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And I resigned myself to being his supporting act a long time ago, I guess.
I enjoy playing hockey, but I don’t eat and breathe it the way Hart does. Hell, the main reason that I’ve put half the effort into the team that I have isforConor, wanting to help him get his shot however I can.
I’ve never played for myself. To push myself. To see what I’m capable of.
So I underestimated selfishness.
I didn’t realize how much caring howIperformed would affect my playing.
“Holy shit, Phillips,” is the first thing I hear once I’m seated on the bench.
“What?” I glance over at Conor, then squirt some Gatorade into my mouth.
Blue today, thankfully. Best flavor.
“That was the best goal I’ve seen you score.” He pauses. “Ever.”
“Is that your way of telling me I normally play like shit?”
“No. It’s my way of telling you to keep doing whatever you’re doing.”
I hide the grimace that wants to appear, taking another sip of sports drink instead.
Sure, I’ll continue getting insulted by our coach’s daughter. I’ve scored four goals during today’s practice becauseYou’regood, huh? Are you in the top five for scoring leaders?has been on an endless, annoying loop in my head recently.
I’m not in the top five.
I’m a center. Scoring opportunities are easy to come by. But I’ve always deferred to my wingers, setting them up for the shot rather than taking it myself.
Because I don’t want the individual responsibility.
Because I’d rather operate as one part of the whole, encouraging a winning outcome but not caring about directlycontributing to it. I’m always hoping for a win, but never hungry for it. We win as a team, we lose as one too. Look up team player in a dictionary, and you’ll find me.
But this morning? Every damn time I went to pass, I heard Rylan’s voice taunting me in my head.
Pretty soon, the guys will be calling me a puck hog.
I shouldn’t give a single shit what Rylan Keller thinks of my stats.
Plenty of girls have provided commentary about my hockey career, and I never paid any attention to most of what they were saying. And that was all positive, gushing about my mediocrity, praise which should matter more but actually affected me less.
I didn’t think anyone would notice that I was playing better than usual, not just working harder, and instead it seems like everyone has.
For the rest of practice, I keep hearing comments about how well I’m performing.
Comments that are compliments, and that’s exactly how I should be taking them. But I’m on edge for a whole bunch of reasons, so I mostly absorb them as reminders of the ways I’ve fucked up.
Williams tells me that was a great goal?I failed a class last semester and might not graduate with our class.
Yarrow heads for me first because I sent him a perfect assist?I ruined my relationship with my parents because they supported my brother dating my ex.
Coach nods approvingly after my shift?I fucked your daughter in a hot tub, sir.
It’s a different sort of relief when practice ends. Instead of the shame of a poor performance, I’m eager to escape the congratulations.
I leave the locker room as quickly as possible, swearing undermy breath when Conor calls my name. I pause to let him catch up as we exit the lobby.
“You don’t have class until ten, right?” he asks me.
