Crack.
I keep finding new ways to be surprised by it.
Crack.
When she knows the real me, she won’t stay.
Crack.
The shoulder grabs. Hard. Each shot pulls something I am not supposed to be pulling. I keep shooting. The pain is the onlything in my chest that is not the smudge or the dent in the pillow or the white knuckles of her hand on my door frame.
Crack.
She has a boyfriend, and she is wearing my hoodie home to him.
Crack.
It’ll never be me.
Crack.
She wants nothing to do with me.
Crack.
I fucked it all up.
Crack.
I pant, looking down. I fucking ran out of pucks. I’m not even close to being done. I skate to the corner where most of them have collected and stand there for a second. My breath is fogging hard in front of my face. My shoulder is making a noise it does not make when it’s fine.
I take three breaths.
I skate back to the line and hit the same puck twenty times in a row. Wrist. Wrist. Wrist. Wrist. The puck cracks against the boards and comes back to my stick, and I wrist it again.
My mind’s racing on a fucking loop.
Boyfriend. Mustache. Bed. Hug. Ignored.
All of it like a sick fucking symphony in my head. A song on repeat.
My head always does this, and this is why I run. I can’t handle the aftermath. I can’t handle my own fucking emotions. It’s all too much, ricocheting in my fucking head.
It’s me. I’m the fucking problem.
I skate one slow circle. Then another. My shoulder is screaming at me to fucking stop. My breath is fogging the inside of my cage. I stop at center ice, and I stand there with the half-litceiling above me and the empty seats around me and the small, distant hum of the building’s heater somewhere in the walls.
This isn’t helping.
The only peace I’ve felt in years was last night when she was in my arms, rubbing my back. I haven’t hugged anyone like that in years. Fuckingyears.
I skate fast around the rink, feeling like I’m falling apart piece by piece. I can’t be fucking doing this, not when I’m trying to achieve more than what’s currently possible. I need my edge. I need this drive to build the success. Without it, I don’t have a fucking thing.
I collect the pucks slowly. Each one. One at a time. The rage is gone now. What’s left is the hangover and the shoulder and the smudge that won’t come off. My head’s not empty, but I’ve shoved it in a fucking box before it drives me up the wall. I dump the basket back behind the bench. I skate to the gate. I open it. Step through. Pull it closed behind me.
The locker room is cold. I sit on the bench and strip out of the gear slowly. The shoulder is the worst it has been since the season started. I will pay for the rink tomorrow. Fuck it.
I get dressed quickly.
