Benched again.
“What’s going on with you?” Coach asked when I got to the bench. Not angry yet but getting there. “Your head’s not in this game.”
“Sorry, Coach. I’ll focus.”
“You better. Because this—” He gestured at the ice, at the scoreboard showing us down 1–3. “This isn’t like you.”
Isn’t like you.
Except it was like me now. This was who I’d become—the guy who couldn’t focus, couldn’t execute, couldn’t do the basic things I’d done my entire career.
I used to play on instinct, on feel, on reading the game as it developed. But I couldn't read anything right now except the memory of Marco’s face inches from mine during PT exercises, the moment I’d almost kissed him, the wanting that wouldn’t go away no matter how hard I tried to focus on hockey.
The GM was watching, probably taking notes on every mistake I made. And I was giving him plenty to write about.
Third period, I barely saw ice time. Coach had given up on me. Just a few shifts here and there when he had no other choice, and I fumbled every one of them. Turnover. Missed pass. Wrong position. The trifecta of incompetence.
We lost 2–4.
My worst game of the season. Maybe my worst game in years.
In the locker room after the game, the atmosphere was tense. Losing at home always sucked, but losing when one of your top forwards played like garbage was worse.
Boucher made some comment I didn’t quite catch about focus and commitment. I didn’t have the energy to care.
My phone had a text waiting.
Marco
Tough game. You okay?
I stared at it for a long time. The concern in those four words made my chest tight. Even now, even after what almost happened, he was worried about me. I typed and deleted three different responses before settling on:
Étienne
Yeah. Just off tonight.
His reply came immediately.
Marco
Want to talk about it?
No. God, no. I couldn’t talk about it. Couldn’t tell him I’d played like shit because I couldn’t stop thinking about almost kissing him. Couldn’t admit that I was so confused about what I felt I could barely function.
I should go home—to Marco’s house—and face whateverawkwardness was waiting there. Should deal with this like an adult. But the thought of being in that house with Marco right now, with this thing sitting between us unacknowledged…
Except I didn’t have a choice. Marco was my best friend—the most important person in my life. And the longer I stayed away, the more time he had to assume the worst. To think I’d run because I was disgusted, or uncomfortable, or couldn’t handle whatever had almost happened between us. I couldn’t let him spiral like that. Couldn’t let one weird moment destroy three years of friendship because I was too much of a coward to face it.
I sat in my Jeep in the arena parking lot for twenty minutes, trying to get my head together. Finally, I started the engine and drove home.
The house was dark except for the lamp by the couch. Marco was still awake, his tablet in his lap, but he set it aside when I came in. “Hey,” he said quietly.
“Hey.”
We looked at each other for a moment, the air between us charged, heavy with everything we weren’t saying.
“You need anything?” I asked, because focusing on logistics was easier than acknowledging what had happened. “Meds? Ice?”
