First period, I fumbled a pass in the neutral zone that led to a turnover. Winnipeg scored thirty seconds later.
Second period, I lost my man on a defensive zone faceoff. He scored. My fault. Again.
I couldn’t find my timing, read the plays, or do anything right. Every shift felt like moving through mud. My instincts—the thing I’d always relied on—had completely abandoned me.
Coach benched me for most of the third period. Just a handful of shifts when he had no other choice.
We lost 4–1.
In the locker room, no one said anything to me. Guys stripped out of their gear in silence, avoiding eye contact. The disappointment was thick enough to choke on.
Coach didn’t pull me aside. Didn’t need to. We both knew.
Kinnunen paused on his way to the showers. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
He didn’t believe me. I could see it in his face. But he didn’t push. Just nodded and walked away.
I’d thought figuring out I was bisexual would help. Thought telling Marco, having him say it back, would make everything clearer.
Instead, I was playing worse than ever.
Back at the hotel, I collapsed onto the bed and stared at the ceiling.
My phone lit up with a message from Marco.
Marco
You okay?
I stared at the text. He’d watched the game. Seen me fall apart. Knew exactly how badly I’d played.
Étienne
No.
Three dots appeared, disappeared, appeared again.
Marco
We’ll figure it out. You’ll be home tomorrow.
Étienne
What if I can’t figure it out? What if this is just who I am now?
Marco
It’s not. You’re just in your head. Once you stop overthinking it?—
Étienne
I can’t stop overthinking it. That’s the problem.
A long pause. Then:
Étienne
