I grab the toothbrush I left here last time I was over and hold it out so Nicko can squeezes paste onto it.
“No, feels...empty,” he says after a moment, still standing there with his toothbrush in hand.
“It’ll pass. If you have some, you can use aloe as a salve. It helps.” I look up from where I’ve spat out the toothpaste. Nicko’s eyes dart up from where they'd been trailing over me. I tilt my head, but he just starts brushing his teeth with a quick nod.
Once we’re back in his room, Nicko flops down face-first on his bed, then rolls over onto his side with a sigh. I chuckle, but make sure to close the bedroom door and turn off the light before I get in next to him.
“You’re not hurting, right?” I mutter lowly, pulling the blanket out from under him to cover both of us.
“Mh-mh,” Nicko mutters vaguely, already half asleep.
“Sure?”
“Ugh, stop worrying!” His eyes glitter up at me in the near darkness before he turns on his side again. “I hurt worse after training.”
With a placating hum I change the topic.
“Finally found a polka-dot-worthy nickname, huh?”
Nicko just sighs, barely turning his head, but his lips quirk up after a moment. “I guess so,” he yawns, curling up a little tighter. “Night, Lexi.”
“Good night, Nicko,” I murmur. My heart squeezes in my chest. I've been fighting the realization, but I can't deny it any longer: There's no getting Nicko out of my system.
I want him far beyond what I can have and what he's willing to offer me. I want to show him new things. I want to be the reason for his surprised looks and thrilled laughs. And although it riles me up like nothing else, I want him to tell me I have a weak-assbackhand. I want to chase him across the ice just to hear him tell me to try better next time.
I settle for sliding my hand over his hip, letting it rest there carefully. I’ve never dreaded the end of a season more than this one.
Nicko, March 13th
The next few days pass in an absolute blur.
It’s been years since the Bats and Badgers have faced off in the tournament, and the campus is buzzing with excitement. Strangers walk up to me and congratulate me on finishing at the top of our conference and going to the regionals. People in class hold out their hands for a fist bump when I pass them. A group of guys insists on paying for my lunch. Girls sneak their numbers into my backpack. Our team’s social media manager isn’t deterred by my scowl any longer and has me participate in a silly TikTok dance.
Mom puts a message into the group chat saying how proud she is. In a private text she cautions me not to put too much stress on my knee since my long-term career is more important than the championship win. Dad asks if we want to go to Amsterdam in the summer, and when we have to report for training camp with our respective teams.
I experience all of it from afar, like there’s an invisible barrier between everyone else and me, all this chatter muted by one single thought: Two more wins, and we’ll be in the Frozen Four.Two more games, in which I might face Xander and Nate. From now on, each game could mark the end of my career as I planned it. If the Rebels won’t come through with a contract, I will have to look for a team overseas or figure out how to actually use my degree.
If there was ever a bad time to feel completely exhausted, it’s now. I need to be on the top of my game, more alert than ever. But my bones feel like they’re filled with lead when I get up from the locker room bench and shoulder my duffel.
In the hallway, Zollweg is posing next to the trophy case as our social media team has him repeat the same moves over and over again. He raises his hand in a quiet goodbye, and I give him a curt nod as I hurry past.
I don’t know what I expected after the weekend’s social media shitstorm, but when I entered the rink the next day, everything was just…normal. Zollweg didn’t spit any hateful comments or slurs. He didn’t even look at me funny. Instead, he bumped my fist and patted my back. Talked up the team.
By now, I’m questioning what I saw that day. Maybe the like came from another profile with a similar username, or maybe he accidentally liked that post when he scrolled through Instagram. A wrong swipe of the thumb, and it happens without noticing.
I was probably reading way too much into it, but a lingering feeling of unease stays with me every time our eyes meet.
When I finally reach my car, I throw my duffel in the trunk before sinking into the front seat. I close my eyes for a second and take a deep breath through my nose, trying not to think about all my hurting body parts. Right now, there’s nothing I crave more than the comfort of my bed, where I know a citrusy hint is still lingering in the fabric of my pillow and sheets. But I have a proper meal to cook first and a bunch of mobility exercises to do. If these will be my last hockey games before beer league, I absolutely cannot risk my form.
Reaching into my pocket I pull out my cell to check for new messages. With our packed schedules there is no opportunity for meeting up with Xander during the week. Yet I find myself smiling when I see his name on my screen. I’m quick to bite my lower lip, but there’s nothing I can do—it’s so broad my cheeks hurt. Xander texted me a brief one-liner about how he was thinking of me in training when his coach singled him out to work on his backhand. It should horrify me that my first reaction isn’t a snarky remark, so I close the chat again until I can think of something teasing to say.
I’m about to put my phone away when I see the notifications for over a dozen unread messages in our family chat. I’ve muted that one because Nate discusses everything going on in there with me, so I usually get the information twice.
My first thought is that something bad must have happened—maybe Greg fell again or our grandparents aren’t well.
But when I open the conversation there’s no bad news. Instead, mom has shared a Twitter link with several question marks underneath. My thumb hovers over the screen. I can already feel my gut sink.
It’s like the split second before a crash, when you know something terrible and potentially life-altering is about to happen. All my senses tell me to ignore it and just put my phone back into my pocket, yet I press my finger onto the blue hyperlink leading me to the social media profile of an AHL team.
