Page 133 of Hockey Boy
War pushes in without waiting to be invited. “Are you sick?”
With a long breath out, I stumble to the kitchen. I need to have a game-day smoothie and turn this day around. “I’m fine.”
“You didn’t show up for morning skate. Coach is livid.”
I peer into the fridge, searching for ingredients. “You mean my brother is livid.”
Behind me, War scoffs. “I have no idea what the hell is wrong with you, but whatever it is, get over it.”
Shame washes over me. Fuck. Straightening, I roll my shoulders. “Sorry. I will. I just—I needed a few hours.”
“Get your head on straight or sit tonight. Choice is yours.”
“Okay, Captain,” I grit out.
“Stop that shit. I’m here as your friend. If something is wrong?—”
“Nothing is wrong.” I focus on breathing evenly, doing everything I can to ignore the stabbing pain in my chest. “Like I said, just needed a few hours.”
War stares at me, really fucking stares at me, for so long that I almost break down and spill my guts. But just as I’m working up the nerve, he nods and heads for the door.
“Head in the game, Lep,” he shouts over his shoulder. “We need our lucky charm tonight.”
The weight of that title hits me, stealing all the oxygen from my lungs. When the door snicks shut, I crumple to the floor, taking the light with me as I go.
The noise level inside the arena is almost as intense as the pounding in my head.
Lennox texted me that she wouldn’t be back before I had to leave for the game, but that she had big news.
I already know the news, and the dread of it all keeps me from looking for her in the suite where she usually sits with Sara. I waited to hit the ice until the last possible moment, and while I was doing that, I got reamed out by my brother for missing morning skate.
“Being a Langfield doesn’t give you the right to pull that shit. Do it again, and I’ll bench you and put Keegan in.”
I nodded. What the fuck else was I supposed to do? They all know I’m off, but it’s nothing new, I guess. For the last few weeks, I’ve been slower. Sloppier. Like I’m skating through a fog.
It makes no fucking sense. I have everything I’ve ever wanted. I should be happier. That thought only sends me spiraling further.
I take my place at center ice, stick in hand, attention locked on the puck gripped tightly in the ref’s fingers, ignoring the entire line in front of me, including Pochenko, New York’s center, who hasn’t stopped mouthing off since he skated up to the line.
“Figured I’d be facing off against Keegan. This should be easy.”
Ignoring him, I wait for the whistle, and the moment the puck drops, I’m slapping it toward War.
I barely keep my balance when Pochenko shoulder checks me even though I no longer have the puck. With a grunt, I push the asshole away, determined to focus on the game and not the tingling in my fingers.
“Whoop, there it is!” War hollers, signaling our next move.
I lunge to get in position, but when the puck flies my way, I’m three seconds short, and Vincent Lukov takes control of the biscuit.
“Your brothers should have benched ya,” he jeers as he skates by me.
Dots dance in front of my eyes. They only clear when the buzzer signaling a goal for New York rings through the arena.
I’m trying to blink back to reality when War appears in front of me and practically drags me to the boards. “Second line’s coming in. What are you doing?”
In a jerky motion, I jump out of the way so the game can continue.
A water bottle hovers in front of me, so I snatch it and pour it over my face. Despite the frigid temperatures in the arena, I feel like I’ve been in the Sahara for days.