Page 43 of Off Sides

Joey is struggling and it hurts to watch.

I’m at every home game since the season started again because I can’t stay away from him. Even not being a hockey fan, I can tell he’s spiraling. Over the last few weeks, his playing has gotten worse. Little mistakes have become big mistakes that lead to penalties. As an athlete, I know that who you are on the field isn’t who you are off of it. Joey has so many fascinating parts of his personality that I want to deep dive into. He’s the captain and responsible for the harmony of his team, he’s an aggressive but controlled player, and he’s my sweet boy. I need him just as much as he needs me. It’s clear as day.

I don’t know what made him think that everything is his responsibility all the time—probably being the oldest sibling, if I had to guess—but with me he lets go and allows himself to be cared for. Who else does he have in his life that takes care of him?

I know the answer. I spent two weeks with him, every day, every night, and no one asked about him. He got text messages and phone calls from people needing him to fix things but no one asked how they could help him. He needs a break.

We’re in the final period of the game against Miami and Joey has already been in the sin bin twice. The coach has yelled at him, the other players are giving him a wide berth, and he’s throwing things around and jittery.

I have to stop it.

The clock counts down and when Darby gets the next goal, I can see the relief on his face. They’re up by a point and have to hold it for three minutes.

It’s a mad dash when the puck drops, purple jerseys versus green-and-teal jerseys scrambling for the puck. It’s chaos. Skates and sticks everywhere, people getting shoulder checked in the chest. Moves that would be penalties on a field.

Even from up in the stands, I can see the strain on Joey and I just want to give him a break for a few minutes. I need him to need me. To give me a fucking purpose. I’m drowning out here alone. It’s a physical weight on my chest and pain in my heart. Once again, I’m not important to the person that became everything to me. He walked away instead of being taken from me, but the pain is just as sharp.

There’s only a minute left of the game and I get up to leave. Not only do I not want to deal with the crowd when the game is over, but I can’t watch him anymore. Not tonight. Not when I’m almost close enough to touch him.

I end up back at Roasted Mountains and drop down into the same chair I claimed last time. My knee is bouncing as I stare at the windows. It’s dark and cold. The glass is getting foggy around the edges and a part of me wants to put my fist through the panes. It won’t fix anything, but for a minute I might feel something besides the rage that’s bubbling under the surface.

My phone chimes and I pull it out to find a text message in a group chat of teammates. It's probably my own fault that I don’t have anyone that I can call a friend here. I was one of the captains, but I spent more time dealing with freshmen than anyone else and since the season is over, my role is done. I graduate in a few months, so I won’t be part of spring training.

The team doesn’t need me either.

PATTERSON:

Anyone want to meet up?

He’s one of the special team’s guys and always up for something. The guy doesn’t know how to sit still or relax.

The group goes back and forth, deciding when and where to meet up. They decide on Rocky’s and I sigh. It’s going to be full of the hockey team and puck bunnies.

I drop my head back onto the chair and close my eyes.

Just go and talk to him. See for yourself that he’s okay.

WYHE:

I’m coming.

By the time I get to the bar, the hockey team has ascended and it’s chaos. There are girls everywhere, hanging on to every big guy they can get close enough to, beer and shots everywhere.

The big guy that doesn’t know how to smile is trying not to stare at someone, but I can’t tell who it is. The redhead and baseball hat guy are at the bar with a girl hanging on the redhead. What were their names? Paul and…. Brandon?

“Wyhe!”

I turn and see my teammates—well, former teammates, I guess—and head that way. There’s a group of them taking over a few tables, most have drinks already, so I order myself a beer.

For a few hours, I manage to fake a smile and a good time. Some of the guys take pictures or videos and post them on social media. My phone keeps pinging with notifications of the tags and probably Brent asking me what the hell I’m doing. I can’t lie to him tonight, though.

My bladder is demanding attention, so I head to the bathroom to take a piss. It’s surprisingly empty, only two guys at the urinals.

I take the one on the end and handle my business while I let the mask fall for a minute. I’m exhausted from the energy it takes to be here.

As I’m washing my hands, the door opens and my eyes clash with Joey’s. His cheeks are pink from the alcohol and he drags his gaze over me.

“Hmm…” He steps closer, the rich scent of his cologne tickling the edge of my senses. I want to bathe in it, roll around and cover my skin in it.