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I swear, when I saw her wandering around the Ice Box, her eyes wide and worry-stricken, her face even paler than her milky natural tone, her lips quivering, and everything about her expression and body language broadcast that something was justwrong, I felt like I was going to have a fucking heart attack.
Then, when the thought flashed in my mind that she was in that state because of something that guy she was talking to did—that asshole Brendan—I thought I was minutes away from a murder conviction.
But later, when I was walking her home, and she told me everything, how she’s still carrying trauma from the car accident she was in that gets triggered sometimes … fuck, I don’t even know how to explain how I felt.
It’s unfair. Unfair that Phoebe got hurt, unfair that she can’t figure skate anymore, and so unfair that on top of that, she’s still dealing with lingering mental health issues that make it harder for her to live her life.
She might like to grind my gears and push my buttons—hell, she might have perfected doing both over the course of half our lives—but she’s always been a good person.
She’s always been nice. Maybe not to me, but to most people.
She’s so good with the kids at the rink. When we went to school together, she always went out of her way to make other kids who were less social feel included, especially when a new kid moved to town.
All her life she’s done nothing but the right thing. She’s done nothing but work hard and sacrifice for her dreams, and a fucking piece of shit drunk driver tore those dreams away from her in an instant and left her with mental and emotional scars to carry with her for who knows how long.
And she still skates.
She still laces up a pair of skates and glides around the ice with a form so graceful and beautiful I couldn’t match it in a million years. She still volunteers her own time, something she doesn’t have to do, to teach young kids to love skating like she does.
If I couldn’t play hockey anymore, I don’t think I’d be able to stomach being anywhere near a rink. It would just hurt too bad.
But Phoebe does it almost every day. She takes the skills she still has and not only still uses them, but helps pass them on to a new generation.
I’d never tell her I think this, but it’s fucking admirable.
Not that I’m likely to even get a chance to tell her that any time soon even if I wanted to. She’s been avoiding me ever since I walked her home that night.
Avoiding me even more than usual, that is. Which is saying something.
I guess she opened up more than she meant to, and now she wants to keep her distance.
She still talks to Shane, though. They usually chat whenever we happen to be at the rink at the same time.
My stomach still does that … thing when I see him making her laugh. The same thing it did when I saw that Brendan guy making her laugh at the party before she spiraled.
I’ve never in my life wanted to be someone else, except when I see another guy making her laugh like that.
A jolt of shock blasts through me. I sit up straighter in my seat. It feels like my eyelids ricochet with how quickly they snap wide up.
Why the hell didthatthought enter my mind?
It’s gotta be the pre-game stress. It’s making weird, crazy thoughts I don’t even believe bubble up in my consciousness.
Yeah, that’s the only explanation. Gotta be it.
The first game of the season starts out better than anyone could have hoped judging by our pre-season performance. I win the puck during the opening face-off, and within the first five minutes of play Shane sinks it into New Jersey’s net.
“Fuck yes!” I yell, skating up to Shane and wrapping my arms around him. Walsh jumps on his shoulders in celebration.
Even Lars—and I have to close my eyes and reopen them to make sure I’m not hallucinating—pats Shane on the back in congratulations. There might even be the beginnings of a smile on our team grump’s face.
For a moment, it feels like we’re on top of the world. The high that I’ve grown addicted to over the last three years surges through my bloodstream. If there’s a better feeling in the world, I haven’t found it yet.
When the ref skates into position for the next puck drop, I don’t even think about our pre-season performance. I don’t think about the difficulties we’ve been having in practice.
None of that shit exists to me anymore.
For a moment, this season is no different than the last three I’ve played at Ridley. We’re still the Hot Shots, still perennial championship contenders, still the damn kings of the ice.
