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“She is super hot,” I agree.
Hart elbows me, right where my ribs are aching from my collision with the boards earlier.
“Ow!” I glare at him.
“Get your own girlfriend.”
I snort. “Never gonna happen,” I tell him.
Too forcefully, because it prompts a curious head tilt.
“Never?”
If the faded scars on my heart haven’t healed by now, I’m not sure they ever will. And even if they do, the sting of betrayal is a lasting lash.
I think Conor has an idea there’s someone in my past, probably from something I said while drunk, but he’s never explicitly asked me about it. And he’s certainly never suggested Idatebefore.
“Why would I? I have you and Morgan for sappy shit and Ican fuck anyone I want without forced small talk or holding hands in a movie theater first. Win-win.”
Conor shakes his head. “You haven’t told me or Hunter whatsappy shithas been bothering you for the past couple of months.”
I look away, at the ice. “It’s nothing,” I say, same as every other time he or Hunter have asked me what’s going on.
Nothing they can fix, at least. I’d rather remain in denial as long as possible, and talking about it means I can’t pretend it’s not happening.
Hart sighs.
Coach Keller’s whistle cuts through the cold air.
Conor pops his mouthguard back in, stands, and climbs over the boards onto the ice. If the first line is up, that means I only have a few minutes left on the bench.
I stretch to the left again, wincing. Whether or not my rib is actually broken, I have a bad feeling it’ll bruise. And the only upside to having a purplish blotch on my side is that girls seem to find it sexy. Most act like I’m a war hero returning from active combat if we hook up after I’ve recently taken a nasty hit. But even that sympathy isn’t worth the annoying ache until it heals.
The whistle sounds. I stand, swearing under my breath when I experience the sharp stab of pain along my ribs.
It was a sophomore defender who took me out, too, which is just embarrassing.
I should be faster. Should be sharper.
And my hangover isn’t entirely to blame. My head is all over the place. I’m stressed about school—the seriousness of what’s at stake in the Stats class. Dreading the engagement party that’s creeping up closer and closer. I’m still dodging my dad’s calls like it’s a sport, but I’ll have to talk to him eventually.
Problems I temporarily solved last night by getting drunk and hooking up with a blonde whose name I already forgot.
Today, I’m paying the price.
The blades of my skates scrape as I move into position for the drill we’re running. The frozen surface is marred, the ice carved and covered with sprays of shavings from the past hour. Today’s practice has been brutal.
Dean Zimmerman, the assistant coach, sends a puck to Ace Carter, my right winger, to start the play. Carter enters the zone first, me and Tyler Yarrow, my left winger, trailing slightly behind him so we don’t trigger an offside call for crossing the blue line before the puck. Carter passes to Yarrow. Yarrow circles, then passes to me.
I miss, the puck whizzing an inch past my waiting stick. I hustle after it as fast as my aching side and hungover muscles will allow.
My maximum speed is too slow. Andy Pierce, who’s responsible for my throbbing ribs, reaches the puck before I can and sends it straight out of the zone.
Another sharp whistle pierces the cold air.
I swear under my breath as I skate back to the bench and take a seat next to Conor. He says nothing, which is worse than anything he could have commented. His silent disapproval saturates the chilly air, suffocating me. I hate disappointing him. Hate worrying I’m the weak link letting down the team. And the more I worry about it—about everything that’s weighing me down—the more tempting an escape sounds.
Grow up, Aidan, is what my dad would say if he could see me slumped on the bench right now. And he doesn’t even like hockey. Couldn’t care less how many passes I miss.
