01 | The Joke
THE ICE DIDN'T care.
It didn't care that Ejike Okonkwo grew up dodging danfos on the blistering streets of Lagos. That the closest he had ever come to hockey was watching a YouTube clip on the flight here. The ice was hard, unforgiving, colder than anything he had ever known.
And right now, it was waiting to swallow him whole.
He stood at the rink's edge, the boards digging into his borrowed shoulder pads. His skates wobbled beneath him—he was still learning how to balance on the damn things. The gear felt all wrong: helmet too loose, gloves stiff, jersey hanging off him like borrowed confidence. The air was sharp, thick with the smell of sweat, rubber, and Zamboni exhaust.
Across the ice, the guys warming up—big, fast, mostly white—moved with easy arrogance. They didn't see him as competition. They saw him as a joke waiting to happen.
One particularly broad-shouldered player in a red practice jersey nudged his teammate. "Yo, who let the soccer player in?"
Laughter rippled through the group. Ejike gritted his teeth.
He hadn't crossed an ocean to be laughed off the ice.
Up in the stands, a young Asian woman sat with her arms crossed, head tilted slightly, watching him like she was trying to figure something out. There was something familiar about her, though Ejike couldn't place it.
The coach, a gruff, red-faced man in a navy jacket, skated to center ice and blew his whistle. The sharp sound cut through the chatter.
"Listen up! I'm Coach Mac. Some of you I know, some I don't. Doesn't matter. Today, everyone starts from zero." He scanned the group, his gaze lingering on Ejike for a beat too long. "Alright, speed drill first! Line up at the blue line. Let's see what you've got."
Ejike stepped forward. The moment his skates touched the ice, doubt gnawed at him. This wasn't the rough pavement of Lagos, where his feet had memorized every crack, every shortcut. The ice was smooth, slick—too much like a trickster god waiting to trip him up.
But speed? Speed, he knew.
Fast like lightning. His mother's voice echoed in his head. No one can catch you, my Speedo. Two weeks—that's all his visa gave him. He had to be fast, on the ice and off.
The whistle shrieked. He pushed off—awkward for half a second, skates fighting him. Then instinct kicked in.
Back home, the streets had been his racetrack. He had learned speed the hard way—dodging cars and danfos, leaping gutters, outrunning the hoodlums who thought they could corner him into their ranks. His body remembered. His muscles adjusted.
Rollerblades weren't ice skates, but speed was speed. And speed was his.
His legs found their rhythm.
And then he flew.
Wind slashed past his face. His jersey flapped behind him as he gained speed, faster, faster—past one player, then another. The world blurred at the edges. For a moment, he felt weightless, free, like nothing could touch him.
A scout near the glass leaned forward, eyes widening.
A woman with a notepad by the glass scribbled furiously, her eyes flicking to Ejike. Players muttered.
Brad Hensley, a broad-shouldered defenseman with a Toronto accent as thick as his biceps, did a double take as Ejike blew past him like he was standing still.
"What the actual—" Brad's curse was lost in the sound of Ejike's skates carving ice.
By the time Ejike crossed the line, he was at least three strides ahead of the next guy.
Silence. Then, a low murmur.
Who the hell is this guy?
Ejike skidded to a stop, chest rising and falling. For a moment, hope flickered. Maybe—just maybe—
Coach Mac lifted an eyebrow. "Fast as hell," he muttered. "But let's see if you can actually play hockey."
The puck-handling drill was next.
And that was where everything went to hell.
The stick felt awkward in his grip, longer than he expected. Coach Mac tossed him a puck. It hit his blade and—
—bounced off.
He scrambled to control it, swiped too hard, missed.
Laughter.
"Man, he's never held a stick in his life," Brad called out, his voice carrying across the ice.
"Bro's playing field hockey," another player added.
Heat burned up Ejike's neck. He planted his feet, gripped the stick tighter. He would get this. He had to.
The night before, he'd watched hockey tutorials until 3 AM, his eyes burning from the blue light of his cousin, Kel's laptop. He'd practiced the motions in Kel's tiny apartment, using a broom and a tennis ball. But theory and practice were worlds apart.
Brad skated a lazy circle around him, tapping his own stick against the ice. "Maybe stick to running track, Africa."
Ejike bit back the retort burning on his tongue. Africa was a continent, not a country. Lagos was a city of twenty million people, larger than any city in Canada. But geography lessons wouldn't help him now. Only skill would.
"Again," Coach Mac called. His voice betrayed nothing—no disappointment, no encouragement. Just flat expectation.
The puck slid toward Ejike again. This time, he managed to stop it, but controlling it was another matter. It wobbled on his stick like it had a mind of its own.
"Jesus, this is fucking painful to watch," someone muttered.
