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I had tossed and turned all fucking night, which probably isn’t helping my game play tonight.
The fans are loud in the stands, gearing up for a potential playoff run, and there’s a palpable energy and excitement. Only my fucking feet feel like lead and my brain seems to be moving as slow as my skates. I’ve failed to steal the puck twice, and I got two minutes in the box for tripping.
The only good thing about tonight is neither Luna nor Cam are at the game to distract me even further. Yet their absence also bothers me. I’ve gotten used to glancing up and seeing them in their regular seats, Luna decked out in Racketeers gear. Even when she and I weren’t communicating with each other, I had that. I could always see her in the stands. But I’ve been texting with her and she said she was going to catch up on her laundry since she’s been so busy lately. Cam is at dinner with his mother. My own mother and stepfather are on a spring break Disney cruise with my little sister, which right now only adds to my loneliness.
I hate feeling alone.
The weight of the stick in my hand feels heavy and my left skate is rubbing my heel in a way that is pissing me the fuck off. The Gators have already scored, and it’s on me. I’m moving too slow and their center smoked me. Now I take a shoulder to the wall and wince from the impact. I turn around and shove the big hulking guy everyone calls the Swede. He barely moves when I jostle with him, which pisses me off even more.
Coach Phillips calls me out when the ref blows the whistle a few seconds later and I put my hand on my hip, breathing harder than I would like, and glide over to the bench.
“What’s going on?” he demands, frowning.
I plunk myself down on the bench and tap my stick on the floor, edgy and impatient. “Nothing.”
“It’s something. You’re skating like you’ve got goddamn hemorrhoids.” He rubs his beard and gives me a look of concern. “If this is something personal, we can talk it through later.”
I give him an are-you-fucking-kidding-me look. “I don’t have anything to say.”
I don’t. Luna can date him if she wants. That’s what I assume he’s referring to. I may be on the damn edge of falling in love with her, but she’s free to do whatever the hell she wants, even if it’s starting to get under my skin.
Because Coach is relationship material. And Luna doesn’t want a serious relationship. But if anyone can weasel his way into achieving one with her, it’s more likely to be him than me, and that pisses me off. Mostly, though, I’m pissed that he pretended to be concerned when he was actually pumping me for information about if I was dating Luna or not.
It’s tempting to tell him I just wall-banged her a few days ago, but this isn’t the time or the place. I also like to think I’m cooler than that.
He stares at me hard. “I don’t buy that.”
I actually groan then and stand, too keyed up to sit still. I adjust my helmet. “Put me back in.”
If he wants to have some kind of heart-to-heart later where he tries to be my dad, we can, but right now I want to get back out there and redeem myself from a shitty beginning to this game.
He gives a nod and I don't wait for him to say anything else. I go over the board and slide my feet back and forth, ready to go when the action starts again.
I take my last glance at the empty seats before the puck drops.
When I get home tonight, I need to talk to Cam.
Clear the air. See where his head’s really at.
The Swede slams into me. Hard.
While my teeth are rattling, he gives me a grin.
It’s all I need to take a swing at him. I make contact with his helmet.
The crowd roars its approval.
I rip off my glove to really go at him.
But then I’m being yanked backward by Hayes and I refocus on the puck, swiping my glove back up off of the ice.
We lose 3-2 and I’m fucking exhausted by the time I get home.
“Hey,” Cam says, lounging on the couch in a white T-shirt and dark gray sweats, feet on the coffee table. He has a jar of cherries in his hand and he’s sucking on one, which is very fucking distracting and not helping my confused thoughts. He’s the only person I know who eats cherries from a jar. But Cam is like that. He does whatever he wants, confidently and with no concern for anyone’s opinion.
“Hey.” I drop my bag and kick off my shoes, tired as fuck. “How was your mom?” Cam’s mother has always scared me a little. She’s thin and has delicate features, yet her gaze is sharp and her words are shrewd. I don’t think she means to, but she makes me feel big and dumb. Then again, maybe she does mean to. I suspect she thinks Cam could have a smarter best friend. Which he could. But for whatever reason, he wants it to be me. Which is what I want to talk to him about.
