It was currently weighing down the front pocket of my hoodie.I kept reaching for it, running my thumb over the edge, terrified to let go of the only piece of him I had left.
I’m not your constant anymore.
My phone buzzed on the mattress.
Dad:Gulliver sent the contract revisions.I’m at the hotel.Come by after practice.
I let the screen go dark.Pushing myself off the bed, I stepped over a pile of laundry I hadn’t bothered to sort just sitting in the middle of the floor.The room smelled wrong.The scent of Austen and his peppermint tea was gone.Instead, the room smelled like a locker room that had been cleaned out after a loss.
I grabbed my gear bag.Practice in twenty minutes.
I walked out, leaving the door unlocked.I didn’t care who got in.There was nothing left to steal.
Practice was a disaster from the first whistle.
My legs were heavy, like I was skating in mud.My reaction time was off by milliseconds—an eternity in the crease.
Morales came down the wing, winding up for a slap shot.I saw it coming.I knew the angle.But when I tried to drop into the butterfly, my left knee caught an edge.I stumbled.The puck sailed over my shoulder, hitting the water bottle on top of the net with a hollowping.
“Wake up, Carter!”Ryan yelled from the point.Half-joking, half-serious.
I fished the puck out of the net.“Bad edge,” I muttered.
Next drill: Three-on-two rush.
The freshmen forwards were buzzing.Fast, hungry, and they could smell blood.They knew I was off.
A rookie named Miller carried the puck across the blue line.He telegraphed a pass to the slot.I cheated left, anticipating the one-timer.
Miller didn’t pass.He snapped a wrist shot short-side.
I wasn’t even close.The puck hit the back of the net before I’d fully squared up.
“That’s two!”Coach Harper barked from center ice.“Move your feet, Carter!”
I slammed my stick against the post.The vibration rattled up my arms, a dull ache that settled in my bad shoulder.
Focus.
But I couldn’t focus.All I could see was Austen’s back as he walked out the door.All I could hear was my dad’s voice sayinga friend.
Third drill: Screen shots.
Ryan parked himself in front of me, his big frame blocking my view.The defenseman wound up at the point.
I tried to look around Ryan.I tried to find the release point.
Thwack.
The puck hit my chest protector, but I didn’t squeeze it.It dropped to the ice—a juicy rebound sitting right in the paint.
Ryan spun around and tapped it in.Easy.
“Rebound control!”Harper shouted.“Where is your head, Carter?”
My head was in a hotel room with a contract I didn’t want to sign.My head was in an empty dorm room where my life had imploded.
The fourth goal was the worst.
