“Never?”
“Ever.”
She nods. “Okay.”
“Just like that? Okay?” It’s my turn to narrow my eyes.
She shrugs. “We all have things we aren’t comfortable talking about. Why would I force you to talk about something that hurts you? You say no, it’s no.”
I knew I chose a good one. Leaning forward, I plant both fists under my chin. “Tell me this. How do you feel about pineapple on pizza?”
CHAPTER 9
Raffi
(PRESENT DAY)
The Rockford Rockets are in the house. They’re not my favorite team to play against, but they’re also not my least favorite. They fall somewhere in the middle, just like using regular peanut butter in a PB&J versus using crunchy.
What’s the point if there’s no crunch?
Just like a mediocre sandwich, the Rockets have no crunch. But we’re on high alert because Coach has been trippin’ lately and seems to be roasting our asses for no goddamn good reason.
No one has said anything directly, but I feel like things have slipped. I feel slower. I feel like I’m spending more time warming the bench than on the ice.
It’s probably my mind playing tricks on me, but I need to up my game. I need to make it impossible for Coach to bench me. I need to make it so my team doesn’t have to compensate for a slip in my performance. I need to make it so I don’t let anyone down.
The speed of the Rockets gives them a chance inside the first twenty-five seconds as one of their top scorers gets inbehind our defense. He flips a backhand effort on the net that’s casually saved by de la Peña.
Somehow two of our guys get called for coinciding penalties. It happens in the corner and no amount of craning my neck at the melee or the replay helps me figure out how Tate gets called for interference while Scott sits for two for holding.
It’s a tied game, goose eggs all around by the time we get to the final few minutes of the first period. Two of the Rockets get sent to the box for interference and a third for holding, while Apollo heads to the box for roughing.
We head to the intermission scoreless, and I’ve barely broken a sweat. Am I being benched?
No one looks at me differently as we head down the tunnel, there’s no judgment or accusation in my teammates eyes as we hit the locker room. But I’m not getting the same ice time I used to. Why?
It’s probably paranoia. Nothing has changed except the frequency of my headaches. And the only person who knows that, or is going to know that, is me.
My leg bounces when I’m nervous. Not both of them, just the left one. And no matter how much I glare at it, it doesn’t let up.
Tate plops on the bench next to me, tipping the blade of his stick at my knee. “What’s that about?”
Shrugging, I focus on the tape at the end of my blade. It’s suddenly the most important thing in the world to me. “Who’s your personal trainer again, Phil someone?”
Nodding, he bumps me with his elbow. “Stop changing the subject. What’s going on?”
Lowering my voice, I lean closer to my friend. “I didn’t get as much ice time as I usually do. Am I…? Is there something…?”
Tate’s been pretty good at pretending he isn’t observing my behavior for signs of concussion syndrome, or whateverthe fuck it’s called when you hit your head a few too many times on the ice. He’s a great friend, but every now and then, he’ll pay closer than usual attention to me like he’s making sure I’m not losing my shit.
How he can tell the difference between my regular terrible memory and concussion memory loss is anyone’s guess, but he makes for a great work wife, and I know without question, he’s got my back.
“You’re in your head about it.” He pats my shoulder. “I haven’t seen any sign you’re slipping. And we both know I’ve been watching you.” He gives me a grossly exaggerated wink like he’s hitting on me.
“Not my type, Tate.” The mood has lightened, but inside I’m heavy, mulling over every shift I skated in the first. “Tell me about your trainer.”
“After the game. But there are only so many hours in the day, man. You can’t spend all of them at the gym.”
