I hate the added pressure that comes with it. Maybe someone stronger would thrive in the added limelight. Maybe someone braver would use it to their advantage. Maybe someone steadier wouldn’t be burning out because of it.
I’m not someone.
But no one would know.
I wish Jaxon pausing the recording could pause the nagging in my head.
“Soooooo.” Our other roommate, Chase Jones, walks into the living room, clapping his hands together. “I know it’s my turn to drive, but I have zero gas.”
“You never have any gas,” Jaxon rebukes.
“There’s no point. I can walk to class, and if I need to go anywhere, usually one of you is going somewhere.”
“I’ll drive.” I snatch the remote dangling from Jaxon’s fingers and power off the TV.
It takes me thirty seconds to get off the couch, my body imprinted into the cushions from where I’ve been rotting all morning. I came in here after making a protein shake, planning to get ahead on semester reading or watching highlights from last night’s NHL games I fell asleep during. Instead, I ended up on my phone.
I think I finally understand why it’s called doom scrolling.
One forty-five-second clip and I’m mindlessly digging the TV remote out from between the cushions and pulling up the episode, fast forwarding to segments on our family.
Since the episode aired earlier during winter break, this has happened a handful of times. And I end up in the same spot, same head space.
Over the back of the couch is my sweatshirt. I tug it on, the aglet smacking me in the face as I hustle up the stairs, three at a time, to my room to grab my shoes and bag.
Downstairs, the front door is open. The frame filled with my roommates waiting for me to fish my keys off the kitchen table.
Walking over to them, I know I’m nowhere near ready to be out on the ice, already skating on a thin layer in my mind.
“Dawson.” Dawson Karlsson, teammate and the house chef, turns around. “Think fast.” I toss my keys at him, and he catches them, only fumbling once. Thank goodness he’s not our goalie.
“Are you not coming with us?” he asks, running a hand through his shaggy brick red-brown hair.
“I’m going to walk.”
“You good?”
Jaxon is throwing his and Chase’s bags in the trunk while Chase uses a snow brush to remove the dusting that accumulated this morning on my windshield.
“Shotgun!” Jaxon yells, but Dawson and I ignore him.
“Ten thousand steps a day resolution isn’t going to hit itself,” I joke.
Dawson eyes me wearily. Then nods. “If you’re late, I’m not doing extra down-and-backs because of you.”
The engine roars to life. As soon as they’re out of the driveway, I tug on a winter coat and a Lakeland beanie, the navy-blue bear logo stitched into the gray fabric, before starting my venture to the rink.
It’s not a far walk. Maybe twenty minutes. Practice is in an hour, so I have time, especially since campus is practically a ghost town. We’re technically still on winter break, and most students haven’t returned. Winter sports teams and studentsdoing J-term are the only people here. Even the juniors and seniors who are in off-campus housing are avoiding this central part of campus, now a winter wonderland.
I’m crossing the lawn when I spot a mess of red curls bouncing along a shoveled path.
I don’t know if I should be excited to see her. Probably not. At least I should pretend not to, but it’s the best part of my day.
Sutton Davis is heading my way for once, not purposely avoiding me or pivoting to take the long way to wherever her destination is.
That’s when I see her hazel eyes narrow on me. The late morning sun striking them just right, making the green overtake the browns and blues. They remind me of the perfect summer day out on the lake.
People wear their hearts on their sleeves. Sutton wears hers in her eyes.
