I turn around to find Crew with a wet towel taut and poised for snapping, a warmhearted smile christening his lips. “Nice work today, Knox. You really showed up when it mattered most.”
I’m used to praise from Coach—or, well, I was—but praise from Crew is different. He’s my friend, and his opinion means something to me, believe it or not. It’s nice to know that I have control over at least one thing in my life right now. Coach can’t deny that I’m a crucial player on the team. He might bench me for my grades, but the consequences will speak for themselves.
“Thanks, Cap,” I say, pride pistoling through my veins and inundating me with one hell of a dopamine high.
“That Datsyuk Deke was insane. Even I couldn’t pull off something like that.”
I can feel my cheeks warm from the compliment, and I pray that the washed-out lighting doesn’t pick up my blush. “It was no big deal. Really.”
When I’m on the ice, I matter. My skills matter. I’m not a deadweight, you know? Hockey is the only place where I can truly be myself without trying to contort to fit someone’s unrealistic expectations. It’s my only escape from school, family, and the mounting dread that I’ll never amount to anything in my life.
Axel, the six-foot-four sentinel standing between me and peace, can’t go one day without pushing my buttons. “Guess you finally got that chick out of your head, huh?”
Thatchickhas a name. A name that I’ve tattooed on my hindbrain on the slim chance that we’ll ever be more than just acquaintances.
Embarrassment digs its incisors into the fleshy parts of my body, and I’m quick to regret taking a ninety-eight-degree shower. I feel like I’m going to pass out from the implication. I’m a writhing specimen under my teammate’s microscope—small, inconsequential, prone to a psycho analyzation that has the power to open my Pandora’s box full of secrets.
Something unnamable curls through my stomach, sponging up the appetite I worked up. Groundbreaking,considering I’ve just burned around one thousand calories. “Yeah,” I grit out through my teeth.
“I’ve never seen anyone turn downtheKnox Mulligan before,” Sutton exclaims, forgoing any modicum of modesty as he sheds his towel and lets everything hang out—pale-white cheeks included. Dude is built like a fucking linebacker, padded with so much muscle that you’d think he has a secret stash of steroids somewhere. Every season is bulking season for him. I’d probably get decapitated if I tried to bench press the same weights he does.
Trust me, I haven’t tried either.
“No wonder you have a thing for her,” Harlan volleys, fishing through his locker to procure an MU hoodie. “She’s the first girl who’s ever said no to you.”
“I don’t have a thing for her. I was just trying to help the romantically challenged,” I insist, the half-true revelation seeming to collapse my internal organs like the crumbling of a waterfront palisade.
My friends don’t know what the hell they’re talking about. I saw a poor soul in need, and like the valiant hero I am, I came to her rescue.
Foster snickers. “Oh, sure. You lookedreallyupset when she couldn’t flirt with Golden Boy.”
Fucking Foster.
I can usually handle some innocent teasing from my teammates, but even my anger can’t cauterize the Staten-shaped wound etched into my heart. I’m losing my mojo. First, I couldn’t even impress the girl who has zero game. Second, I’m acting like some sensitive baby whose good day relies on whether or not said girl pays him any attention.
“You did have this Terminator, total-world-destruction look in your eyes when they were talking,” Crew adds, though with a lot more compassion than his fellow hockey heathens.
My patchwork thoughts are an unraveled cassette tape, and I absentmindedly rub the heel of my palm into my sternum, right where inconvenient jealousy ferments in my ribs. Rinse and repeat. A disillusioned cycle that never ends.
My silence corroborates my unspoken acknowledgment as I stare at a sole-stained spot on the cold floor, wondering if, in fact, I’m only chasing after Staten because of some animalistic urge to hunt—to have what doesn’t belong to me. I don’t know if guilt is even a contender anymore.
Movement skirts around the edges of my peripheral, and one by one, my friends clap me on the back before exiting the locker room. I zoned out for so long that everyone got dressed except for me.
“Don’t worry, Knox. Your secret is safe with us. Scout’s honor,” Foster promises, holding up a three-fingered salute. “But be careful getting close to her. I know how quickly a crush can go south.”
I don’t dignify his comment with a response. Denial keeps me glued to the water-resistant concrete, and as the noise level of the locker room ebbs—followed by shrinking silhouettes—I robotically reach out to grab my folded stack of clothes sitting on one of the decrepit benches.
To my dismay, however, my fingers contact rough wood instead of soft cotton, and it only takes me a second to realize that my clothes have been snatched from right under my nose. An attempt to lighten my mood, or a declaration of war.
“Fuck,” I curse under my breath, tightening my towel before racing out of the locker room to try and catch those clothes-pilfering bandits.
Although, I don’t get very far because as soon as I step foot into the public sphere, I’m suddenly reminded of how very half-naked I am, and if that realization isn’t world-tilting enough, the sight of Staten beats in my goddamn solar plexus.
She’s got her back pressed against the opposite wall, which also means that she just got a front row view of me tumbling fawn-legged out of the locker room. A black-and-maroon sweatshirt dwarfs her body and the pair of gray sweatpants she’s wearing.
Has she been waiting for me?
“Shit, hey, hi,” I stammer, my hand flying to the hem that stands between me and flashing the one girl who wouldn’t touch my junk with a ten-foot pole. Am I sweaty? I feel sweaty. Fuck, I probably look sweaty too. This issonot how I imagined our reunion going.
