But it ate at me.
And, yeah, I was also thinking about Jake and his pretty blush. Enough that I actually fucking looked up Pink Lady apples last night just to make sure I hadn’t exaggerated the color in my head.
I didn’t.
Just so we’re clear.
I show up to the rink early, stupid early, like no-one-should-be-conscious-yet early, because my roommates weren’t home last night and the silence in the house was way too fucking loud. I barely slept because every time I closed my eyes, my brain decided it was the perfect moment to spiral.
And then there’s Sab.
She finally texted back last night with the most appeasing message imaginable.
Sabrina: It’s okay, baby. We’re good.
Which sounds reassuring. Itshouldbe reassuring. Except I don’t know if she actually meant it, because she didn’t want to come over. And I was kind of hoping she would, because our makeup sex has this magical ability to drag me out of whatever foul mood I’m drowning in. But she didn’t even give me a reason…just said she couldn’t come over.
The fucked-up part? I didn’t even hate that she couldn’t.
And I’m pretty sure that says a lot about my real feelings, but I’m so deep in denial right now that even thinking about unpacking that feels like too much goddamn work.
By the time Terry and Mack stumble into the locker room, looking hungover or maybe still a little drunk, I’m already dressed and ready to hit the ice. Yesterday my shots felt mechanical. My shifts were pure autopilot. No instinct, no fire.
I can’t let that happen again.
I don’t need to be thinking about clingy girlfriends or beautiful trainers or weird tension with teammates. I need to fucking focus.
Coach calls us over for warmups and I follow along like a good soldier, but by the time we hit the boards I’ve got this weird tension in my shoulders.
“Yo, Griff,” Mack says next to me, glancing over mid-stride, “you good?”
I give him the most neutral nod I can muster and murmur, “Yeah, just tired.”
Because if I actually said what was going on? That my brain is stuck in a loop about love and text etiquette and commitment, and also certain thoughts about Jacob that I absolutely do not need invading my head during practice?
Yeah.No.
Terry skates up behind me and claps a hand on my shoulder. “You look like someone put salt in your cereal this morning.”
I don’t laugh, but I want to. I just can’t muster up the energy when my head is so fucking full of bullshit and I can barely breathe.
Practice starts properly and I stick to the drills, timing my strides, listening to Coach bark, trying to focus on the rhythm of the game. And for a while, it works. Hockey is muscle memory. Hockey is instinct. Hockey doesn’t require introspection or at least, it didn’t used to.
But every time my shoulder twists, or someone bumps me from behind, my brain veers off course and pulls me back into that text thread, into that dismissive little “can’t hang out,” and into this weird, swirling haze of confusion about what I really want versus what I think I ought to want.
And as the whistle blows and practice rolls on, one thing becomes painfully clear:
I’m not just tired.
I’moff. And I don’t even know how to fix it.
Practice is one drill away from “mundane athletic monotony,” and I’m barely present when everything suddenly goes sideways.
We’re in the middle of a puck battle on the boards, our guys sliding and scraping and teeth-grinding over position, when the whistle blows and the guys break off to regroup.
That’s when it happens.
Hughie Rourke and Sam Connelly lock eyes just outside the crease, right in my goalie’s space, and I can tell immediately that something’s wrong. Hughie’s lips move first. I can’t hear the words from the blue line, but I know that posture, his chin is down, shoulders squared. Whatever he says lands hard, because Sam’s expression twists like he’s been slapped.
