“Yeah…shouldn’t‘ve drunk so much, I guess,” he mumbles, then groans and leans over the bowl again.
I grimace in sympathy, staying for a moment longer, then get to my feet again. Stretching, I pull a clean towel off the drying rack to lay it out for Nate so he won’t have to sit on the cold tiles.
“Be right back.” I close the door, not just to preserve my best friend’s privacy; I also spare him the competition over the toilet, since I am a sympathetic vomiter.
In the kitchen I grab a bottle of water and root through my and Nate’s cupboards for some saltines or crackers, but I only find stale bread. Not unexpected, since neither of us ever buys anything that can’t be cooked in the microwave. I pop two slices into the toaster anyway.
Back in the bathroom I sit down, pushing the bottle and plate with toast over to Nate.
“Here’s some water and food. Let me know if you need anything else, yeah?”
“Come vomit for me?” Nate pipes up, his head still in the bowl.
I grimace, swallowing carefully.
“Wouldn’t switch places with you for a contract with the Devils, sorry.” I’ll have to let Coach know that Nate is out for the day, later. He won’t like it, as we have another game on the weekend—wealwayshave another game—but I’ll manage. I know Nate will pull through. He always does when it’s about hockey.
Nicko, October 16th
“Don’t you want to answer that?”
I grumpily stare at my lunch while Linden points at the cell vibrating on my tray.
I’ve masterfully managed to ignore Nate’s texts throughout the morning. They’re taking up my whole screen by now.
It’s not unusual; Nate is an avid texter. Whenever he comes across a hilarious cat video, a cool hockey clip, or whatever else he deems interesting, he forwards it to me. Hence, our chat looks somewhat one-sided. He likes to joke that I’m online-ghosting my own twin.
I’m not big on social media in general. While Nate has thousands of followers on Instagram, I have kept my profile private and my circle small. I barely message my friends and family, mainly using my phone to set up dates and coordinate plans.
I pretend that I’m too busy for these things, but to be honest, I’m afraid to make a fool out of myself for everyone to see. And not in the charming, funny way that my brother has perfected—but by fighting my future teammate live on air.
The backlash to that interview still haunts me.
“No,” I grumble in response, stabbing at the mixture of chicken and rice on my plate, like it’s personally to blame for my current situation.
This day started just as the weekend ended: with the ugly feeling of not being good enough. I know I’m not back to last year’s form, but watching my teammates set new personal records in our gym session definitely chipped away at my remaining self-confidence.
And just to top things off, mom called to suggest additional strength and conditioning training for me. She’s never done that before.
Sure, as a former hockey player and current head coach of the Brown’s women’s team, she’s invested in the sport. We often discuss games and tactics. Her analyses can be brutal, but she’s never criticized my fitness before.
The whole time I was freaking out over my injury, everyone around me insisted that I would be fine again; that there were plenty of other professional athletes with similar conditions who made a comeback in half a year.
Then why am I playing on fourth line?
And why do I feel so…off?
I can’t put my finger on the exact problem, but it was the same during Saturday’s game. Whenever I skate, it feels like someone is actively trying to hold me back by tying lead to my skates, and I just don’t know what to do about it.
Then quit.
Hart’s words seep into the forefront of my mind again, making me grit my teeth. That asshole would love that.
Next to me, my phone starts to vibrate again.
“Maybe it’s important,” Linden speculates, his blond brows furrowed with concern.
“It’s just Nate,” I huff, although I’m putting down my fork at the same time to reach for my phone. The ringing has stopped, but I have a new message showing up on my screen.
