“Murph!” Noah yells.
I ignore him, wind up for a shot I have no business making, and almost clip Detroit’s goalie in the helmet.
“What the fuck, man?” he growls as I skate past him.
Detroit’s defenseman, Reynolds, checks me. “Don’t start shit, Murph.”
Just to piss him off, I snag the puck back and dart between everyone, my focus laser tight. With a flick of my wrist, the puck sails past the goalie into the net. The air horn is the same deep boom as my heart in my chest.
“You’re an asshole tonight,” Noah says, pulling me in for a quick hug. “I like it.”
I break away, quickly taking in the fans on their feet, cheering. This used to feel better. I fucking hate that tonight, it doesn’t matter. Not this goal or the next, which I end up scoring four minutes later.
“Murphy!” Coach yells as I hop over to the bench after the line change. His arms are crossed, and he’s glaring, which is never a good sign.
I squirt a stream of water into my mouth from my water bottle, leaning forward on my knees to catch my breath, and watch my teammates on the ice. I’m pushing too hard tonight, playing like a selfish prick.
“I don’t know what hair fell across your ass today,” he growls, bending to get in my face, “but calm down before you hurt someone. You included.”
“I’m fine.” My jaw tics. “We’re going to win if I keep it up.”
“You’re too angry. That’s how people get hurt. Get your head right or I’ll fucking bench you.”
I keep my mouth shut. No point in arguing. I nod, blankly staring ahead.
Izzy asked me why I couldn’t say I loved her, and I just stood there.Twice.
Couldn’t get the words out, and she damn well deserves so much more. She deserves better than this version of me. But if I keep skating, keep moving, maybe it’ll be enough to outrun the thought of her tonight.
Once the second period starts, AC/DC blares through the arena, and my sour-ass mood only worsens. The team loves to play “TNT” to spur me on, and the fans know what that means. I’m itching for a fight, sure, but I can’t seem to get out of my own way right now.
I skate like when I knew scouts were in the arena back in high school, like when I first played in Oregon, determined to win over everyone and so desperately alone, like when I first came back to Boston to play for the Breakers, proud to have finally made it.
Funny how I keep moving that goal post. I’ll be happywhen. I’m so busy being the funny guy, the fan’s favorite, that I’ve ignored completely that I’ve been at war with myself for years. It’s exhausting. And I’m so fucking tired.
“Fuck, Murph!” Alex yells. “Murphy!”
But it’s too late. A stick tangles in my skate. I’m going too fast, the boards rushing up to meet me, and I can’t stop. Can’t turn. Can’t?—
The crack is loud. My helmet. My head.
White flash. Blinding.
I swear I can smell Izzy’s vanilla perfume, feel the ghost of her hand on my cheek, the weight of her lips against mine.
The ringing continues, like I’m underwater, and the edgesof the rink far away. I blink my eyes open, slowly drawing focus to the body in front of me, the gloves he tosses to the ground. Someone is yelling my name, and I realize Reynolds is about to throw a punch.
My body is slow, my mind even slower to follow, before everything snaps into focus.
I walked away from Izzy for this?
Fans are screaming, banging their fists against the plexiglass, eager for me to fight. I look toward the tunnel instead, my heart not here but back in Merritt Point. I have to choose myself before I can choose her.
And tonight, for the first time in my career, I keep my gloves on. I don’t give them the show. I just skate away.
The trainer pulled me aside. No concussion, just a hard hit. But I didn’t score again the rest of the game.
I peel off my gear in the locker room, moving on autopilot.
