Page 64 of Tough Guy and the Show Off

“No hard feelings? I figured since you took off without her that you weren’t interested.”

I chuckle. “You’re all good.”

I fist-bump him then dump my bag into my stall and start getting ready for the game. I reach into the front pocket of my bag first to find my gum, but it’s not there. Not the licorice one, anyway, just an old pack of the sour cherry that made us lose three games in a row last season before I vowed to never chew it again.

“Fuck,” I mutter. No gum, Beau’s not here for me to tousle his hair, how the hell am I supposed to play under these conditions? I settle for putting fresh tape on my stick. At least that’s a ritual no one can take from me.

While I’m peeling off the old tape, my phone buzzes in my pocket with an incoming text. I nearly hit Albert with my stick in my rush to look at it. I mumble a quick “Sorry” then check the message.

BEAU: You’re going to play awesome tonight. Keep your head in the game and just remember that Boller loves a good deke, but he only ever fakes left. And their goalie, Gateau, is a leftie, he misses shots over his right shoulder about 25% of the time.

SHOW: Thanks for the tips. Speaking of tips… I was doing some research on blowjob techniques this morning. I really want to suck your dick, Bozy.

I probably shouldn’t have sent him that message while I’m in the locker room. I feel my cock tingle and plump just seeing the reply bubble pop up and disappear a few times, imagining how turned on and flustered he must be.

BEAU: Fuck, I can’t believe you sent me that when I’m in the middle of a workout. Now I’m bricked up on the treadmill thinking about your hot mouth on me.

SHOW: Dude, don’t talk about how hard your dick is when I’m in the locker room, now I’m getting hard.

BEAU: You started it.

SHOW: And I plan to finish it . 29 more days

BEAU: 29 more days…

BEAU: Play your ass off tonight. I’ll be rooting for you.

My fingers hover over the on-screen keyboard with the urge to type out one more message. Three words I’ve never said to anyone outside of my immediate family, and even then, not often. It’s too soon though, and I don’t want to freak him out. I send back a thumbs-up instead and toss my phone on top of my bag so I can focus more on getting ready and less on the gaping, Beau-shaped hole in my life.

“Hey,” Albert says, turning halfway towards me after he pulls his jersey on over his pads. “I know you and Bozy were super close and everything, and I know I’ve got big skates to fill, but I want you to know that I’m going to work my ass off to fill them.”

I nod and give him a weak smile. “You’re a solid player; I’m sure you’re going to do great.”

The somber feeling that was in the locker room before our last game, right after we all found out about Beau, is gone now. Everyone else has already moved on and is more than ready to embrace the line change and our new goalie. I know I need to get there too. We’ve got more than half the season still ahead of us, and with the way Nilsson was playing, we’re on shaky ground to make it into the playoffs, which means we can’t afford too many more bad games.

It’s time to shake it off and get my head in the game.

As soon as my skates hit the ice, I can already tell that everything that’s throwing me off my game tonight isn’t going to brush off as easily as I want it to. No gum, no Beau, I even ended up re-taping my stick twice because it just didn’t feel right. The crowd cheers like they always do as we start our warm-ups, but I can hardly muster any enthusiasm for my usual antics. I still wave my arms to coax them to shout louder and shoot a couple of winks and photo-ready smiles to the fans pressed up against the glass, but my heart isn’t in it.

I spot one fan a few rows back in the stands, waving a bright green sign with the words “We love miss ShowBeau-t” on it. Hard same, friend. I’m guessing they made the sign a few days ago before the trade was announced, and I gotta say, I appreciate the solidarity. I wave to them, then skate over to join the rest of the team, stretching and warming up.

When the puck drops, I’m determined to show Beau and everyone else that I’m still Travis goddamn Showalter, even if it feels like the universe is trying to break me. I get control of the puck, but New Jersey’s forward, Robinson, steals it from me more easily than I’d like.

All the moves are muscle memory at this point, but I’m slow tonight. A second too late every time I try to pass, sluggish driving down the ice, it feels like I’m skating through mud for the first two periods. By the third period, Coach sticks me on the bench and puts Peters in to replace me. I can’t even find it in me to argue with him or feel insulted. I’m playing like shit and dragging the whole team down.

The game ends with a 3-1 loss, and I can feel everyone side-eyeing me during our defeated shuffle back to the locker room.

“Showalter, get dressed, then I want to see you in my office,” Coach barks before he leaves us alone to get changed and lick our wounds.

“Everyone has an off night,” Klaussen says, trying to console me.

“Yeah,” I mutter.

There isn’t any dread or even a flutter of nerves as I make my way down the hallway to Coach’s office once I’m dressed in my street clothes again with my equipment slung over my shoulder. What’s the worst he can do? Yell at me? Tell me I played like shit? The sting of any of that feels a lot less sharp when I’m already missing a limb.

He looks up from his laptop and points to the chair in front of his desk. I close the door behind me, drop my bag, and take a seat, ready for him to tear into me. He doesn’t though. Instead, he gives me a pitying look, and somehow that feels a hell of a lot worse.

“I’m not going to bother asking you what the hell that was out there tonight, because I don’t like wasting time with questions we both already know the answer to.”