“You’re improving,” he states. “Your strength’s coming back.”
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Slowly.”
Everything’s been so goddamn slow lately. My healing, earning Ellie’s trust, my team.
The one thing that hasn’t been slow, though, is how much I want Ellie. It’s like having an itch I can’t scratch.
See, wanting her isn’t the problem. The problem is wanting her and knowing I don’t get to touch her.
That pain is worse than any pain I’ve felt in this room, and the worst part is, it’s all my fault.
Later that day, I’m in the locker room with the Wolves.
It’s loud and chaotic, and the energy is palpable. They’re pumped for tonight’s game, and honestly, I am too. They’ve been practicing their asses off and I’m actually a little proud of them. Ridgewood Academy is good. They have some skilled players, and their coach is a hardass. I can also be a hardass, but not as bad as Sean Morone. I’m not completely sure what the outcome will be, but I’ll be proud either way.
I do hope they win though, because I have to break the news to them that they’re going to be dancing in front of quite a big audience in a few weeks. Can’t wait to see how that goes. But for now, we need to focus on the game.
After my pep talk, the boys are fired up and ready to go. The arena is loud when the guys take the ice. There’s cheers and screaming, the sound of hands banging on the glass. Ridgewood’s guys enter the ice, and the stands erupt with boos. I miss this. This feeling of adrenaline pumping through my veins. The rush of heat before a game.
Scanning the stands, I try to find the one person I want to see, but she’s nowhere to found. Not that she has a reason to be, we’re not together.
Skates carve into ice, sticks clack together, and I take my spot behind the bench. It’s definitely odd being behind the bench instead of on it. I don’t know if I’ll ever get used to this, but with any luck, I won’t have to. I cross my arms over my chest and watch as the guy’s skate back and forth, hitting pucks at the goal and stretching. Warmups are always chaotic. We chirp at each other, make snide comments about sleeping with someone’s mom or girlfriend to getthem riled up. It’s the best part of the game, aside from winning of course.
The time starts on the clock and they start off strong. For the first ten minutes, they hold their own. They’ve got smart passes, our defense is tight, and Levi Petrolla, our mammoth of a goalie is guarding that net with his life. It’s a promising start, and although I should be completely focused on the game in front of me, I can’t help but check the stands every few minutes in case Ellie miraculously decides to show up.
Get your head in the game, Jamie.
Shaking my head, I refocus on what’s happening on the ice, barking orders and definitely some words that should probably not be said at a college game.
I watch as one of Ridgewood’s forwards comes barreling down the ice with the puck. Jacob Rostolvic gets in front of him, effectively stealing the puck and heading in the other direction. Ridgewood’s players are tough. They’re aggressive and they don’t hold back. It’s like they can sense fear, and right now, my guys are acting scared. Their pulling back on shots, not getting close enough to the goal, and making stupid mistakes.
The first goal comes from Ridgewood after Logan Bergström loses the puck in the neutral zone. One second he had possession, and the next, the puck was in the back of our fucking net.
I take a deep breath through my nose as I try not to react. I watch Levi as he slams his stick against the ice in frustration.
If I had a stick, I’d be doing the same thing. These guys are not giving it their all. I don’t care if it’s practice, I don’t care if it’s a beer league game. You show up and you give it one hundred and ten percent of everything you’ve got. You prove to yourself and to others that you are meant to play hockey. You’re meant to be there.Ridgewood seems to have gotten that memo.
“Move,” I snap as Paul, one of my wingers, hesitates to steal the puck. “Jesus, Novak, move your god damn feet.”
That makes him move faster. He races toward Ridgewood’s net while their goalie is distracted and dumps the puck deep inside. Fucking finally!
The score is finally one to one, and by the looks of it, Ridgewood is not playing around. They came to win, and that’s what they’re going to try to do.
When the end of the second period comes around, I feel like I’m about to have a coronary. My heart is racing and I’m sweating. I wasn’t even on the damn ice but with the way I’ve been shouting and pacing back and forth, it’s no surprise that I’m dying of a heat stroke.
“Gap! Close the gap!” I bark for what seems like the thirtieth time today.
But it’s too late.
The shot rings off the crossbar, the sound sharp enough to rattle teeth. I lean over and take calming breaths, as if that’s going to help me right now.
“You okay, coach?” one of the Wolves asks, looking a bit concerned. Is he shitting me right now? With the way this team has been playing, how could I possibly be okay?
“Shut up and turn around.” He does. I know, that was an asshole move, but I’m so riled up right now. I can’t tell if it’s because they’re playing so poorly, or if it’s because I wish it were me out there on the ice.
By the third period, the game is already lost. I turn my back on the ice and drag a hand over my face.
“Unreal,” I mutter.
