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But I refuse to be like my father. Although, once in a while, I have to suppress the urge to numb these inconvenient things called feelings.

Feelings, emotional trauma. I’m not even sure what the difference is anymore, I just know I don't want to feel that vice-like pressure gripping my chest and threatening to make it burst.

By the time I finally make it home and slump down onto my couch, I’ve calmed down.

I take my phone out of my pocket and see I have a missed call and text from Dr. Curtis. I ignore the missed call, but read the short text message.

Dr. Curtis

It’s understandable to feel overwhelmed. And it’s okay to be upset. But please let me know if you’re not okay.

I roll my eyes, but deep down I know he’s just making sure I didn’t do anything stupid.

Mitch

I’m fine. At home.

I throw my phone over to the opposite side of the couch, it bounces and lands on the floor. With a groan, I pick up the T.V. remote from the ottoman and turn on a recording of the movie Rio Grande, featuring none other than John Wayne. This was Granddad’s favorite one.

* * *

I’m working with my group during hockey practice. I'm actually relieved that I have a distraction and something to keep me busy after my blow up in Dr. Curtis’s office yesterday. I already worked out at the team gym for three hours this morning. If I lift any more weights I’m just going to injure myself. Then I'll be out of the game even longer.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see a camera flash. I glance over and spot Max and his minion watching me again. It looks like Max is telling him when to take photos, as if the photographer doesn’t know how to do his job. And why does he need so much camera equipment, anyway?

I look around the rink and my eyes land on Coach Aaron, he’s working with the smaller kids, the ones who are still cute and not sweaty mongrels. He catches my eye and salutes me with a grin.

Oh, he knows he did me dirty, and he’s relishing it.

Wombats must be an incredibly aggressive and hateful animal, hence how they came up with the stupid name Washington Wombats. Not sure how Max and the photographer are getting anything useful from all this to help my image. Tonight is the same old drama, despite our conversations with the parents. Freckles—er, Declan—I learned his name from the roster Coach Aaron finally gave me, keeps muttering under-handed comments to Noah. I can instantly tell when these comments are about Andie, because of the aggressive way he responds.

I have to applaud him for coming to her defense, but the way he goes about it is all wrong. Not that I’d know anything about that.

If these kids weren’t wearing caged helmets to protect their faces, Noah would’ve knocked several of Freckles’ teeth out by now.

“Hey,” one of the boys yells to Freckles, who’s a few yards from him. “Did you see Andie’s wearing the scrubs today? The ones that make her butt look amazing?”

Freckles nods enthusiastically. “Of course. You’d have to be blind not to notice that fine a—”

His words are cut off when Noah slams into him. Their gloves come off and fists are flying. This is their third tussle already.

All I want to do is high five Noah for sticking up for his sister to these disrespectful little pukes… but I have to remember they’re kids, and I’m supposedly the responsible adult here. I skate over and pry them apart with a heavy, aggravated sigh.

“Knock it off!” I yell over the noise of the ice rink. “You guys think you’re gonna learn anything if you’re so busy penalizing each other?! You’re on the same team tonight, for f—” I squeeze my eyes shut, remembering to keep my language clean around the kids. “For fork’s sake!”

Freckles raises a red eyebrow. “You realize we’ve heard the f word before, right?”

“Sure. But you’re not going to hear it from me.”

One of the other boys chuckles. “We’re just trying to be like you, Coach. We know you love penalties.”

Freckles snickers. “Yeah, you made it to the NHL beating the crap out of everyone. We thought that must be the secret to success!”

They all burst out laughing. Except Noah, who looks at me with those big, dark eyes. His expression always seems a little melancholy, which makes me like him… maybe because that look reflects my own. I like that he doesn’t talk excessively and doesn’t run his mouth in smack talk like the others. He’s here for one thing, and one thing only: hockey.

If only the boys would leave him the hell alone about his sister.

“Hold it together, champ,” I tell him in a tone I’ve never heard come out of my mouth before. Something softer and more caring than usual. I withhold a shiver at how much I dislike my voice sounding like that. I clear my throat and try again, speaking in a deeper voice, “Don’t let them get to you.”