“American Gothic but with hockey sticks,” Will contributes.
As my teammates continue to devise potential scenarios, my mind drifts back to the roller disco. To Jackson, trusting me during that dip. The way he looked at me in that bathroom stall, wrecked and perfect.
“Earth to Drew!” Gerard’s voice snaps me back. “Oliver asked you a question.”
“What?”
Oliver’s eyebrows lift slightly, his mouth quirking into that half-smile he gets when he’s figured something out and is deciding whether to be a shithead about it. “I asked if you had any suggestions for the performance.”
“I…” My brain scrambles for something, anything. “What about dancing? Like ballroom but more modern?”
“Boring,” Kyle pronounces.
“Safe,” Oliver counters, still studying me. “Which might be what we need if we want to raise money without getting shut down by the administration.”
“Where’s the fun in that?” Gerard demands. “I vote for nude body painting!”
“You vote for anything involving nudity,” Nathan points out.
“Because I’m comfortable with the human form!”
“Too comfortable,” Kyle mutters.
The bus slows as we near the Middlesex University arena, and I’ve never been more grateful for an away game in my life. Two hours of hockey is exactly what I need right now.
Something’s offwith the ice tonight. My skates don’t glide right, and it feels like I’m skating uphill while everyone else is moving normally.
We’re down 3-0 in the first period against Middlesex. Fucking Middlesex, whom we usually demolish while half-asleep and hungover.
“Larney!” Coach barks, his face purple, as I skate past the bench after another failed play. “What the hell was that?”
I want to tell him it was me trying not to think about Jackson’s face when he finds out about the next charity event. I want to explain that my brain keeps conjuring up images of him and me insensualpositions. But instead, I grunt and get back to center ice.
The puck drops, and everything goes to shit. Their center somehow strips the puck from Gerard, who hasn’t been pickpocketed since his sophomore year of high school.
“Gunnarson, move your ass!” Coach screams, but it’s too late. The kid’s already winding up for a shot that—PING!—bounces right off the crossbar and into the net.
I slam my stick against the ice.Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
Coach calls a timeout, and we trudge to the bench. “What the fuck is wrong with you imbeciles?” He’s not even trying to be diplomatic. “Did you all get lobotomies on the bus? Did someone slip LSD into the Gatorade again?”
“They’re playing really well,” Mason says.
“They’re playing like a mediocre high school team, and we’re playing as though we’ve never seen ice before!” Coach’s face has transcended purple and entered some new color that doesn’t exist in nature. “Drew, you’ve turned the puck over six times.Six.Gerard, you’re skating drunk. And don’t even get me started on the defense…”
I tune him out because I catch sight of the scoreboard. Not the score itself, but the shot counter. They’ve outshot us by a wide margin. We’ve barely taken any shots in fifteen minutes of play. That’s not bad. That’s historically terrible.
“…and another thing, why are you all playing like you’re afraid of contact? This is hockey, not ballet!”
The ref blows his whistle, ending Coach’s tirade. We skate back out, and I try to shake off the mental fog.Focus on thegame.Stop thinking about tomorrow, about whether Jackson will?—
WHAM.
I never see the hit coming. I’m stretching for the puck when my world goes sideways, and my helmet cracks against the ice, sending shockwaves through my skull.
The Middlesex player—number 42—grins down at me through his cage. “Thought you Barracudas were supposed to be good,” he chirps.
Normally, I’d have a comeback. Something about his mom or his tiny penis. But birds are tweeting over my head, and I’m seeing double.