A shorter player with a buzz cut—Meyer, according to his jersey—snickered. "Diversity hire."
A few players laughed. Others looked away, embarrassed but unwilling to speak up.
Final test: skate full-speed while keeping the puck on his stick.
The whistle blew. He launched forward, hyper-focused, hands locked tight. This time, he wouldn't—
The puck rolled away.
Shit.
He reached, lost balance, his skates betrayed him—
—SLAM.
The boards greeted him with a bone-rattling crash. His helmet cracked against the plexiglass. Stars burst behind his eyes.
For a second, the whole rink was silent.
Then—
Laughter. Louder this time.
Brad skated past, grinning. "Are you okay, A-Joke?"
The pun wasn't lost on him. Not even an hour in, and he had already earned himself a nickname.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
It got worse. The nickname echoed.
Joke.
Joke.
Joke.
The sound of it slammed into Ejike harder than the ice had.
He hauled himself up, ignoring the sting in his shoulder. His knees shook. His hands curled into fists inside his gloves. He knew if he looked at Coach Mac, he would see exactly what he didn't want to: dismissal.
He didn't check.
Ejike straightened, jaw locked, fists balled in his gloves. "Joke," they'd called him. Fine. He'd shove that word down their throats soon enough.
---
The locker room reeked of sweat and defeat. Ejike sat alone on a bench in the corner, slowly peeling off gear that felt heavier now than when he'd put it on. His shoulder throbbed where it had connected with the boards. Tomorrow, there would be a bruise the size of a fist.
"Hey, A-joke."
Brad's voice grated across the locker room. Ejike didn't look up.
"Africa, I'm talking to you, man."
Still, Ejike said nothing, focusing on unlacing his borrowed skates. His fingers were stiff, unused to the cold.
Footsteps approached. A shadow fell across him.
"What? You don't speak English?"
Now, Ejike looked up. Brad stood over him, still in half his gear, towering with the confidence of someone who had never had to prove they belonged. Behind him, Meyer snickered.
"I speak five languages, actually," Ejike said, his accent light but distinct. "English, Igbo, Yoruba, Hausa, and French. How many do you speak?"
Brad's eyes narrowed. "Look, smartass—"
"That's enough."
A new voice. Coach Mac stood in the doorway of the locker room, arms crossed.
"Hensley, Meyer, hit the showers. Now."
The two players exchanged glances but didn't argue. As they walked away, Brad bumped Ejike's shoulder—hard—with his own. A message: This isn't over.
When the room had cleared out, Mac approached. He stood there for a long moment, just looking at Ejike, who returned his gaze steadily.
"You've never played hockey before."
It wasn't a question, but Ejike answered anyway. "No, sir."
"Then what the hell are you doing at my tryouts?"
Ejike's throat felt dry. "Learning."
Something flickered across Mac's face—surprise, maybe, or irritation.
"Learning," he repeated. "Son, this isn't kindergarten. This is Division I hockey."
"I know what it is." Ejike's voice was quiet but firm. "And I also know that I'm the fastest skater who tried out today."
"That arrogance and self-belief is admirable, kid," Mac said, eyeing him. "You remind me of a younger me. You're fast—fastest I've seen in years. But speed isn't hockey."
"I know."
"Do you?" Mac challenged. "Because what I saw out there was a guy with no fundamentals, no puck control, barely able to stay upright."
Ejike's jaw tightened. "I can learn."
"Can you? In time for the season? Because I need players who can contribute now, not projects."
"Give me two weeks," Ejike said, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them. "Two weeks to prove I can handle a stick."
Mac leaned back, studying him. "Most guys would've quit after today."
"I'm not most guys, sir. Just... don't throw me out yet."
A beat of silence.
"Two weeks," Mac finally said. "But I need to see real progress. I don't care how you do it—just be a player I can actually use this season. Otherwise, that scholarship you're after? Gone."
Ejike stared at him, wide-eyed.
Mac let out a dry laugh. "You're not the first immigrant kid to pretend he's something he's not just to land a scholarship and a study visa. Just don't waste my time."
"I won't, sir."
Mac gave him one last look, then turned and walked away.
Ejike knew one thing—he couldn't afford to screw up his next tryout. He had two weeks to prove he wasn't just fast, but a real player.
After a quick shower, he changed into his clothes, grabbed his phone, and saw a text from his cousin.
Kelechi: How'd the tryout go?
Ejike smirked and typed back: Let's just say I made an impression.
A few seconds later, another message popped up.
Kelechi: Damn. Good or bad?
Ejike: Depends on how you feel about getting clowned by a bunch of hockey bros.
Kelechi: LMAO. Come debrief me at Peachie's Diner. My treat.
Ejike exhaled, shoving his phone into his pocket. A hot meal sounded like the best thing he'd had all day.
