9. Knox
9
KNOX
I t feels as if I’m skating harder than normal as I push myself through drills. Each stroke that I take is more aggressive than the last. Focus, dammit. But my mind won't cooperate. I curse under my breath as another pass slips past me, clattering uselessly against the boards.
This is supposed to be my escape, the one place where everything else fades away. But today, even the ice isn't enough to clear my head. Selene's face flashes through my mind for the hundredth time, and I grit my teeth, trying to remove the image.
I shouldn't be thinking about her. Not now, not ever. But I can't seem to help myself. There's just something about her that gets under my skin, no matter how hard I try to ignore it.
Not to mention seeing her during an environmental presentation this weekend hadn’t been a part of the plan, yet here we are. Now I can’t stop thinking about her, and I’m annoyed about it.
The scrimmage starts, and I throw myself into it with a vengeance. Maybe if I skate hard enough, hit hard enough, I can finally shake this restlessness that's been plaguing me for the last couple of days.
But my frustration only builds as the minutes tick by. My teammates are moving too slow, too sloppy. Don't they realize we have to keep our shit together in order to get into the Frozen Four? I grit my teeth and push harder, my muscles burning with the effort.
And then it happens. One of the rookies thinks he's hot stuff and tries to maneuver past me with a fancy move. Instinct takes over and I lash out, slamming him into the boards with a satisfying crunch.
“What the hell, Sanchez?” he yelps, struggling to his feet.
I don't answer, just skate away without looking back. I can feel the tension rippling through the rest of the team, see the wary looks they exchange when they think I'm not looking.
But I don't care. They don't get it. They don't know what it's like to have your head so screwed up that you can't think straight. I take a deep breath, trying to calm the anger that is dancing in my veins.
Get it together. You're better than this.
But am I? Sometimes I wonder. Hockey used to be the one thing I could count on, the one place where I knew exactly who I was and what I was doing at all times.
Now, with Selene lurking in my mind at all times, I'm not so sure anymore.
And that is what scares the hell out of me.
Coach blows the whistle and signals for me to come over to him. I’m not surprised and do as he asks.
“Sanchez,” Coach Johnson says. “A word.”
Great. I tug off my helmet and run a hand through my sweat-soaked hair, breathing heavily as I glide over to him.
“What the hell was that?” he asks, and I can see the anger bubbling under the surface of his usually calm exterior.
I shrug, though I know it won't do me any favors. “Just playing hard, Coach.”
“Playing hard?” He tightens his grip on his clipboard, white-knuckled. “You're playing like a damn wrecking ball. We're a team, Knox. You don't take your problems out on your teammates.”
“I know,” I say, but he cuts me off with a sharp glare.
“Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've got a death wish or something. You think scouts are going to be impressed by this kind of bullshit? By you injuring your own guys?”
My jaw clenches at his words. The scouts have been a sore spot for me all season. I've put everything into this year, my last shot at making an impression before the draft. The idea that I could be sabotaging myself is almost too much to take.
“Look,” Coach says, his tone softening slightly. “I know you've got a lot on your plate right now, but so does everyone else. You need to find a way to deal with it that's not going to tear this team apart. We need you, Knox. But we need you in control.”
He's right, of course. He's always right. That's what makes him such a damn good coach, and why I've respected him even when he's talking to me like this.
“I'll get it together,” I say.
“You better,” he says, then pauses. “Take the rest of practice off. Cool down.”
I open my mouth to argue but think better of it. He's giving me an out, a chance to reset before I do any more damage.
“Thanks, Coach,” I say, though the words taste bitter. I slip my helmet back on and skate toward the locker room. There’s a bit of pain in my chest as I listen to the sounds of my team fading behind me. A part of me wants to turn around, apologize to the rookie, and jump back into the scrimmage. I know I can prove that I'm still the player they need me to be. But I know it would be useless right now. My head's too fucked.
In the locker room, I peel off my gear slowly, deliberately, trying to stretch the time. The cold air stings my sweat-drenched skin as I sit on the bench. I take out my phone to scroll through messages. There's one from Mom asking how practice went. I put the phone down without answering.
