Sutton already blamed me for what happened in high school. Claimed that if we hadn’t gotten into a fight before her game—not like the bickering matches we get into now. A friendship-ending, relationship-altering fight—she wouldn’t have played distracted.
Almost two years later, wearing number twenty, she skated out onto the ice for her debut as a Lakeland Bear. I was in the stands with the rest of the men’s team and watched with a strange combination of wonderment and fear. I almost broke one of the plastic charms of my bracelet, white knuckled as she received a pass.
Maybe we could be friends again.
Maybe she’ll overcompensate, favor her right leg.
Maybe she’ll score. Show everyone the damn good player she is.
Maybe…maybe this is…
Sutton was hooked by a defenseman, then tripped. All the air in the arena went stale. My lungs were as dry as the Sahara. She stood up, and at first glance, appeared fine. Skated back to the bench. Seated, she took her helmet off, and that’s when I saw it. Sucking in air, tight jaw, and every other blink, there was horror in her eyes.
A week later, Elliot asked me to bring something by their dorm. I don’t remember what, the memory confiscated by Sutton opening the door, phone pressed to her ear. Hazel eyes rimmed in red, and the collar of her green striped shirt damp. She snatched whatever was in my hand, slamming the door closed. Through thick walls and thick doors, I heard her conversation with her sister. I knocked again. She didn’t answer. Slumping onto the floor, I sat there, devastated, as she told Meave her doctor suggested she stop playing.
I fell backward, Sutton almost trampling me when her door finally opened again.
Sutton groaned, staring down at me. “You didn’t need to wait around to gloat. Hockey’s yours.”
It never has been just mine. Never will be, but I don’t think she realizes that.
I fiddle with the plastic skate charm on the bracelet tucked underneath my long sleeve. Turning it over and over as I make my way back to the counter to order.
Five minutes till our scheduled meeting time, I second guess myself. I shouldn’t have ordered her a drink. What if she doesn’t drink chai tea anymore? What if she drinks black coffee or doesn’t do any caffeine at all?
I push up on the table and almost tip our drinks over. My hands grip the edge of the table to stabilize it. I can feel eyes on me, and when I turn around, several are staring at me—at my slightly panicked state. I force a weak, closed-mouth smile.
Get it together Carmichael.
Sutton likes sweet treats. Always has. Sutton has never been able to say no to candy at the movie theater or a milkshake from the drive-thru. But it has to be chocolate, she refuses anything else.
I scan the case of baked goods, because if she doesn’t want the coffee this will make up for it. Right?
My stomach growls.
Okay, sue me. I have a sweet tooth too. Girls aren’t the only ones who can do a hot walk to grab coffee and a sweet treat—that was Jaxon and I’s Friday afternoons over the summer and fall.
The blueberry scone is calling my name. I order one of those and a chocolate birthday cake donut. Now I’m the one awkwardly balancing an armful of items to our table, trying not to drop the goods.
“You’re early,” she greets, brows scrunched in surprise, fifteen minutes later.
I cough and drag my attention away from the cluster of blueberries on top of my scone to her. “Came straight here after practice.”
“Sorry I’m late.” She’s a minute late.
“You have nothing to apologize for. Honestly, if you didn’t show up, I wouldn’t have been surprised.” I let out a singular ha.
“I told you we’re doing this.” Sutton shrugs her canvas tote bag off her shoulder, letting it hang off the side of her chair. She doesn’t respond as she pulls out her laptop, a folder, and two pens.
“I’m sorry.” I nudge the thrifted mug toward her. “About the other day,” I clarify, but not entirely. The apology isn’t formissing our session, but for my panic attack. I didn’t mean to have one, or make her stay with me during it.
She held my hand, talking to me, brushing my hair and sweat away till it passed. Didn’t question, or judge, me when I admitted to hating the feeling even though I could tell she wanted to. Sutton helped me stand up and skate to the door for the locker room. Told me she’d wait till I showered and changed to drive me home.
“Please don’t apologize about that.” I open my mouth to speak, but Sutton shakes her head. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
I temporarily change the subject, stalling us from diving into the storm that is my head right now. “You still drink dirty chai lattes with oat milk, right?”
She takes it, gently. Her fingers curl around the handle. Bright purple nails with a metallic finish stand out against the faded pastels.
