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“That wasn’t slashing,” I mutter, but it’s a moot point because…it fucking was.
In a huff, I make my way to the penalty box to serve my time. I rip off my helmet and fling it down, then stew, doing nothing, not a damn thing, as the other team scores the first goal, whipping the puck past Gavin, Rhys, and then Dev. “Fuck me,” I grumble, flinging up my arms.
Near the end of the period I’m back out there again, ready to put something on the scoreboard.
The game’s a chippy one, physical and mean, and I am going to be sore tomorrow, but I don’t care when I snag the puck then fly on a breakaway, sending it screaming toward the goalie.
But he stops it with his leg.
I curse. I missed an easy shot.
When I hit the bench once more, I slam the stick against the floor.
“Bouchard, let it go. Let it fucking go,” Stefan says, his tone firm and brooking no argument.
What’s wrong with me? I’m not the guy who gets angry in a game. I’m the easygoing guy, even on the bench. I play hard, but I have fun. I work with my teammates, not against them.
I grab my water bottle, chug some, then try to shake off my funk.
Deep into the second period, my blades cut through the ice as I try to sync up with my team, determined to atone for my earlier mistakes. The noise of the fans is deafening, the boos somehow even louder. Most nights, the din strangely quiets my thoughts. Tonight, the noise amplifies them. As I hunt for the puck, I’m wondering if Briar is watching back home. If she’s cheering. If she’s missing us too.
When Rhys slips the puck to me, I miss it.
Chicago doesn’t though. Their players are relentless, their skates and sticks whipping around like the claws of a pack of wild animals taking us down.
At the end of the game, the horn blares and we’ve lost.
It’s my fault.
I don’t talk to anyone on the quick flight to Detroit on the team plane. Or in the hotel lobby. Or the elevator.
When I reach my room a little before eleven, I call my mom.
Her voice is sympathetic. “Hey there. Tough game.”
“I know.”
“Were you elsewhere?”
How does she know? “It was that obvious?” I ask, tugging at my tie, tossing it down on the couch.
“You don’t usually play mad. Only when things aren’t quite right in your life.”
It is that obvious. “There’s a girl,” I admit.
“Yeah?” She brightens.
“It’s complicated.”
“It always is. Have you talked to her?”
No. But maybe I should. When I say goodbye, I hit Briar’s number.
60
TELEPHONE TAG
Briar