I sit back and close my eyes, enjoying the silence of the empty locker room. This used to be where I could put my head on straight before and after practice and games. Now it just feels like everything else.
I sigh and look at my phone again. Mom’s message stares back at me, and guilt gnaws at my gut. I swipe to open it, because I shouldn’t have ignored it to begin with.
Mom: Knox, hope you're doing okay. How was practice? Don’t forget to check in on your sister and let me know when you’re coming home for the birthday party in a few weeks. Love, Mom.
I smile at my mom signing off her text message. It’s something she does on purpose to annoy me.
Me: Practice was fine and I'll text Willow later. Will also let you know about when I’ll be home when I know for sure.
Only the former is a lie.
I should check in on Willow, but she’s doing her own thing, as always. Not to mention, she's made it clear that she doesn't want my interference in her life at Crestwood, and I've respected that. Mostly. But just because she doesn’t want me hovering doesn’t mean I shouldn’t check on her.
I stand and head to the showers, letting the hot water pound against my sore muscles. I will say, it feels good not having to compete with the other guys for the shower, although the reason for this is something I don’t prefer.
The heat seeps into my bones, and for a moment, I let myself relax. I think about the party Mom’s planning for my abuela, affectionately known as Mamita. She’ll be ninety and is still as feisty as ever. The thought of being around family makes me feel a little better, and the change of scenery might do me some good.
I finish up and get dressed before stuffing my gear into my duffel. I sling it over my shoulder and make my way out to the parking lot without saying a word to another soul.
That was probably for the best.
I toss my hockey gear into the back of my car and slide into the driver's seat. I sit for a moment, staring at the steering wheel, unsure of where to go. Home is close, but the thought of sitting alone in my house, with nothing but my thoughts to keep me company, is suffocating.
However, it’s not like at least someone wouldn’t be home soon anyway. Practice is almost over, and as far as I know, Coach had no plans of going over the allotted time.
Shoot, maybe I should just go home and take a nap. That would fix everything right?
With that in mind, I start my car and pull out of my parking spot. The ride home is quick and easy as usual, and as I’m stepping out of my car, my phone rings. A quick glance down at the screen shows it’s my little sister, Willow.
She’s calling me? What the?—?
“Hey,” I say as I’m locking my car door behind me. “I didn’t think you still had my number.”
“Very funny,” Willow shoots back, but I can hear the smirk in her voice. “I called because Mom asked me too.”
“Well that makes me feel all warm and fuzzy on the inside.”
“You could have also called me too, bro.”
I sigh. “I was planning on sending you a text later.”
“Cause Mom told you to.”
I open the front door and quickly close it behind me. “Yep.”
“Well, why don’t we make Mom happy and grab lunch sometime this week? Take a photo and send it to her so she has proof that we can actually stand each other.”
That makes me chuckle. “Are you cool with being seen with me? I know how much you don’t like being around me because of my status symbol as a hockey all-star and?—”
“Shut up and I’ll make an exception this one time. Stop being annoying.”
“But that’s my job,” I say. “Look, I just got home so I’ll shoot you a text and we can figure out lunch.”
“Perfect, I’ll talk to you later then.”
“Later.”
I put my phone in my pocket, drop my gear near the door, and walk into the kitchen. The fridge hums softly as I open it and look inside. A couple of leftover takeout containers, some beer, and a sad-looking lettuce head are all that greet me. We need to go shopping at some point soon, I guess. I grab a beer, twist off the cap, and take a long pull. I shouldn’t be drinking this early, but here we are.
And then Selene enters my brain once more.
I wonder how she's doing right now. Is she still angry? Of course she is; she looked rightfully pissed when I walked up to her this weekend. I fucked this up royally. The thing is, I didn't mean to push her away like that. It all happened so fast—us getting together, the incredible high of it, and then the crushing fear that followed. Fear of feeling something more than just physical attraction.
I take another swig of beer and pull out my phone again, staring at the screen like it's a crystal ball that can show me the future. Should I text her and apologize? Would it even make a difference at this point?
But the truth is, it has gotten to the point where I can’t stop thinking about her and no one else holds my interest. No one else holds a candle to her.
Maybe it is time to try to fix what I’ve so irrevocably broken.