“I never said that. But he’s notyou, Nicko. He doesn’t do this thing where he flips the puck up with his stick and then slaps it right past the goalie like a...a…“ Linden flaps his hands in search of words.
“Like an ice sniper on skates,” Oliver provides helpfully, taking his chance to dip into the chocolate spread on Linden’s plate.
“Ice sniper,” I snort, but my cheeks flush from the compliment. Except for Sasha, my roommates don’t know the first thing about hockey. Yet they show up to my games, trying to understand what’s going on.
“Well. Unlike me, Nate comes with two healthy knees.”
This time it’s Oliver who throws his hands up with a big groan. “That again.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means that you sound like a broken record, Nicholas! For the past year we have put up with your moping because yes, what happened to you sucked. It was unfair, you were scared for your career, all of that. But it’s not our fault. And most of all—it’s over! Put it behind you, man.”
“Oliver,” Linden warns, grabbing his elbow, but my words already drown him out.
“You have no idea what it’s like!”
I’m seething. Put it behind me? He makes it sound like I just lost a tooth on the ice—annoying but replaceable. In reality I’d lain awake in my hospital bed at night, staring at the sterile walls and wondering if I was watching my career burn before it began. Even now, months later, the fear creeps up on me every time a muscle in my legs jumps unexpectedly.
What if it happens again? Can they fix it a second time? A third if they had to?
“No, I do not,” Oliver juts his chin out. “But other athletes do. There’s hundreds of people going through the same thing every year, Nicko! You’re neither the first nor the only player to ever tear his ligaments. Your injury wasn’t career ending; the problem is uphere.”
I stare speechlessly at Oliver as he reaches across the table to tap my forehead. It takes me a second to react before I slap his hand away.
“Oh yeah? If it’s just me being paranoid, why did Coach pull me from my starting spot? You think the Rebels will sign a fourth liner with a medical history?!” I hiss at him. My fork is shaking between my fingers so I forcefully put it down onto the plate. The loudclunkit makes as it lands rings in my ears.
“Have you ever thought about the fact that it wasn’t meant topunishyou? Maybe he was just giving you time to get back in the game.”
“I didn’tneedtime! I–”
“Well damn, he should be sorry then, for trusting his experience instead of letting a twenty-two-year-old brat make major decisions for his hockey team!”
That’s it; I’m done here.
I get out of my seat so abruptly; it causes the chair to topple over. My pancake isn’t even half-eaten, and my head still throbs like Hart’s horrible music is locked up in my brain, but I can’t deal with this right now. I can’t just sit here with Oliver flinging one barb after the other at me, backing me into a corner I don’t want to be in.
They don’t understand that my draft spot won’t mean shit if I don’t get to sign that contract. They don’t understand that I can’t just pick any other career out there.
Because I don’t want any other career! Iwantto be on the ice. I want to play in those big arenas and clash with huge D-men on the blue line.
I want to do it again and again and again until I’m a fucking grandpa and have a room full of Stanley Cups and awards. I want to play with the best, and I would still want to do it if they didn’t pay me a single fucking cent for it. If hockey gets taken from me, I just don’t know what I’ll do with myself.
These past two weeks have been the first time in months where I didn’t think about contracts and surgeries whenever I stepped onto the ice. Suddenly it wasn’t about saving my owncareer but Nate’s, and somehow that made everything so much easier.
But that’s over now. I’m Nicko again. Nicko, who is just some left winger on fourth line, in a team that thinks he’s still broken.
I think by now we would be better off without him.
If it’s just in my head then why would they want to get rid of me? I would love to ask Oliver that, but I’m too scared to say those words out loud and let him know how pathetic I really am.
So instead of talking, I do the only thing that has worked for me in the past weeks—turning to run away.
“Nicko, wait!” Linden calls after me, but I’m already halfway up the stairs.
Xander, October 28th
There’s no alarm to wake me, but consciousness rushes me as brutal as a D-man ramming me into the boards. With it come the memories of last night. I turn over with a groan and bury my head in my pillow.
