That he gave up on me.
God, I’m so tired of the past ruling my life.
My lips quirk when I think about an offer discussed in our group chat a while back.
Christin:
Let me modify his contract. Just a little. He’ll never notice.
I snicker at Christin calling Brennan too stupid to live. Then I reply.
Me:
That’s what he has an agent for.
Maya:
You forget, we know his agent.
Maya:
Mark passed college by skimming.
Emery:
Both of them are too stupid to live. I vote yes.
Me:
I vote we don’t go to jail.
Chuckling at the memory, I’m jolted from my reverie when thousands of voices rise together in a near deafening roar. I desperately wish I’d thought to watch the game with my AirPods so it would dynamically adjust the TV volume even as I blindly slap the remote.
Tucking my legs beneath me on the couch, I tug my blanket up for comfort as much as warmth all while lying to myself—again—that seeing Brennan dominate my television is fine because it’s Kings’ hockey.
I can’t prevent the hitch of my breath when the puck drops in the face off circle closest to the Kings’ goalie. Then, everything speeds up so that the players look as though the ice itself carries them forward
Brennan’s line hops over the boards. Suddenly he’s everywhere—cutting through players, jaw set like nothing in the world could knock him off course. I’ve seen this version of him before. The one who moves like he owns the ice as if it’s an extension of his body.
The last time I saw it live was just a few days before my life imploded.
Clenching my teeth together to bury the memories, I follow the puck—which means watching him. My fingers curl into the fabric of the blanket as he drives hard around the boards, unaware—or maybe unwilling to acknowledge—the offensive player coming up on his blind side.
Knowing the room won’t betray me, I shout, “Look up, Bren!”
Whether it’s my call to the divine hockey gods or his self-awareness kicks in, Brennan does.
But it’s too late.
The hit connects before he can even think to react.
Even through the television, I know this one is different. It’s a brutal collision, a momentum that doesn’t end when bodies slam together. The sound rings through my television.
Brennan’s head snaps back. His helmet clips the glass before he goes down. It flies off skidding across the ice.
The puck skitters away, forgotten.
“Oh, this is bad. So bad.”
