No one is there.
And when I wake up in the morning at the crack of dawn to get to the rink before anyone else, including Coach, no one is there then either.
Party invites, study sessions, even Coach’ssuggestionI help the freshmen “adjust.” Yeah, I turned all of it down.
Focus.
The only thing I do well.
I probably need more sleep.
The rink in the morning, classes all day, practice, lifting, dinner, stretching, homework. By the time I’m in bed to wind down, it’s nearly midnight, and I can’t just turn my brain off.
Last night—technically this fucking morning—I went to sleep at three.
I loosen my fingers and swipe my hands over my face, thinking about the facial massages Mom had me practice with her when I was little. Dad was always in the office and it was just me and Mom and the nanny, Rachel, most of the time. Mom was my best friend. Honestly, she probably still is.
Because who else is there? I don’t trust easily.
I drop my hands by my sides and step back under the water, the instant heat making me shiver. I rinse my hair, roll my neck, then reach for the towel hanging on the inside silver hook.
I scrub my hair, then wrap it around my body, out of the stream, but it’s only then I turn the water off.
Being cold is one of my least favorite things. Ironic for a boy from Sudbury.
I take a breath and reach up for the shower curtain, then snatch it back before I can psyche myself out of leaving the locker room. If anyone knew I had this apprehension, my facade would crumble.
A step out in my slides, then another, the contrast of air causing a chill to roll down my spine. But no one is here, and with the shower curtain out of the way, I can see the low lights by the washroom stalls and the row of sinks ahead.
Blowing out a breath, I shake my head, glad I can’t hear anything but the hum of the air circulating and drip of water behind me in the shower stall. Then there’s the rumble of the coolant for the rink, but it’s all white noise to me. Normal. My entire life for over a decade.
This time, though, it matters more than it ever did before.
I think of the unsigned contract and clench my teeth, forcing it out of my mind as I stride to the wood-paneled lockers, my own at the end of the U-shape. My jersey is with the rest of ours, but I pop open the bench seat and grab my bag with clean clothes.
I dress without looking over my shoulder, and when I’ve got on clean socks, gray sweats, a white T-shirt, and my Drayton Dragons red hoodie, I snatch up my backpack with my notebooks,The Fellowship of the Ring, my hockey tape, and my kit—deodorant I already used, a comb I didn’t, other shit I won’t need to walk back through campus alone. Then I drop my blacked-out Air Jordans on the floor. I don’t bother sitting down as I swing my backpack around my sore shoulders, push my feet into my shoes, then snatch up my towel to toss in the bin on the way out. I squat down and pick up my slides too to drop off in my personal locker.
Once that’s done, my wood-paneled locker locked up tight, I squeeze the towel in my fist.
Then I scrub it over my hair one more time—I’m sure it’s freezing out and this hoodie isn’t going to stop the wind.
Finally, I glance around the room. A strange in-between second home.
I try to ignore the voice in my head sayingsomeone else is here.
Because it’s still there.
But there isn’t anyone.
And who would hide this long?
If they had something to say to me, surely they’d fucking say it.
I pat my pants pocket, feel my phone, then stride out of the locker room, ditching the towel as I do.
And for a minute, everything is fine.
Half the lights are off, passing the showers and the stalls, I don’t notice anything unusual.
