I’m not a thrill. I’m a habit.
I collapse onto the couch, ice pack still pressed to my cheek.
My body aches in all the usual ways, but tonight it feels deeper, like the pain is soaking into my bones.
I close my eyes and let the darkness roll over me, pretend for a second that it’s all part of some plan.
I think about calling my dad, but I can’t imagine what I’d say. “Hey, pops, still sucking at hockey, but at least my orbital bone’s intact.” He’d probably laugh, then tell me a story about some kid from his history class who got caught cheating and how it’s “always about more than just the test.”
He’s right, but I don’t want to hear it tonight.
The TV is too far for me to reach the remote, so I just stare at the blank screen and my own reflection in the glass.
I look tired. Not just “played a game” tired, but soul tired. Like I’ve been running the same drill for years and still can’t make the cut.
Eventually, I drag myself to the bathroom.
The light in here is brutal, fluorescent and unflattering. I strip off my shirt, look at the angry red line across my face.
There’s already a bloom of purple under my eye. It’ll be black by morning, like someone stenciled a map of failure across my skull.
I look myself dead in the eyes.
I see the kid from Tacoma, the one who tried so fucking hard to be normal, to fit, to never give anyone a reason to look twice.
I see the man I am now, too stubborn to stay down, too scared to let anyone see the parts of me that aren’t hockey.
“I always get back up,” I whisper, testing the words. They sound hollow, but they’re true.
I smile, just a little. It hurts. But I like it. It’s a reminder.
That’s all I know how to do.
THE RIGHT THING
Ibuzz up, wait for the hydraulic sigh of the door, and climb the three flights to Nia’s apartment.
It’s always too hot in her building, radiators in overdrive, windows steamed with the collective breath of forty units stacked like mismatched shoeboxes, so by the time I get to 307, I’ve sweated through my undershirt and smell like a mashup of eucalyptus and male insecurity.
Nia opens the door before I knock.
She’s already in sweats and the UW volleyball hoodie I got her junior year, hair scraped back, face bare.
She leans against the jamb like she’s holding up the entire floor, and for a second I think she might just close the door again, let me marinate in the hallway with my own bad decisions.
But she steps aside, so I go in, and immediately it’s the same as always, the muted lamps, the carefully curated plants (all alive, which I have never managed in my own space), the incense bleeding something floral through the vents.
Her apartment is a case study in “elevated neutrals,” all sand and slate, but tonight it feels clinical, like a waiting room where the only thing on offer is time to reconsider.
She follows me in, closes the door, and clicks the lock with a practiced, passive-aggressive little snap.
“Hey,” I say, but it comes out flat, like I’m already prepping my own alibi.
Nia folds her arms, nods toward the couch. I sit at the edge, bag still on my shoulder, knees bent, ready to take the charge and bail if I have to.
“Practice run long?” she says, voice neutral, eyes locked on me. Her poker face is better than mine; she could teach a masterclass in emotional defense.
“Little bit,” I say, and drop the bag at my feet, like proof. “Coach’s new thing is circuit drills. Supposed to ‘build resilience.’”
