She’s just like me, and I’ve never…I’ve never met anyone who craves acceptance like I do. This isn’t some guilty attraction because she almost popped my tire, and I almost popped her skull. We both deal with self-doubt when it comes to not being good enough. That means something. Sheunderstandsme.
I’m knocked off my game when my own teammates pass me and charge for the opposition. If we can somehow trap the disc before the Sabertooths reach the goal, their chances of scoring decrease by a respectable percentage.
Sutton takes out a few players like bowling pins, crushing them against the plexiglass and fanning the flames of the hysterical mob that yearns for bloodshed. There’s cursing, indistinguishable yelling, and hundreds of eyes analyzing our every move.
I need to speed up. I need to stay focused. A single glance at the clock—twelve minutes and counting. A single glance that costs me beneficial distance. Axel is only a few feet away from me, shadowing a finnicky Sabertooth as a wisp of worry pours over his face. Crew is holding up the rear on the other side.
And when number thirty-seven hurtles headfirst toward our net, he evades Harlan’s forecheck and pulls a one-timer, sinking the puck with a full-body twist. Foster is merecentimetersaway from diverting the shot, but its velocity trumps his versatility. I don’t need to look at the scoreboard to confirm our failure—the furious booing of our school’s horde does that for me. The buzzer that blares into the all-seeing night is just the nail in the fucking coffin.
A growl localizes in my throat, and my grip on my stick tightens at the sight of our competition hooting and hollering in a half circle. We have plenty of time to get ahead of them, but if I keep playing like ass, the score will be too close for comfort. I crack my jaw as if righting the sting from a deserved uppercut.
It’s like you’re not even trying, Knox. What would your father think? You could’ve cut him off; you could’ve capitalized on their scattered defense and fronted a breakout. The Mustangs are on a winning streak right now. Don’t be the reason to tank their reputation.
Defeated, the Mustangs straggle on the ice before assuming their positions for the next face-off, disappointment building inthe stands like a tempest with no silver lining. There’s a metaphorical darkness that falls over the rink, and I force myself to break free from the self-doubt lassoed around my ankles, one swell move from dragging me into the fiery depths of internal loathing.
The game doesn’t stop. Not for a second. And suddenly, I find myself at center ice, squaring off with a lithe player that lacks brawn but makes up for it in pure rage. There’s something feral about the way he shakes—something wicked about the curl of his mouth.
With a centering breath, I ready my stick, waiting for the referee to blow his whistle as adrenaline blots out the critical voice in my head and the surround sound of avid sports goers.
As soon as that rubber beauty drops between us, I exploit my size to barge into his personal space and snatch the puck, hurling it a far distance behind me to my teammates. I don’t even have the chance to pat myself on the back as the game rushes into motion, forcing me to beetle over to the opposition’s side. The disc bounces between Mustangs before somehow landing in front of me, and Crew’s screaming at me to dodge an incoming attack from some cracked-out speed demon.
When my rival makes a swipe at me, I split sideways, skating like I’m running out of time, straining my muscles to the point where I’m going to feel it tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. It’ll be a miracle if I don’t waste all my energy before the second period.
Everything is disjointed in a fishbowl around me, and when I do eventually lock in, I’m only a few feet away from the Sabertooths’ goal line. A familiar choreography. A goal I could make with my eyes closed.
But the funny thing about life is that even when you’ve reached the mountain’s peak—staring at a golden horizon only viewable from an insurmountable altitude—there’s alwayssomething trying to dismantle everything you’ve worked so hard for. And that something?
Leif fucking Kennedy.
Some invisible force compels me to look up, and when I do, I spot Staten talking in close proximity to the only man I’ve ever been jealous of. I don’t know what they’re saying. I didn’t even know he’d be here tonight.
My heart doesn’t have the chance to crack before I’m up close and personal with the boards, my whole world listing sideways as I fall into oblivion.
STATEN
Fifteen minutes earlier.
I think I’ve lost my mind, or my brain has been hijacked by some extraterrestrial parasite—it’s the only explanation. Why else would I be wasting my Friday night at a hockey game, surrounded by tipsy college students and ostentatious fanfare that’s an insult to school spirit everywhere?
Hockey buzzards (I’ve dubbed them) screech about every penalty the referee makes, acting personally victimized by each play gone wrong. Narcissistic attention-seekers who swear that they could do a better job than the goddamn professionals.
As much as hockeydoesn’tfloat my boat, I’d rather be here than slow cooking in a cramped auditorium that stinks of body odor and ripe wieners.
I can’t stop thinking about the whole fake dating fiasco that went down in the library. That’s the reason I’m here tonight—to talk to Knox after the game. He’s in breach of literally every single rule of our nonexistent contract. If I wasn’t so hurt by Leif’s pathetic attempt at a “friendly” outing, I would’ve turned down Knox’s ludicrous display of affection.
I know the situation is a little more nuanced, but technically,I never saidoutrightthat Knox and I were dating. Does that make it less true? Ugh, probably not. I can’t believe this is my life right now. I wasn’t prepared to handle this nationwide risk of a catastrophe. I have an A in English,nottheater.
Needless to say, things between Leif and I have been…strained. Distant. Quiet. Our friendship has never been any of those things before. I don’t know what he’s thinking, and I know that reaching out to him will probably just make things worse. I feel like I’ve lost my best friend. And I guess in some sick, twisted way, I have.
Hassie—one of the first friends I made in my freshman Biology class—excuses herself as she inches down the length of our row, a motley assortment of candy in one hand and a gigantic slushie in the other. She double-fists both like they’re her only saving graces, finally plopping down in her unofficial seat after navigating an inconvenient undergrowth of limbs.
“Sorry that took me so long. The line was insane,” she says, setting her drink down and lodging a packet of Skittles between her teeth so she can sweep her dirty-blonde hair into a messy ponytail.
I huddle further into my sweatshirt, silently cursing the person responsible for keeping this walk-in freezer below fifty degrees. At least there isn’t a gale of wind terrorizing me. “You’re good. The game hasn’t even started yet.”
Ponytail secured, she plunks the colorful bag into her lap. “I’m also sorry I couldn’t make it to Dusky’s when you invited me. I had to study for my Anthropology exam.”
Hassie is a part of Leif’s and my friend group. In total, there’s three of us. I introduced her to Leif after she and I spent Biology class bonding over how convoluted the curriculum was. We all got along super well from the beginning.
