“Carb-and-cheese-a-thon since Mom’s in New York, huh?”
Mom took the Butterson twins and River and Josiah along for the trip. They planned to surprise Lavender, so she isn’t alone while Kody is here for contract talks. He’s already here, but I won’t see him until tomorrow.
“You know it. We can eat and then shoot the puck around?” He hands me a beer. “You’re almost there, Mav. The world is at your fingertips.”
I smile, but it feels a lot like all the things I want are slipping through them, or just out of reach.
37
CHOICES AND CONFESSIONS
Maverick
I’m skating over the ice, but it’s dark, and shadows move under my feet. I can’t keep my eye on the puck, and I can’t move fast enough. Everyone is skating circles around me. And there’s a sound—a scream, lots of screams.
The lights in the arena are too bright, too much. So I look back down at the ice, trying to find my focus again. That’s when I see the figures moving below the surface. Their fists pound against the ice under my feet, their screams muffled by the barrier.
I try to tell the other players, but I can’t speak, and now the ice under me is turning red, obscuring faces that are all too familiar—my sister, my mother, Clover. I drop to my knees and slam my fists into the solid surface, scrambling to find a way to get there before the shadows envelop them.
There’s a hand on my shoulder. Someone is trying to pullme back, but I struggle to stay where I am. Everything goes blurry, and the voice gets louder and louder in my head.
“Mav, Maverick! Son, wake up.”
I shoot up in bed, disoriented, unnerved. I’m covered in sweat, my sheets are twisted around my legs, the comforter thrown off, and my bedside lamp lies on its side, casting eerie shadows over the walls. I look down at my hands, expecting to see blood and bone, but they’re fine.
“Fuck.” I’m breathing heavy, feeling light-headed and like I’m going to vomit. I struggle to free myself from my sheets and stumble to the bathroom. I don’t even have a chance to close the door before I’m retching into the toilet. I heave until all that’s left is bile. A glass of water appears in my peripheral vision, and I take it. I swish and spit a few times before I take a tentative sip.
My dad flushes the toilet for me, and I drop to the floor in front of the bowl, glad I’m not a disgusting pig who leaves the bathroom a wreck. I drop my head between my knees, trying to find some calm. I don’t close my eyes, though. I don’t want those images back.
His hand comes to rest on my shoulder. “Take a few deep breaths.”
I do as he says, tracing the pattern in the tile floor with my eyes, trying to shake the dream, and wishing Clover were here, but at the same time glad she didn’t witness this.
She’d tell me I need to talk to someone.
She’d be right too.
“You all right?” Dad asks after a minute—or longer. I’m not sure.
“Yeah, just a bad dream,” I mumble.
“Sounded like a lot more than a bad dream.” He clears his throat. “Talk to me. What’s going on? I feel like I’m on the outside, and I’m not used to that when it comes to you.”
I raise my head and hate the expression on his face, the concern, but more prevalent is the hurt. I realize this isn’t fair to either of us. I’ve spent my life nodding in agreement, following the path that’s been set out for me, because it felt like the easier thing to do.
“I don’t know if I want this.”
“Want what?” he says.
I shift so my back is to the wall. He sits on the edge of the tub, hands clasped, elbows resting on his knees.
I take a deep breath and say the words I’ve been choking on for a while now. “I don’t know if I want to play professional hockey.”
“You’ve got contract talk jitters. Those are completely normal.”
I shake my head. “No, Dad, I don’t think that’s it.”
“You’ve been playing your whole life,” he says gently. “This is what you’ve worked so hard for.”
