A couple of amused looks.
And then Lake says, “Let’s fucking go, guys, yeah?”
More nods.
Storm glances over his shoulder at me, eyes concerned.
“Focus, bud, yeah?” I say softly.
He’s young but I don’t miss the way my words hit him. Because I spent years feeling the same impact of Damon’s words—wanting something I can’t have.
Storm is a good kid.
But he’s a kid.
He’s too young for me, even if I was open to exploring something somehow even messier than the fire I’m playing with that’s Damon and me.
And there’s the power dynamic.
Messy between Damon and me.
A freaking kiss of death between me and a player.
But more than that…he’s a kid.
He has an innocence that means that even in an alternate reality, he wouldn’t be for me. He hasn’t approached the blurry line in morality, those shadows and darkness that cling to me. He’s a good kid from a good family who’s got a big heart.
Not for me.
Because he wouldn’t ever be able to comprehend everything inside me.
Unlike Damon.
Who’s seen the dark underbelly of life and crawled his way out.
Who’s now seenme.
Still stupid. Still messy. Still likely to blow up in my face.
But it’s also something I can’t let go of, not without seeing it through to the end.
“Yeah, Coach,” he says quietly, and I hate that his eyes are a little sad before he turns and points his gaze back out to the ice.
He’s young.
But he’s a professional.
And he doesn’t let that sadness—that I can’t give him what he needs—affect his game. He jumps over the boards when it’s his turn, skates hard on his shifts, and focuses on the team’s game plan.
And I’m a professional too.
I ignore the blatant unfairness—though, I’m happy to report that my outburst seems to have cut out some of the mostegregious calls. Things are still leaning heavily toward the other team, but we’ve dug out of worse holes before.
I sink back into cool and collected, work with Tommy and Dave and Kaitlyn, and by the time we go into second intermission, we’re only down one goal.
Thank God.
My speech between periods is short and to the point.
