Wall stares at me through his mask. "You lost, buddy?"
"Nope. Totally meant to do that."
I pivot too fast and my skate catches an edge. I don't fall, but it's a near thing. My arms windmill like I'm trying to achieve flight, and I somehow manage to stay upright through sheer force of not wanting to be roasted alive.
Too late.
"Did Ace just forget how to skate?" Becker's voice carries across the entire rink.
"Maybe he hit his head," Groover suggests.
"When? Just now? Or like, as a child?"
Coach blows the whistle. "Water break! Ace, you're doing extra laps."
Fantastic. Just what I need.
I skate to the bench, grab my water bottle, and try to drown myself with it. But it doesn't work. I'm still alive and still thinking about Devon.
The one I kissed.
The one who sent me a picture of his torso.
The one I jerked off to while imagining his face.
Yeah, it’s kind of complicated.
This is a special circle of hell designed just for me.
"Dude." Wall skates up, pulling off his mask. "You okay? You're like... really off today."
"I'mfine."
"You just tried to score on your own goal."
"That was—I was testing you. Seeing if you were paying attention."
He stares at me. "That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard, and I room with Becker."
"Hey!" Becker skates over. "I'm right here."
"I know. That's why I said it."
Practice continues, and I continue to suck at hockey, which is problematic considering hockey is my job and I never came up with plan B.
I miss passes I could make in my sleep. I'm offside twice in five minutes. At one point, I accidentally trip Jinx, who goes down hard and immediately taps his helmet three times and his stick twice before getting up.
Coach finally takes mercy on me (or maybe he just can't watch anymore) and benches me for the last twenty minutes of practice.
I sit there, supposedly watching the drills, but actually having a mental breakdown.
How is this my life now?
A week ago, I was a normal, straight hockey player with a simple life. Now I'm having a sexuality crisis because of a compact-sized bartender who's somehow invaded every corner of my brain, and also—also—whom I've been accidentally sexting online.
Petrov scores a beautiful goal, and everyone cheers. I clap along, trying to look like I didn’t miss it despite of staring right at it.
Finally, the practice ends.
