They were best friends. The two phenoms from Minnesota, the one-two punch up front on the counterattack. Tall, slightly lanky, blonde and brown, blue and gray. Adam wished he could say that he and Charlie had a lot of things in common, but they didn't. Adam had grown up in Edina, with a lot of money. Charlie had grown up in downtown Minneapolis with a single mother. Adam was quiet, calm, and serious, while Charlie was gregarious, talkative, and quick with words. It went without saying that while Charlie could pick up a handful of girls at any given party on any given night, Adam desired only a friend who could listen and understand.

He hated his past. He hated Edina. The materialism, the excessive wealth, the endless one-ups-manship. Sure, he always had enough money for clothes, a new car, hockey gear, but he had nothing else. No character, no streetwise accent, no wild streak.

He and Charlie were drifting. He hated to admit it, but it was true. Their rocky years at Eden Hall had taken their toll. While they were still friends, best friends even, that element of total trust and faith was gone. Adam had not talked seriously with Charlie about anything in a long time. The most serious they got was hockey, and injuries and such. They never talked about family life, personal feelings or anything like that. Granted, college-age men didn't generally talk about that kind of stuff, but when they were younger, they'd often been able to talk about things without feeling ashamed. Like Adam's father's desire to live vicariously through his sons, or Charlie's mother's constant search for a new husband/father.

But things had changed. While Adam had gotten a hockey scholarship to Michigan, Charlie had had to fight his way onto the team as a walk-on. On top of that, he was working his butt off during his free time just so he could pay for college. He was getting some financial aid, but Michigan was a big school, and Charlie knew he was nothing special. Good at hockey, sure, but not great. Good in classes, but not great. Never great. Adam sometimes wondered if Charlie resented him for being on scholarship and being a straight-A student. If he could have, Adam would have given it all up just for friendship and camaraderie, which, sufficed to say, he'd not experienced much in his life. Charlie was a good friend, his best friend, but Adam was a loner, afraid to let anyone in because he might get hurt. He wanted to talk to someone about his life, about the pressures, about the frustration, but he didn't trust anyone to keep his secrets, to take him seriously. To listen.

It was a Thursday afternoon, and Adam had just finished his last class for the week. He was wandering aimlessly around campus, alone, feeling a little down, knowing that Charlie was probably off at a party with some girl, and his teammates were more than likely doing the same.

"Heads up!" Adam was jerked out of his thoughts by a soccer ball traveling at great speed right towards his face. It hit him as he tried to duck, and the resulting sting was intense.

"Orale, Memo! Watch where you're kicking!" A young Asian woman approached him, wearing an apologetic smile.

"Sorry about that," she offered, flicking the ball up onto her foot and then into her hands. Adam tried to smile around the pain in the left side of his face.

"Yeah…Memo's got a shot," she commented, "Here, let me see." She reached up and turned Adam's face to the side so she could get a good look at his face.

"Dang, he really got you, too. You want to come over and get some ice for that? I think we've got some on the sidelines," she said, motioning back toward the field where she'd come from. Adam glanced over and saw a group of Hispanics and Asians playing soccer.

"Uh…sure…if it's not too much trouble,' he replied. His face really did hurt. The woman motioned for him to follow and he fell into step behind her.

"You're the hockey player, right? From Minnesota?" she asked as they walked. Adam nodded.

"That's cool. Edina, right?" she asked with a grin. Again, he nodded.

"Ahh, you cake-eater." For some reason, Adam felt a smile on his lips.

"Yeah, what's it to you?" he responded, drawing even with her.

"St. Louis Park, baby. All the way," she exclaimed.

"You went to Park?"

"Hell yeah."

"What year did you graduate?"

"'99. I remember watching you play for Eden Hall in high school. Damn, but Edina was ticked that you went there and not to the city high school." They reached the field and the woman grabbed a bag of ice from a cooler.

"Here." She reached up and put a small towel against his face, then pressed the ice against it.

"Just hold it there for awhile." Adam nodded.

"What's your name?" he asked, realizing she'd never told him.

"Oh, I'm Jade. Jade Hutchinson," she replied, holding out her hand. Adam shook it.

"Adam," he replied. He bet that she already knew his name. Jade smiled a greeting and Adam found himself noticing how at ease he felt around her, like he'd known her for years. In the silence that followed, she turned to the field, where the game was on at full speed.

"Afuera, afuera! Quitate tus ojos, Tomás!" she yelled. One of the guys on the field yelled something back and she laughed.

"Ya tengo…" Adam didn't catch the rest. He'd only taken a few years of Spanish, and it was obvious Jade had taken many. Turning back to him, Jade motioned for him to take the ice off.

"Let's see," she said. Her touch was gentle against his skin, and he found himself easing into it.

"It's not bad," she said, dropping her hand to her side, "But you'll probably have some bruising." Adam nodded, thanked her and headed for his dorm.

"See you," she called after him. He glanced over his shoulder and offered a faint smile. It was the first real smile he'd had in weeks.

It took about two seconds for his good mood to disappear when he got back to his dorm. Charlie was out with friends, he had hockey practice that evening, and worst of all, there was a message on the answering machine from his father. It was just another thinly veiled demand for perfection and precision. "You're a D1 player, now, and you have to play like it. Your game yesterday was mediocre at best, and I'm sure you know that. You—" Adam deleted the message in disgust. Of course his game was mediocre. After that check, he could barely hold a stick. He lay down on his bed, any sort of happiness dissipating at record speed. His wrist ached and throbbed continuously, as if reminding him how painful practice would be. His mind was running with self-deprecating thoughts, and he wanted to stop them, but how could he, when it was all true?