Adrian’s comment only adds to my anger. Is everyone else okay with this creep just being on our team? Do they not realize just how fucking depraved you have to be to record videos of your girlfriend without her knowledge and then post naked pictures of her online after cheating on her?!
I close my eyes and I strip out of my sweaty pads, hopping in the shower. I wrap my knee, dress, and leave without another word to anyone.
Will:Tell me something good
Kennedy:I just bought a dress for the hockey gala
I still haven’t left the rink, I’m sitting in the driver’s seat of my car, phone in hand, contemplating asking her to send me a picture of the dress but think better of it before I hit send. I’m thankful for my lack of idiocy because she sends another message:
Kennedy:I’ll try it on for you the next time you come over
Will:I can come over literally right now
Kennedy:Can’t. I’m with Miranda. She’s sleeping over at my place tonight. I’m free tomorrow.
Will:The bus leaves tomorrow for our away game Thursday
Kennedy:Then I’ll be waiting for you when you get back on Friday
I should not be hard right now in broad daylight but Kennedy Brooks has me under some kind of spell. Suddenly my ire from practice seems small and irrelevant, something I can push down and deal with later.
Just then, loud tapping on my window violently disrupts the vision I was having of Kennedy waiting on her bed already naked for me. I start, locking my phone on instinct, finding Liam standing next to my car, a smile on his face. I roll my window down. “What’s up?”
“‘Buncha guys are going to SixtyForty to watch the game. You want to come?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
A few hours later Adrian, Liam, and I are sitting in a booth drinking beers and watching the Lightning Vs. Panthers hockey game.
“You talk to Maurice recently?” Liam asks, shoveling nachos into his face. Stones drop into my stomach as soon as the words are out of his mouth; I’ve yet to tell anyone else other than Coach and Kennedy that I’m going to decline to sign the draft after I graduate.
“No, I haven't."
“This time next year that could be you on the ice,” Liam says. He nods his head at the TV before taking another sip of his beer.
“Nah, he’ll be warming the bench,” Adrian responds good naturedly.
I force out a weak, “Ha.” Then, pull out my phone, hoping they’ll drop it.
Adrian pats my back. Says, “We’re just fucking with you, Will. You won’t be warming the bench.”
“No, I know. I’m not offended,” I say. “I’m just…thinking.”
Liam responds with the affirmative. He and Adrian launch into an animated conversation about how this season is the end of an era and how we have to win the frozen four this year. After a few moments, their conversation fades out as I keep thinking about how to tell everyone I’m not going to the league next year.
Liam might never talk to me again. Liam would do anything to be drafted. I know he secretly hopes that he’ll get drafted at the end of the season, even though there’s almost no chance of that happening. Adrian too. They’d both told me independently of each other that they'd commit multiple felonies if it meant they had a chance to play in the league, and here I am about to throw it all away forphysical therapy school.
I’ve had this conversation with myself hundreds of times. I think it's why I still haven’t told anyone else about it. But after I messed up my knee skiing at Adrian's lakehouse, I knew my pro career was over. I knew the second it happened, too: Adrian twisted the boat, making the ski line crack like a whip, sending me off sideways. My kneecap was subluxed before I even hit the water. I started researching grad schools that night.
I can’t stand the thought of destroying my knee day after day. I’ve already needed surgery once, I’m pretty sure I need it again right now, and I don’t think ligaments can survive many more surgeries than that.
???
I’m rooming with Liam, no surprise. Coach always pairs me up with Liam or Adrian. Probably because the three ofus actually live together. I’m not mad about it, Liam’s a good roomie: we never fight about the AC or the shower.
He and I Ro-Sham-Bo sudden death for who gets the bed closest to the window. He wins, lucky bastard.
We both unpack with efficiency, changing into sweats and getting into the bed. I appreciate that he doesn’t say anything about the three hickeys I’m currently sporting along my right collar bone.
