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He nods. Dropping his hands in the pockets of his high-end jeans, he scans the gym some more. Nobody really left for him to show off for.
“Thanks for coming, I guess. I should go.” I move to push past him, but he places his palm on my arm.
“Laney, I?—”
My eyes flutter as my gaze shifts to his touch. I don’t recoil, but I want to. My stare climbs to his face and I shake my head.
“What?”
He takes a deep breath, and for a sliver of a second, I swear his lips start to form the wordsI’m sorry.But his mouth quickly closes as his shoulders roll back.
“You know, now is the time to focus. You’re in a fight for your life, and you really shouldn’t be letting yourself get distracted with . . . what, hockey players?” He waves a hand dismissively as my stomach churns.
“I am focused. And you’re too old to be on social apps stalking college kids.” A repulsed sneer forms on my mouth.
“Well, my brand sort of requires I pay attention to things. And it’s hard not to notice your daughter being linked to some showy romance bet or something. He sounds like a loser, you know. This boy? His brothers barely made the draft and his numbers are nowhere near theirs.”
He seriously researched Cutter.
“Good to know. Also, he’s twenty-two. So, probably not a boy. And we’re not anything. We are housemates, and people like to gossip. Now, if you excuse me?—”
“Your mother said you turned down a proposal from Cam?”
I stop mid-step, my back to the man, and drop my chin to my chest. Since when do he and Mom talk? And how would he know about Cam? I didn’t think he knew I dated.
“I can’t do this right now,” I say, refusing to look him in the eyes one more time. “Just, I don’t know. Text me or something. Send a birthday card. You know the drill.”
My stride is long and quick. I can’t get away from my father fast enough, and my insides are literally boiling with a mix of emotions. Part of me wants to cry, but those tears will only be hot lava because I’m also so angry I could punch someone.
I march home alone, and the weather is starting to turn. The days are getting shorter, and it’s pitch black outside by the time I reach our street. I could shower and change and head to Patty’s to celebrate with a few of the girls, but I don’t fit in. Not now. At least not in my head. There’s so much noise bouncing between my ears, this voice that sounds like mine only slightly more commanding, and it keeps telling me that I’m a failure and I’m not good enough. I know it’s lying to me, but for the first time in my life, I’m giving it space. I’m letting it win.
Ivy’s working and Matt isn’t home, which I’m oddly disappointed about as well. I don’t even have the energy to shower, so instead, I toss my bags at the foot of the bed, kick off my shoes, and crawl into the blankets. I roll to my side and look at the plump pillow and open space where Cutter should be. He’ll be home tomorrow sometime, after his dinner with his mom, I suppose. It feels as if someone is pressing a thumb into the center of my chest, just where my ribs part. I feel helpless. I feel lonely.
I bury my face in my pillow and scream, letting my voice crack and gurgle since nobody is home to hear me. I do it three times until my throat hurts and my head feels dizzy. I swivel my head to look the other way and spot my laptop charging on thenight table. Unplugging it, I drag it to my pillow and flip it open, checking the time—6 p.m. Cutter’s game should still be going.
I log into the division website and pull up the stream for his game just in time to see the start of the third period. It’s tied one to one, which is strange to see for our men’s hockey team. We tend to score a lot, and there is no mercy for the weak.
“There you are,” I mutter to myself when I spot Cutter hopping onto the ice over the wall. I smile at the visual. It’s such a stereotype, but something about seeing him do it makes my stomach settle and my chest warms.
“Let’s go,” I whisper, nestling in and propping my head up on my hands.
I’ve watched a few of their games, though usually I’m only there to put in my hours. Every athlete has to help out other teams—selling snacks, working as security. I always like to help people find their seats. I get to watch the games that way. I’ve never felt invested before, though. Now, however, I can feel that same fire I get when I play. Watching Cutter check guys into the glass and skate away with the puck has me sitting tall, and when he gets undercut, I grit my teeth.
“Come on, Cutter. You got this.” The room is dark, except for the glow from my screen. I feel like a pre-teen watching rated R movies under her blanket.
When Cutter takes a shot, I hold my breath. The puck soars off of the goalie’s stick and wraps around the goal.
“Damn it!”
Cutter chases it down, in a race with some guy who is about his size and has the speed advantage. When his opponent gets to the puck first, I begin to will Cutter on. My mouth keeps silently utteringcome on, come onas Cutter regroups and more Tiff players spill onto the ice while others leave. Our goalie makes three massive stops in a row, finally getting one into Cutter’s control.
A million calculations happen at once as I watch him work our team into position before attacking. I want to be inside his head to tell him what I see, but it’s almost as if he’s reading me anyhow. They’ve been double-teaming Cutter the entire period, but he’s managed to lose one of the defenders, and he takes a pass to the right of the goal in time to flip it into the net so fast that I’m not sure it went in or not.
I pile my hands on top of my head as I sit up and stare at the screen, feeling pretty good as Cutter and a few of the guys huddle in celebration as they skate back to center ice. The student broadcasting seems just as unsure as I am, but eventually he gets confirmation from the refs and Cutter raises his stick in the air while pumping his other fist.
I hold my hands up and grin, and I don’t lay down again until the time runs out and we come away with the win. I’m so fired up from the game that I think I could run a mile without breathing hard right now. The invisible weighted blanket I was carrying around before seems to be gone, too. My father, the Caney-ship posts, Chelsea—it’s all a haze in the past. I know this feeling won’t last, but for now, it feels nice to be distracted. Maybe what I need is the opposite of my father’s advice. More distractions. Less focus.
I pull my phone out and send Cutter a text.
