Not sitting alone in this condo like a sullen teenager who broke the house rules.
Fucking bullshit.
I tip the bottle back and take a long, cold slug. The bitter liquid doesn’t help my mood, so I set the drink on the table and rip open the bag of chips. I typically stick to a high-protein diet, but what the hell. Right now I’m practically a layman, not a pro athlete.
I shovel a handful into my mouth and chew, barely tasting anything. Swallowing mindlessly, I stare at the screen as Callum makes a block. The second period’s over. Score’s 2-0, us. Well, the Crushers.
My personal score is two beers and one bag of chips.
Fuck my life.
During the commercial break I scroll through my phone. Social media’s full of painful reminders of what I’m not doing right now – the media photos, messages from friends about the game, a few dirty DMs from women looking to hook up after the game.
Dammit.
This fucking sucks.
Slightly buzzed, I rip off my shirt and drop to the ground. Palms flat beneath my shoulders, I bang out fifty pushups. My stomach swirls from the exertion combined with the beer, but I don’t care. At least the adrenaline’s pumping again.
I pump out another fifty, peering at the game out of the corner of my eye. Callum makes two more saves, then Morrison skates down the line and slaps the puck into the goal. 3-0, Crushers.
The team didn’t even need me tonight.
The realization hits me like a fucking Mack truck, my chest squeezing hard. Lips pressed in a tight line, I rip another fifty pushups, then flip onto my back and do one hundred sit-ups. Russian twists, crunches, bicycles until I’m breathing hard and sweat’s dripping into my eyes.
The game’s over. Crushers win, 3-0.
Weston chest bumps Callum, wide grins lighting up their faces. The crowd cheers and lights flash blue and white.
Inside, I’m numb.
I should be there tonight. Suited up, out on the ice, celebrating with my team.
Instead, I’m in this fucking condo. Alone. One minute I’m angry, the next I’m lonely. Then I’m empty, a hollow feeling deep inside my chest.
God, this is fucking depressing.
And I’m not journaling that either. I don’t need Dr. Sparks picking me apart, analyzing my damn mood swings.
I collapse back on the floor and glower up at the ceiling, the white swirls blurring together the longer I stare. Adull heaviness sits on my chest, the wood floor biting into my hips.
Good. Bring on the pain.
At least I know I’m not dead.
Buzz, buzz.
The sound breaks my trance and I sit up, reaching for my phone. It’s ten pm. I missed check-in and I don’t even give a shit.
Sunshine: You okay?
She doesn’t bother asking if I’m home. I’m sure she tracked my location. Plus, Bishop or Knox would have ratted me out anyway.
Bennett: Sure
Elbows on my knees, I stare out the window into the black night. No moonlight shining, just darkness.
Sunshine: You didn’t check-in
