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Taking a deep breath in through my nose, I bask in the moment I’m all too familiar with. A moment I used to live for when I was a kid.
Hockeywas once my obsession. The way the ice feels beneath my skates as I glide with powerful thrusts of my legs. The pain, the burn, of being slammed into glass walls. Broken bones, bloody noses, black eyes. I crave the release of that violence, of scoring, even the shame of the fucking penalty box.
It’s a catharsis. It’s my legacy.
Or at least, it used to be.
Hands reach for me from all sides, tugging desperately at my jersey, if only so I’ll turn and look at them. Like my fucked-up gaze is some good luck ritual to them.
Luck has nothing to do with anything. It’s pure, raw, unbridled talent that’ll earn us a win today. Not the puck bunnies desperate for our attention, not the voices screaming from the stands. It’s the team itself.
We’re a perfect, synchronized unit. And as we skate out onto the ice, we’re ready to obliterate our competition.
We’re supposed to have each other’s backs above anything else.
I try to ignore the distractions surrounding us. The way the entire team pauses as someone who’s not supposed to be near the ice pushes through the front of the stands. I exhale slowly, keeping my head down, keeping my mind on the prize, even as my entire body begins buzzing with something that feels a lot like anticipation. I miss that feeling. I haven’t played since...
I shake the dark thought away. I have to stay focused.
Voices around me rise. Excitement. Anger. Rage.
My gaze turns on my teammate in time to see him drop a stack of papers onto the rink. I see the hurt in her big brown eyes, and something about the expression pressurizes in my chest at the sight of it.
It’s like a ticking bomb every time our eyes meet.
But she doesn’t see me. She never truly does.
My gaze darts away just as quickly as it landed on her, and I skate over to my seat, regulating my breathing and trying to push myself back into the winning zone. I can’t think about her right now.
Not now...
Every player has their rituals at the start of our games. It’s imperative they’re never, ever, fucked up.
As if I wasn’t already fucked up before watching Nathan speak to her. Now my concentration is entirely fucking destroyed.
I take a breath just as a large palm slaps down against my shoulder. My entire body is tense against his casual touch. Nathan all but screams in my ear. “Let’s go for the win.”
The win.
That pressurized feeling in my chest ascends to my throat, and I turn a slashing smile to my teammate.
“Yeah,” I say with that teetering smile. “Let’s go for the fucking win.”
Four
Atlas
Death isn’t as morbid as some people like to believe it is. I’ve always thought of it as a peaceful experience. To see bodies without the soul inside is like looking at someone in a deep sleep.
Death changes the body. It removes that soul glow, creating a waxy facade. And it’s my job to change that. It’s amazing how makeup can breathe the soul back into a shell that has none.
How I can make something that’s considered ugly–morbid–beautiful once again.
There’s a sort of catharsis to my work, and I find myself lost in the post-mortem routine. Brushes swap to and from my fingers at a careful pace. Foundations, blushes, lipsticks... it all begins to come together in every stroke and flick of my wrists, and what was once pale and gray becomes something more doll-like and pretty.
Prettiness, I’ve noticed, is something people value. Even in the dead.
From the makeup that touches their faces, down to every scrap of clothing they own. I make it happen for them. Even when I can’t find the energy to do it for myself.
