Page 183 of Puck Me Back to Life

I tell myself that's what I wanted.

Then why does it feel so much like I've made a terrible mistake?

The second the puck drops, I stop thinking. It's the first relief I've had all day.

No Ash.

No Noah.

No therapists.

No arguments.

Just hockey.

The crowd is loud tonight. We're home. Every seat looks full, towels spinning through the stands while music pounds through the arena speakers. The lights seem brighter than usual, reflecting off fresh ice until the entire rink glows white beneath us.

Coach had said before warmups that we needed momentum before leaving for San Diego tomorrow morning. Apparently, my brain hears that as commit crimes. Because within the first shift, I finish a check so hard the opposing winger folds into the glass.

The crowd explodes.

I don't even celebrate.

I simply skate away.

The referee raises his hand.

Two minutes.

Boarding.

Coach glares at me from behind the bench.

I nod once. Deserved. The penalty box feels strangely peaceful.

The crowd boos the call.

Someone pounds on the glass beside me.

Normally I'd feel guilty.

Tonight…

Nothing.

The game resumes without me. When my penalty expires, I jump back over the boards with fresh legs and far too much anger. A defenseman reaches for the puck. I steal it.

He hooks my stick.

I keep skating anyway.

Another defender steps into my lane.

I shoulder through him.

The puck slides onto my forehand.

Wrist shot.