A dopey grin forms on my face as the arena lights turn into a fantastical kaleidoscope of colors. My eyes turn inwards to stare at my nose, and I slur the word, “fuckkkkk”like I’ve been on a bender for the past ten days.
The gameonly gets worse from there.
Mason takes a five-minute major for boarding when he demolishes a guy who was nowhere near the puck. He’s not a dirty player—he just completely misjudged the distance and sent the guy flying. As he skates to the box, he’s on the verge of tears.
Nathan attempts a zone entry and somehow trips over his own skates, sliding into their goalie and earning us a penalty for goaltender interference.
“I didn’t mean to!” he shrieks as the ref escorts him to the box. “My skate hit a rut!”
There are no ruts. This is pristine ice. We all know it.
We’re down 7-0, and I’ve taken two penalties. One for hooking, and one for unsportsmanlike conduct when I told the ref his mother should’ve swallowed. I’m sitting in the box, watching my team get demolished, when it hits me.
This ismyfault.
Not directly, obviously. I didn’t make Mason forget how to judge distance or cause Nathan to discover new ways to fall. But the energy, the focus, the chemistry we usually have?I’mfucking it up. My teammates can sense something’s off with me, and it’s spreading like a virus.
“Larney!” Coach hollers. My penalty’s over.
I hop back on the ice in time to see Oliver take a hit to the ankle. He goes down hard, mouthing every curse word known to man. Coach Donovan is going to murder us all. Slowly. Possibly with our own hockey sticks.
The second period ends 8-1. Our only goal was a lucky bounce off Gerard’s ass as he was trying to get out of the way, which brought some brief levity to our complete humiliation.
“I’m benching half of you,” Coach announces in the locker room. “Freshmen, you’re up. At least if you embarrass us, you have the excuse of being new.”
A few minutes later, Coach taps me on the shoulder. “Coach,” I say.
“You want to tell me what the hell is going on?”
“I’m having an off night,” I mumble.
“Bullshit. Is this about the charity event?”
My head snaps up. “What? No. Why would it be about that?”
Coach’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline, and his mouth twists into that particular grimace he saves for when he knows someone’s feeding him a line of complete bullshit. “Because you got weird the second I mentioned it. And you’ve been playing like your brain is somewhere else entirely.”
“I’m fine.”
“Figure out whatever’s going on in your head before it costs us the game.”
The final score is 10-2.Systematically, the worst loss in my entire time at BSU. The bus ride back to the hotel is silent except for Gerard occasionally whimpering.
My phone buzzes.
Jackson
Saw the score. And the hit. You okay?
I stare at the text for a full minute before responding.
Me
Rough night. You free later?
Jackson
Always. FaceTime?
