrow. You should probably write a note to yourself to call Mauricio today, he should be able to do something to the motor to get it working decently enough until you get back.

You sweat, you focus on your breathing. Dueling impulses -- anxiety and laziness -- mix around inside your head, your chest, your stomach. You let the stress roll out of you in carefully timed exhales.

You fall back asleep.

10:58 AM

This time, the noise that wakes you up is much louder than an alarm clock. It's loud and dull, it vibrates through your skull, it rattles your teeth, it's right next to your freaking ear

"Get up, get up, get upppp ste leni baraba I don't have time for you to do this today, I need the car, and you need to get --" CLANK " -- up -- " CLANK "-- right no--"

"OK," you wail, rolling away from where your mom is banging a soup pot with a wooden spoon over your head mercilessly. "OK, ma, OK I'm up. I'm up, will you stop, prosim mama I need my ears."

"You don't need your ears to sleep," she says nonsensically, clucking at the mess of objects on the floor next to your nightstand. "And if you were awake, I wouldn't be banging on a pot to get you up. I have to be at work in two hours, and you have shopping to do."

You hold your head between your hands as she yanks up the blinds, letting in the blinding pre-noon sunlight. You might be getting a headache. You're also not sure you have any clean underwear left.

"Can't I just drop you off at the Clarke's? I'll pick you up, I swear -- all I have is rink time today, nothing serious because of the flight tomorrow," you grouse.

She scoffs. "No, I have to take Julia to her birthday party today -- I need the car. If you want, I'll give you bus money, and I can drop you off at Wallmart or MainPlace or whatever so you can get done what you were supposed to be awake to do five hours ago."

"What about practice, ma?" You shout after her as she leaves, sufficient in her confidence you're finally -- properly -- awake.

"You get one lousy offer for a draft, and suddenly you're too good for the 59 bus? I love you son --" her voice getting suddenly quieter as she bustles down the hall. "But kdor redko sejé, bo redko žel. Buy a better alarm clock."

"Jesus," you mutter to a blessedly quiet room, and stretch fully -- starfishing back out onto your bed. You twist every which way, noticing the extra tenderness in your left calf, the tightness from hip to knee down the sartorial muscle the same side. You really need to stop skipping stretching before bed.

You get up, pull on a shirt from the floor, and wonder if you have any sliced bread left for banana peanut butter toast.

01:15 PM

"OK," you say slowly. "But why would you even suggest a press conference a day before I fly to practice with the Germans, Marley?"

"You need all the help you can get," comes the tinny voice of your agent from the other side of your phone. "You may think your draft stock will stay afloat all by itself, but it won't. You gotta keep punching it into the air, like a slowly-deflating balloon."

You spare a glance at the back of this particular alarm clock's packaging. You're still in Wallmart. You even asked a store assistant for help in picking out a more durable alarm clock. You're making adult decisions today.

"I mean, would it sinking be such a bad thing?" You know you're mumbling, but Jackson Marley is nothing if not intimidating, especially so over the phone when you can't stare down at him with the full eleven inches of height you have on him.

"What was that?"

You toss the alarm clock in it's packaging into your mostly-empty cart with a heartfelt sigh. "Would. That. Be. Such. A. Bad. Thing."

You punch out the words, make them monotonous. Armor them, since they're all that's about to be between you and the irritated scorn of the man you pay to bully other people (not you! mind you! on your behalf.

"Oh gee, I don't know Tommy -- do you want to play hockey for a living?" The false cheer in his voice sets you on edge immediately. "Because if you don't, I guess then no, it wouldn't be such a bad thing to let your apparent draftworthiness drop into the black hole of irrelevancy. But hey, if you do, you half-stoned lay-about fuck, I'd suggest you take my efforts on your behalf a little more seriously."

"I take your efforts seriously," you protest halfheartedly.

You also spare half a thought for the likelihood that the food court downstairs won't be an unmitigated disaster of octomoms and tweakers. Your stomach's presence is making itself impolitely known.

"Then show up. It's at 4 pm, same conference room the Hockey News used last time for your thing at Disney ICE."

"That's during practice," you complain before you realize he's hung up on you.

