Or was it something a lot darker like three years ago?
There’s no way to know, because Kane pulled him off of me, and Jude proceeded to fight me.
A hassle, really.
I hit him harder than I usually do in these skirmishes because he interrupted something important.
Something thatcould’vebeen important.
I sway as the guys finally let me down, but it has less to do with being on the ground and more to do with the dizzying need to shatter Armstrong’s mask.
Tonight, I started a hairline crack, but I can make it bigger and wider and so overwhelmingly deep, he’ll be broken beyond repair.
My teammates party hard, and I let them do whatever they want. They deserve this.
Everyone in the club is dancing and talking and grinding and drinking and drinking and more drinking.
I join in for a bit, letting the wave carry me, throwing my head back and getting lost in the loud bass music.
But none of the sensory abundance manages to undo the knots crowding my shoulders.
Or the numbness lurking in my chest.
It’s hard for anything to stimulate me. I know that, in theory, sex, alcohol, partying, and everything people my age indulge in should be fun.
It’s not.
Aside from hockey and my bike, I don’t find pleasure in anything.
But I sure pretend that I do.
I slide to the bar and order a drink, keeping an eye on the guys in case one of them goes a bit too hard.
We still have light training tomorrow, and while wewon tonight’s game, this is only the start, not the end of the championship.
I intend to win it this year, which will give me an abundance of choices in the NHL and, more importantly, a better paycheck.
O’Connor and especially Richardson also have the chance to go pro if they get their heads in the game and stop being distracted with messy feelings and non-lasting relationships.
“Captain!” Richardson slides to the stool beside me, smelling like whiskey, and shows me his phone. “Have you seen this?”
It’s an article from a big online sports magazine. The title is:The Wolves Crush the Vipers in a Sensational Night.
“They used the word ‘crush.’ Isn’t that awesome? Their fans are crying actual tears in the comments.”
“As they should.” I take the phone from his hand and send myself the article.
“Good idea. I’ll drop it in the group chat.” He types away, not looking at me. “I have more articles, so I’ll send those as well. The media is drooling over your performance, Captain!”
“You did great, too, Richardson.”
He grins up at me in that boyish way, then focuses on his phone again, texting back and forth.
I fetch mine, open the article I sent myself, and zoom in on the featured photo.
My helmet is pressed against Armstrong’s, my hand fisted in his collar.
It’s not that visible in the picture, but I was smirking as he glared at me, threatening to kill me, chop me up into tiny little pieces, and keep my skull as a memento.
