Page 9 of The Has-Been

I played in this game.

Look away, Liam. Don’t watch this. I urge myself.

I’ve never had good self-control, though. So, my eyes stay glued to the screen.

I watch, my eyes darting over the TV with anticipation, like I didn’t live out this very moment in real-time.

Players skate across the painted lines, bodies weaving around each other—up and down the ice. Over and over.

My palms go sweaty as I force a swallow.

I look good out there. Like I don’t belong anywhere else. Like my skates are just an extension of myself.

Brennan passes me the puck.

I know what happens next without having to watch it.

I need to walk away. I need to put my back to this.

I don’t, though, of course I don’t.

I watch my past self, the better version of me, handle the puck, cut left, then right.

Good move. I think. Except for the fact that I don’t see the defensemen dangerously closing in, only a few strides behind.

I should have shot. Why didn’t I?

Something tightens in my chest as I place my palm to my heart as if trying to ease the pain I know I’m about to relive.

Like I said, I don’t shoot. No, at the last second, I pull the puck wide, take it to the boards, trying to slow the game and burn time off the clock.

A rookie fucking mistake.

I watch, my breath catching on something deep inside me as my life changes right before my eyes.

The defenseman I had my back to plows into me.

I flinch back as I witness my body get thrown into the glass. The sound over the speakers is not nearly as loud as the one pounding in my ears. A sound I’ll never be able to forget.

Then, I stare blankly as my blade catches awkwardly.

My body goes one way.

My leg, the other.

The TV cuts to a commercial break.

I know why. Anyone who saw the game in real-time knows why.

Because my bone was splintered in half, protruding from my blood-soaked sock—the white fabric turning as dark as Delleth’s crimson stripes decorating it.

People crowd around, their eyes dancing from the replay back to me as they begin murmuring under their breath.

Before I can escape it, the memory comes to life, sending chills over my skin as I can practically still feel the warmth of my blood seeping through my gear, a stark contrast to the cold of the ice where I laid.

I stumble back, nearly toppling over a barstool as I try to catch my balance.

Phantom pain coils up my shin, a throbbing ache that causes my eyes to twitch.