A cheer in the stands behind me reminds me of where I am.Focus. We’re facing Western Michigan today and they won the Frozen four national championship last year. They’re a formidable team to face for the first game of the season.
The whistle blows and Bramwood takes possession, but that’s about the only good thing that happens for the rest of the period, ending with 0-1 to Western Michigan.
By the end of the second period we’ve managed to tie the game, but we're sloppy and slow and to top it off, my knee aches. It’s tapped up, but feels unstable. I’ve been unable to breakaway once, Liam’s pass turned into a takeaway, and Carter’s scored the only goal for Bramwood.
I’ve pretty much always hated Carter, but tonight, I feel disgusted by him even more than usual. I glare at the side of his ugly face, hating the fact that he's the reason Kennedy hasn’t been to a game in a year. I can almost guarantee that I’d be playing differently if she was in the stands cheering for me.First she’d have to like you again.
I need to apologize, I know I do. I was hoping that we could just pretend it didn’t happen, but she’s clearly upset with me.
After the end of the second period, I try to visualize myself on the ice, breaking away and shooting a goal. I can almost hear the cheering and feel the clapping on my back. But in this version of the game, my knee doesn’t hurt and isn’t making me slow and weak. In this version, I score a goal and turn my head to see Kennedy in the stands, jumping up and down, cheering for me, my name on her jersey, my number that she’s wearing.
All visualizing did was make me feel worse, making that low place in my stomach pull tight. I know I’m distracted, I literally have not been able to think about anything besides Kennedy for weeks and it's a problem. I give a little shake of my head, trying to prompt myself into thinking about anything other than Kennedy or Kennedy related. I need to think about the game and primarily the way that I’ve been playing like shit.
Third period isn’t off to a better start than period one or two when Adrian lets the puck slip by, allowing Western Michigan to score a second goal.
I know it's coming before Coach takes me off the ice. And not for rotation, as in done for the rest of the game. “Taylor, you’re out. Howard’s in.”
I skate off the ice, taping my stick against Howard’s. “You got this, Howzy.” I unbuckle my helmet and take a seat next to Liam on the bench. Coach doesn’t need to say anything for me to know that I’ve been playing like shit. I can feel it.Ifeel like shit.
There’s a heaviness starting to gather in the center of my chest as I watch the clock from the bench, knowing we’re going to lose. Knowing that Kennedy isn’t in the stands or waiting for me after the game. Knowing that this is the last time I’ll play a hockey season with this team. With any team.
Now that I’m not playing, the adrenaline induced numbness throughout my knee is waning–I’m not sure I’ll be able to walk out of the locker rooms without limping.
The rest of the night goes by in a haze. We lose: 1-3.
In the locker room, there is no celebrating, no plans for an after party or meet up at SixtyForty. Instead, we shower in stiff silence, walk out with our heads down, and plan for the fact that practice tomorrow will be miserable.
I walk out with Liam and Adrian and spot my parents waiting for me in the parking lot next to my car. Great. The last people I want to see right now are my parents and sister. There’s actually only one person that I want to see and she is currently mad at me.
It’s difficult, but I put all my energy into making myself walk as normal as possible on the way to my car. I do not want to hear a lecture from my dad about my draft to the Panthers and what that means for my body. I haven’t told him or my momabout reinjuring my knee and right now after a brutal loss is not the time to have that discussion.
Holding open her arms, my mom rushes to me, “Tough game tonight, honey,” she says, hugging my middle. “You looked great out there." I snort. I appreciate the sentiment of her lying to make me feel better, but the fake flattery only makes me feel worse. I pop open the trunk of my car and toss in my gear, wincing a little as sharp pain shoots through my knee and up my thigh.
“I’m assuming you don’t want to come out to dinner with us?” Miranda says behind me.
“No,” I close the trunk of my car and step toward my dad. “Hey, dad,” I give him a brief hug, and then face the group, “I appreciate you coming, but I want to go home and go to bed. I won’t be enjoyable to be around tonight.”
My mom frowns, just slightly, before giving me another hug, “We figured you wouldn’t want to. We’ll get you some food to go, okay?”
My mom always has a way of making me feel like the worst person alive. She doesn’t even mean to do it, she’s just so fucking nice and thoughtful. I’m a horrible and ungrateful son for wanting to ditch them and feel miserable alone. I know they live close, only about an hour away, so making the trek out here to watch a game isn't as big of a deal as flying across the country, but there are guys on the team whose families have never come to a single game, and probably never will.
I let out a sigh, “I’ll go, but I’m not joking, I need to be in bed soon.”
My dad eyes me from head to toe and I correct my posture, putting weight back onto my left leg, hoping he doesn't say anything. After a few minutes of discussion, we decide on pizza. I trail behind my parents with Miranda in my car in the passenger seat.
Miranda plays music and doesn’t talk to me. Call it twin telepathy or just pure instinct, but I appreciate that Miranda knows when to and when not to talk to me.
By the time I’ve finished eating, said my goodbyes, and made it back to my car, my body hurts. Specifically, my knee.
I’m slow moving from the car up to my apartment, taking the stairs one at a time with my right leg only. Inside, I throw myself onto my bed and pull out my phone. I reread my messages with Kennedy and feel like someone’s punched me in the chest. In my mind, if Kennedy showed up to my game then everything would be cool between us again.
But she didn’t show up and I played like shit and my knee is fucked and Carter scored the only goal, that motherfucking dick head. It's bad enough that I played so poorly, but for the only goal to be scored by him instead of me makes me irate. Of course, Carter’s knee is fine and uninjured and he’s not going to deny the draft.
I roll onto my back and shove a pillow under the crook of my leg, attempting to place my leg in a more comfortable position.
I spend several hours scrolling on my phone, trying not to feel so pathetic and bent out of shape over Kennedy before I click on the dating app I have a profile on.
I haven’t had sex in eight months and the more I think about it, that’s probably why I’m so hung up on her. My uncanny dry spell is contributing to the overwhelming jealousy I felt last night. I need to break my dry spell, apologize for being an ass, in that order, and then Kenny and I can go back to hanging out all the time and it won’t bother me if she does or does not go on a date with that guy.
