Okay, he’s got a point there.
The period ends with us down 4-1, which would be embarrassing under normal circumstances but feels about right given my current level of hockey competence. In the locker room, Coach Barrett delivers one of his patented “what the fuck is wrong with you people” speeches while I sit there debating how to text Golda without sounding desperate.
How was your day?
Too casual. Delete.
Hope you’re having a good week.
Too formal. Delete.
Still thinking about Saturday night.
Way too honest. Delete.
Hey.
Perfect. Simple. Impossible to misinterpret. I hit send and immediately regret it.
She doesn’t respond.
“Malone!” Barrett’s voice snaps me back to reality. “You with us?”
“Yes, Coach.”
“Good, because you’re sitting the third period.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you’re playing like you’ve been lobotomized. Figure out whatever’s going on in your head, or you’ll be sitting a lot more than one period.”
I want to argue, but he’s right. I’ve been completely useless tonight. My teammates deserve better, and the fans definitely deserve better than watching me skate around like I’m lost in a shopping mall.
The third period happens without me, which is probably for the best. We lose 6-2, and I spend the entire time staring at my phone, waiting for a response that doesn’t come.
Back at the hotel, I throw myself onto the bed and seriously consider ordering room service that consists entirely of alcohol. Instead, I do something even more pathetic: I text Elliot.
Need advice.
About what?
Golda.
Oh god. What did you do?
Why do you assume I did something?
Because you’re texting me for relationship advice at 11 PM after getting your ass kicked.
How do you know we got our asses kicked?
Brody’s been texting me updates about your tragic performance all night. He’s concerned about your mental state.
Great. Now my teammates are reporting my psychological breakdown to their wives.
I tried to kiss her.
And?
