Sorry about tonight. Rain check on that kiss?
I type it. Delete it. Type it again.
“Don’t be pathetic, Golda.”
I delete it and go inside to my empty house, where I spend the next hour replaying every moment of the evening andwondering if I’m the kind of person who’s going to regret this for the rest of my life.
10
DEX
The puck fliespast my ear, missing my head by maybe an inch, and I don’t even flinch. Probably should have, considering the other team’s left wing just wound up for what looked like a potential decapitation, but honestly? Getting knocked unconscious might be an improvement over my current mental state.
“MALONE!” Coach Barrett’s voice cuts through the arena noise like a chainsaw. “What the hell was that?”
That was me standing around like a traffic cone while the other team scored their third goal of the period. That was me forgetting that hockey involves, you know, actually playing hockey instead of replaying Saturday night’s disaster on an endless loop.
“Sorry, Coach!” I call back, skating harder to catch up with the play that’s already moved to the other end of the ice.
Three days. It’s been three days since Golda turned her head and I kissed her cheek like some awkward teenager asking his crush to prom. Three days of me trying to figure out what the fuck went wrong during what I thought was the best date I’d had in years.
The puck comes my way again, and this time I manage to actually make contact with it before immediately passing it directly to an Edmonton defenseman. Beautiful. Really showing them why I make the big bucks.
“Dude,” Rodriguez skates up beside me during the next whistle, “you’re playing like you got hit by a truck. What’s wrong with you?”
“Nothing’s wrong with me.”
“Right. That’s why you just gave them a perfect scoring opportunity.”
“It was a difficult pass.”
“It was a three-foot pass to Brody. He was wide open.”
I glance over at Brody, who’s giving me the same concerned look I’ve been getting from half the team since we got to Vancouver. Like I’m a wounded animal they’re not sure how to approach.
“I’m fine,” I insist.
“Sure you are. And I’m Wayne Gretzky.”
The whistle blows again, mercifully ending this particular shift of hockey horror. I skate to the bench and collapse next to Varga, who’s been unusually quiet all game.
“You want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Talk about what?”
“Whatever’s making you play like you’ve never seen a hockey puck before.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Varga just stares at me with those dead Russian eyes that see through everything. “It’s about a woman?”
“No.”
“Is always about a woman when you play like shit for no reason.”
“I’m not playing like shit.”
“You passed the puck to the other team. Three times. In one period.”
