UCLA scores again off a turnover that isn't entirely my fault but isn't not my fault either. We push back, create chances, but nothing falls. Theo plays like a man possessed. He’s hittingeverything that moves, taking shots from impossible angles, and willing the puck into the net through sheer force.
But it's not enough.
Final score: UCLA 3, UW 2.
The locker room after the game is silent.
Not the contemplative kind of silence. The furious kind. The kind where everyone's too pissed to speak because anything they say will make it worse.
Coach is red-faced, veins bulging in his neck, as he tears into our defensive coverage, lack of discipline, and inability to finish.
I sit on the bench and stare at the floor, my gear still on, sweat dripping down my face.
Theo is across the room. He pulls off his gloves, his helmet, his pads. Then he throws one glove hard into his locker. The sound echoes. But he doesn't explode. Doesn't yell or punch anything or lose control.
When he walks past me on his way to the showers, he stops and leans down just enough that only I can hear him.
"You're distracted."
I don't respond.
Because he's right.
The bus ride back is worse than the ride there.
Guys sleep or pretend to sleep. Nobody talks. Coach sits at the front with his headphones on, reviewing game footage and probably planning Monday's practice from hell.
I stare out the window and try to figure out how everything went so wrong so fast.
My phone buzzes around midnight.
Adela: I'm sorry about the game.
I stare at the message, my chest tightening.
She watched. Saw Theo dominating. Saw me hesitating. Saw us lose.
Can’t win every time, I type back.
Three dots appear immediately.
Come over when you're back?
I should say no because it’ll be too late. I should go home and ice my ribs and sleep off the adrenaline and frustration still coursing through my veins.
But I don't.
Yeah.
It's almost two in the morning when I pull up outside her building.
The campus is dead quiet, just a few scattered lights in dorm windows where people are still awake. I text her that I'm here, and she buzzes me in immediately.
When she opens the door, she's wearing sweatpants and a tank top, her hair pulled back in a messy bun. No makeup. Just her.
"Hey," she says softly.
"Hey."