You move the phone away from your ear to stare at it for a few moments, before snapping it closed and shoving it into a cargo pocket on your shorts. You tried at one point to explain your reluctance to Marley, probably around about the same time your mom insisted you hire an agent, when the scouts that came to all the AAA games started talking to your coaches specifically about you. You read the press. There are kids n this draft that have trained at a near-professional level their whole darn lives, and those are the kids that -- as far as you can figure -- should be going as first round picks to the SMJHL. You're a nobody -- a kid that was always a little better than most at roller hockey thanks to half-baked memories of glory implanted by a dad long dead and mostly forgotten, a kid that does better on skates than most because he had a mom who used to know how to fly across the ice like a bird taking wing to the sky. That's you at your best -- a little better than most. They way you figure it, to be drafted first round like Marley thinks you should be, you need to be a lot better than everybody. You think it's just better, more honest, if people see the complete package now rather than later.

Marley, obviously, disagrees with your take on things, but then again, you pay him to.

You stand in line, pay for your stuff, get mall burger and fries to-go. ICE isn't so far from here, and nether is your house, but your house to ICE takes almost two hours, and you need to hurry if you don't want to disappoint.

04:34 PM

You startle at the sound of Marley pushing back his chair. You watch him silently as he stalks to the windowed side of the room, punching at his wireless head-set's PTT button. You melt further into your chair and fish out your own phone, even as Marley barks out:

"Call Ken Campbell."

Your feet ache where laces should be pressing skates along the ridges of your feet. You text Coach.

(you): thing mars wanted me 2 do not lookn 2 gud rn can we mayb still do a skate?

Marley taps his foot, full to the brim with obvious agitation. You settle your phone on the conference table in front of you. After a second, it vibrates and lights up. You look down.

Coach M!ye: Whatever your agent has you sitting for should probably take precedence, Tooth.
(you): i kno coach but no1 showed, legit just me n mars in this room rn he's on the phone getting mad at ppl cuz of it n i dont want to be ehre for that when i could doin a skate
Coach M!ye: I have a 5pm
(you): k what about after?
Coach M!ye: After my 5pm, I usually go home Tooth. You'll be fine. You're ready for dev camp.

I know you write out, ignoring the steady rise of Marley's voice as he leaves a nasty voicemail for someone at the other end of the phone line. You delete the text. You think. You do know you're ready. That's not the point. You want the ice before you leave because it's your ice. It's a part of you that you want to take with you over to Europe, over to where you have to be better than a little better than most, and all the time. You just have to find the words to make Coach understand.

You're momentarily captivated by Marley's animated display half a room and half world away from you.

"-- client, who by the way, doesn't have time for this bullshit jerk-around because he's leaving tomorrow! tomorrow! for IIHF Juniors development camp in Europe. If you ask for a last minute date, you're supposed to be the goddamn professional who keeps his appointments, Kenneth, and I don't see why a courtesy call was just too fucking hard for you --"

You blink. Marley's tone makes you anxious, and anxious isn't where you want to be right now. Your fingers twitch, itching for rolling paper you can't carry in here. You fiddle with your phone instead. Remember you needed to find a way to get Coach to let you skate one more time for the road.

(you): it would help me focus you write. Stop; and then continue. it'd help me find my feet long enough to take them with me over there.

Coach always calls the moment of perfect synchronicity between neurological response, balance, and reaction time "finding your footing." She'll know what you mean now -- or at least, you hope. At the other end of the table, Marley's off the phone and standing still, looking out over the sprawling silhouette of California Adventure to the far right. He eventually notices you staring at him, and half-turns.

"Sorry," you're surprised to hear him say. "I know you'd have rather been skating."

And it's true, but Marley's still the guy with the eyes on the ultimate prize. He shouldn't be apologizing.

"Don't be sorry," you say, sounding more subdued than you'd intended.

"I am though," Marley shrugs. "They had the date in the books for next Saturday-- "

"That's the middle of the tournament."

"-- I know, Tommy. And as they're a major hockey news publication, so do they. It was a fuck-up, plain and simple. We'll reschedule for after you're back from Germany."

Your phone vibrates, and you break eye contact with Marley now to look down at it.

Coach M!ye: 6:15, Rink B -- don't be late.

You try not to acknowledge the loosening knot of anxiety that slides wide at reading those words.

06;14 PM

You look down at your skates. They're Supreme 1Ss, with teal laces that match the Panthers' teal and gold uniforms. They took you six months of pay to save up for, and they're the best skates you've ever owned.

You look beyond the toes of your skates, and you see nothing but freshly wet ice. There's a figure further down the ice, but you're not focusing on her, and she knows you well enough by now to wait for you, to wait for this.

You kick -- one-two with your left, one-two-three with your right -- at the open gate that separates cork floor from frozen planes, and nod in minuscule genuflection to the rink.

You step onto the ice, and the you that you are when you're not on the ice separates from your body as quickly as the wind whistling through your hair and your jersey as you pick up speed. You find your feet, you find your heart, and you skate even faster.

09:12 PM

You close the door behind you, and you can see that the kitchen light is on. You're guessing your mom is waiting up. You lock the door as you're supposed to, and leave your hockey gear in the entryway. Your flight's at 8am anyway, so it makes sense to leave it all ready to go.

You make it down the hall, and the first thing you notice is that there's a slice of cake on a plate sitting at your place on the table. German chocolate, like the one you helped your mom frost for Julia Clarke's birthday.

"What's this?" You shout it, because she's not in the kitchen.

At night, she usually sits outside smoking from a pipe and drinking a glass or two of plumb brandy. You hear the screen door bang, footsteps as they come closer to where you are. You smell the clove-perfumed tobacco before you see her walk into the kitchen.

"Jules insisted, said she wanted you to have a piece even if you were too busy getting ready for your trip to come to her party."

"It went OK?" You ask because it's expected, but you can already tell from the way your mom's brow isn't creased funny, from how she's carrying herself -- tired, but hard-day's-work tired -- that they day went smooth. Another logged overtime for weekend family even Jules' own parents couldn't come up from San Diego to celebrate.

"Of course," she scoffs. You smile, even as she elbows you in the ribs for asking. She's fishing something out of her dress pocket now, a little hemp braid with a shark's tooth woven in. "She also said to give you this, for luck."

You take it, run your fingers over the ridges of the tooth. You wonder where some blue-blooded eight-year-old Newport girl got her hands on a charm like this.

"She said she made it for you," your mom tells you, like she can read the question in the movement of your hands. You turn and look at her, raising your eyebrows, and she grins. "I don't think so either, but that's what the little lady told me, and who am I to call her out on a lie?"

"Tell her I said thanks, yeah?"

"I already did." Your mom waves her hands at you like you're being ridiculous. "Have at least a bite of the cake, bad manners otherwise. You need me to wake you up for your flight?"

"I bought another alarm clock," you say, settling down at the table, tying the shark's tooth around your wrist before picking up the fork set next to the plate of cake.

"Good," she says, the kind of warmth and affection a part of you still finds incredibly embarrassing suffusing her voice as she smiles a little lopsidedly, teeth crooked in a grin that's still somehow charming. You wonder if she's gong to tell you she's proud of you, you wonder if she's going to ask you if you're ready. You're pretty sure you don't need to hear the first, and don't particularly want to answer the second.

"Don't punch this one out for trying to do it's job, OK?" is what she settles on in the end. She walks over to where you've started to eat and kisses you on the forehead before you can muster protest. "Lahko noč."

"OK ma." You roll your eyes and chew the cake at the same time. You feel a coconut flake get caught between your teeth. "G'night."

05:50AM

An alarm goes off. You ignore it, until it becomes unignorable. Then you remember that today, by some measures, is the start of your actual hockey career, and that wakes you up faster than the incessant buzzing of your new alarm.

You swing your feet over the edge of the bed. You can feel the ghost of where your skates will press into the flesh of your bare feet. You reach over to calmly shut-off the alarm.

You get ready to start your day.

Bump for finished media piece that despite its name is totally not at all presser in the slightest. Oh well.

Good shit!

Nice read! Ballsy to go second person, but it actually worked very well. Keep it up. :lol: