Shoot Your Shot

Chapter Twenty-Two

Twenty-Two

Jaylen

Tonight is an important game; a win would move us up into first place in the division. Reaching the top of the chart is the perfect way to ring in the New Year. Some of the guys are already staring at me as I fuss with my mouth guard. Chomping it like a stale piece of gum isn’t soothing my anxiety like I hoped it would.

The crowd is overwhelming me, the lights are too bright, and it feels like I’m at the end of my shift and not the beginning. I haven’t used an inhaler since juniors, but I skate over to the team’s equipment manager and politely ask him to grab my just-in-case inhaler out of my cubby. I discreetly take a puff on the bench followed by a sniff of smelling salts, and then I’m ready to hit the ice for the face-off.

When my inhaler doesn’t offer the immediate relief I was hoping for, I try relying on muscle memory to get me through my shift. I lose the face-off, get hammered into the boards, and turn the puck over in the neutral zone all in the span of forty seconds on the ice. The Squids get on the board first, and I know it’s my fault.

I don’t even look at Coach Pete as I skate off the ice and find my spot on the bench. The team’s assistant coach comes over and gives me a firm pat on the shoulder, which I find more patronizing than encouraging. I continue to struggle to catch my breath on the bench despite the moment of rest it offers my lungs. My chest is tight. I readjust the straps on my chest protector several times over before I’m up for my next shift.

I finish the second period with no shots, no hits, and a dash one. Back in the locker room, guys refuel with coffee, energy drinks, slices of pizza, and whatever else they need to keep their energy up.

Wells is out of his equipment and biking in the corner of the locker room to keep warm between periods. He’s clocking more minutes than usual tonight because I can’t seem to get my shit together.

“I’ve never seen someone sweat so much in my life,” Lamber says as he walks past Wells sweating his ass off on the bike. Lamber rips open another mustard package and slurps it down in one squeeze. He tosses the wrapper in his cubby next to a pile of them.

Wells wipes his face with the towel hanging around his neck and tosses it at Lamber. “And I’ve never seen someone eat so many of those things. You’re not supposed to enjoy them,” he says, getting off the bike. Wells changes into fresh gitch and quickly gets his equipment back on before the coaches are back in the room, chatting to the team.

While everyone around me goes about their regular in-game rituals, I haven’t moved. I haven’t even taken off my helmet or gloves. I sit in my cubby staring at the team crest printed on the middle of the carpeted floor in a daze.

Calendar days don’t exist to hockey players; only game days, practice days, and off days make up our lives for most of the year. But today is January 16. It’s a day I wish I could forget. A day I wish was a meaningless number written on the whiteboard in our locker room.

I can’t believe it’s already been five years, but then again, my life has hardly slowed long enough for me to give it much thought at all. A fact that sends a crippling pit of guilt into my stomach. I sit in my stall quietly.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Soko toss a skate guard at Wells to get his attention. He discreetly points to me with a questioning shrug. Wells shakes his head. The guys know I’m off my game tonight; everyone knows. It’s one of those games where not even a good-luck text from Lucy could save me. These games plagued my potential for years until I was left with nothing but a PTO.

“You good, JJ?”

The deep voice startles me out of my misery. I look up to see Wells ready to hit the ice again. I glance around the room to find all my teammates ready with helmets and gloves on to step out for the third period while I’ve barely moved.

“Yeah, all good,” I say, not wanting to raise any alarm.

During my second year in the league, I had what was described by reporters as a horrendous fall from grace. There was speculation I was injured, even that I was dealing with substance abuse problems—rumors that not only hurt me as a person, but also my value as a player.

But I’ve been playing so well, so consistently these past few months. I thought I was done having games like this. If my last two periods are any indication of where I’m at with my consistency struggles, then I expect to read some horrible things about myself online tonight.

* * *

I battle through the last period trying to keep the puck on my stick. I struggle to read plays I can normally see blindfolded. The rest of the game feels like riding a rough wave. Right when I find my footing, I am once again swept up into a turbulent sea. The final buzzer sounds and after thanking my goalie for the win, I sulk off the ice and down the long tunnel to mope in my locker cubby alone.

I shed each layer of equipment desperate to escape the constant squeeze I feel around my lungs. Nothing offers an immediate release and I continue to take sharp, shallow breaths as I linger dazed in my stall. With my head hung, I press my eyes shut and try to escape myself.

The locker room is empty by the time I leave. If I’m lucky, the team’s family room will be cleared out and the other team’s bus will be long gone from our parking lot as I walk out to my car. The last thing I need right now is to pass everyone on my way out. I can’t rally a happy face—not even for the fans. All I can think about is how badly I played, and how everyone saw.

As I’m leaving the authorized-personnel-only area of the rink, Lucy quickly rounds the corner. She runs over, waving me down.

“How did you get down here?” I ask, looking around for a security member escorting her—or worse, chasing her.

“Please, it was easier than sneaking backstage at Warped Tour.” Lucy’s mood is light and cheery, much like everyone’s mood leaving the locker room tonight after the win.

I’m embarrassed that she’s witnessing me like this. It’s bad enough she had to watch my performance tonight; now she has to see me upset with myself too. I’m not sure what she’s after, sneaking down here to meet me. I’m not focused on finding out; I’m looking for the nearest exit.

“Were you supposed to come get me or was I supposed to meet you down here?” she says, jogging my memory.

I bring my palm to my forehead. While I wallowed in self-despair, I completely forgot about meeting her and her friends in the stands after the game. I didn’t think it was possible, but now I feel even shittier about myself. “I’m sorry, I forgot. I got caught up with treatment after the game.”

Water from my intentionally long shower soaks into the white collar of my dress shirt. I wipe the back of my neck with a silk tie gripped in my fist. My hands weren’t steady enough to button the top buttons of my shirt. For the better I leave it undone; tonight’s poor performance is suffocating enough.

“No worries,” she says cheerfully. “We ran into some friends at the game, and Maya and Cooper headed out to the beer hall with them.” Her cheeks are flushed, maybe from the cold, or maybe she had a couple drinks.

“Cool.” I eye the exit behind her. The longer we chat in this hallway, the higher the odds are of me running into a staff member or coach. I want to get home and pull the covers over my head.

“I wanted to see your face when I told you that you’ll be getting more in-person good-lucks. The team wants me to paint more murals around the rink,” she says, smiling out the corner of her mouth. She’s excited, and she should be. It’s good news; if I weren’t in such a horrible mood, I would be able to match Lucy’s excitement.

“Great.” My eyes dart around the rink, making sure no one is coming.

“Yeah. So, are you going to give me a ride home or make me take a scooter in the rain?” She knots her arms into a tight cross over her chest, standing there like a roadblock preventing my quick escape.

Not only had I completely forgotten to meet her up in the stands after the game, but I also forgot part of our arrangement included driving her home tonight. One quick stop and then I can get home and bury myself alive under my sheets.

Coach Pete’s voice projects down the hall, and it’s getting louder.

“Right. Let’s go,” I say, making a quick beeline for the door with Lucy tucked tightly by my side.

The silence in the car is palpable. I don’t know what to say; I forget how to make small talk. My chest feels constricted as I tighten my grip on the steering wheel. My ears are still ringing from the polarizing change in moods between the crowd celebrating the Rainiers’ win and the tense car ride back to my apartment. Finally, Lucy breaks the silence.

“What’s going on?” she asks, with an uncharacteristic uncertainty in her voice.

I keep my focus on the road. It’s pitch-black outside tonight, except for the blurred streetlights distorted from raindrops gathering on my windshield. “I don’t know.” The words fall from my mouth so low they’re almost indistinguishable. I don’t think I can talk without crying. I’m also worried that if I talk too much, I won’t be able to breathe again.

“Did I do something? Is this about the wave I tried to start during the second period? I knew I shouldn’t have done that. It was lame, wasn’t it? There’s something about a live sporting event that possesses your body into thinking the wave is a good idea.” Lucy forces a laugh. She turns and stares quietly out her window.

“It’s not the wave, Lucy. It’s not you.”

I’m blocks away from her apartment and she’s digging through her purse. She fumbles with the contents as she practically dumps its entirety out on her lap.

“Everything okay?” I ask, peering over.

Loose tissues, candy wrappers, lip gloss, a lighter, and a few paintbrushes spill from her bag. She keeps digging.

“Yeah, I’m sure my keys are hiding on me at the bottom of this bag,” she says with slight panic in her voice.

I’m not sure what more could be hiding in her bag; it looks like she’s packed everything imaginable. I look away, not wanting to get worked up over the increasing mess she’s making in my passenger seat.

“I can’t find my keys. They must have fallen out at the game. Can we go back to the arena really quick?”

I shake my head. “Um, no, I can’t go back there right now. I’ll grab them from the lost and found tomorrow.”

Lucy doesn’t pry. “Okay. Well, hopefully maintenance is still up.”

“How long will that take?” I try my best to sound unbothered, but my voice is stuck on monotone. I can’t deal with all this right now.

“Bobby is great. I’m sure he’ll be over in no time.” With the phone pressed to her ear, I hear the call go straight to voicemail.

It’s late. Most people are asleep right now. I can’t leave her on the sidewalk late at night in the rain waiting for someone to show up with the master key. I know I’m feeling pretty down on myself tonight, but I’m not that shitty of a guy.

“Do you want to come over? Until you get it all figured out.”

“Yeah, sure. Cool.” Lucy repacks her purse and stares out her window.

The rest of the car ride is silent with all my focus on getting us back to my place safely. My vision is tunneled again, and despite the air-conditioning blasting, I still feel flushed.

I’m stuck on mute the entire way up to my unit. I walk like a zombie to my closet.

“I’m not trying to be dramatic or anything, but you’re starting to freak me out,” Lucy says, following close behind. I keep my mouth shut while I begin changing out of my suit. I still don’t have the words to express myself. “Are you sick?” she adds.

Finally, I stop what I am doing and look over at her. I’m half-undressed, but Lucy pretends like she doesn’t notice. She keeps her focus on my face, which is limp and void of any emotion. I let out a long sigh. “I played really bad tonight,” I say, drawing my lips into a tight line.

“Oh,” she says, like my answer caught her off guard, and for once she doesn’t have anything smart to say back. I drop my pants and she cranes her head toward the ceiling while I slip into sweatpants. Following me into my kitchen, she leans against a countertop while I rummage through my fridge. “But you guys won,” she adds warmly.

I can’t stomach any of it, so I shut the fridge door. “We did, but we didn’t deserve the win. I was dash three and took a bad penalty.”

“If it makes you feel any better, my friends and I didn’t even notice.”

“It’s fine. You don’t get it.” I leave her in the kitchen while I head to the living room. “You don’t have anything in your life with this kind of pressure,” I say dismissively as I slump down on the couch. I’m frustrated with myself, and I’m struggling to express my pain without taking collateral.

“I can relate to work stress. Trust me.” Lucy sits next to me. I know she’s trying to give me some perspective, but I’m so closed off it’s hard to accept.

I kick my feet up on the coffee table and toss my head back, slouching into a position that allows me to fully expand my lungs—yet my breathing still feels shallow.

“Not like this. If I don’t perform, then I could be gone. I will lose everything again.” I stare up into a pot light on the ceiling until my vision is distorted with black spots every time I blink.

“Jaylen, I want to put permanent art into people’s skin for a living. One bad move and whose becomes who’s or a portrait of someone’s beloved dead dog becomes some random dog.”

“I would take one bad Yelp review over twenty thousand people booing me,” I say, wallowing in self-pity.

I feel shitty when things are going well for me, like I’m an undeserving recipient of good fortune, but just as much, I feel shitty when things go awry, like I should know well enough to prevent it. No matter what, I feel an insatiable guilt for existing.

Lucy grabs my hand, and the connection is warm enough for me to finally look down. “I only heard cheers tonight,” she says softly.

She’s being kinder than I deserve, and this goes well beyond her scope of being my good-luck charm. I’m sure I’ll pay big-time for this postgame pep talk.

Lucy’s head tilts to the side as she squeezes my hand. She’s still not letting go. It hits me that she’s seeing me at my worst tonight, and yet she insists on checking on me.

I’ve tried my best to respect her determination to remain unattached and single as she figures out her career, but I’m not sure I’m strong enough to fight off my urge to love her right now. The only self-defense against her I can rally is to be a dick, and it doesn’t feel great.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know why I said any of that,” I say. I sit up and grab my chest. “It’s hard to breathe. Like someone is squeezing me. Everything looks out of focus.” There’s a panic in my voice that scares me. I need to pull it together, but my breathing is labored again. Lucy starts rubbing my back, but I can’t stop thinking about the game, about her, about Cam. Every breath I draw is heavier and louder than the last.

“I think I know what’s going on here. I’ll be right back.” Lucy disappears into the kitchen. With my eyes pressed shut, I hear the ice machine clang and she quickly returns with a couple ice cubes in hand. She places them in my palms. “Squeeze these,” she says.

I hold the freezing ice cubes in my hands as they melt into my palms, the fridge water dripping out of my grip and onto the area rug beneath my feet. Drip. Breathe in. Drip. Breathe out. Drip. Breathe in. I feel the cold burn against my skin and for the first time in what feels like hours, I can escape my mind. I can breathe again.

“Where did you learn that?” I ask, examining my wet hand for some magic pill, but it’s only water.

“My mom started having panic attacks after my dad left us. If you don’t have ice handy, you can try sucking on really sour candy. Anything to trick your mind into focusing on something else long enough to calm down.” Lucy sits back down on the couch next to me—closer this time.

“Panic attack?” I’ve heard the term before, but never knew what it meant. I assumed it was an expression people used when they were stressing over something. The way Lucy speaks makes it seem serious—clinical even. I’ve never struggled with my mental health in the past, at least I didn’t think I did.

“Shortness of breath, tunnel vision, tight chest. That’s a panic attack. Sounds like you’ve had a few tonight. You should talk to someone about it,” Lucy says.

While her concern is gentle with the well-intended suggestion, it’s still embarrassing. “Yeah, sure. I can bring it up with the team doctor,” I say, wanting to forget about the entire thing.

I don’t feel weak or broken. I’m in incredible shape. I’ve played through a fractured foot before; labored breathing feels like a silly reason to see the team doctor.

“Good. Panic attacks can be really debilitating.” Lucy leans her head against my shoulder. “How do you feel now?” she says, her tone a bit lighter.

With the weight of her body propped against mine, I feel more stable than I’ve been all night. And I’m prepared to sit like this as long as she lets me.

“Better,” I say.

My head feels clear, and I’m more present than I’ve been all night. I was so determined to avoid everyone all game, but now that I’m with her, I don’t want to be left alone anymore. I lean in even closer to Lucy. She makes me want to forget about tonight’s unforgiving sixty minutes of hockey, or even face them. It’s a confusing feeling, but I know one thing for sure: I’m glad she lost her keys.

“Good, but if you’re still feeling a bit anxious…” Lucy says, sitting up. She squares herself up to me. “You should close your eyes and visualize a place that makes you happy.” She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. Her chest rises and falls as her cheeks swell into a grin. I wonder what place makes her happy and wish I could be there with her.

“I don’t have to. I’m already there.”

I can see her so clearly right now, like I did the first night she ran into me. She’s something good and I need to grab on to her before she’s gone. I move a chunk of her hair off her face and push it behind her ear, wondering how anyone so scrappy can look so angelic. She tips her head up to me, slowly blinking her eyes open. They’re strikingly green tonight. I can’t hold back anymore. The words practically fall out of my mouth. “I can’t keep pretending I don’t want to kiss you.”

“Then don’t. You’ve never been good at it anyway.”

Lucy grabs my face, and I latch on to her, making sure she doesn’t slip away again. Being this close to her is like coming home after a long road trip, and kissing her is like crawling into bed. Even the thought of her makes me feel less lonely. I pick her up and bring her into my bedroom.

I fall back on the edge of my bed with her straddling my lap. Watching Lucy run her hands up her body and over her tits until her nipples poke through her shirt has me momentarily wondering if I’ve passed out from lack of oxygen or if it’s all really happening.

Lucy slowly lifts her shirt up over her head until she’s topless. I dive in, cupping one bare breast in my hand and putting my hot mouth over her other nipple. Her piercing tickles my tongue. I feel it harden even more in my mouth as I run my tongue back and forth.

I push Lucy’s hair out of the way and kiss her neck. She hums. I tip her onto her back and kiss my way down her body. From near her belly button, I look up at her, waiting for permission to pull her pants off her hips. She nods at me, lifting her hips, and I finish undressing her.

She pulls my shirt over my head, and I slowly make my way back up her body, kissing her until I reach her mouth. Her nails dig into my bare back, and it feels almost as good as the pressure of my dick pressed between her bare legs. She trembles beneath me as she bites down on her bottom lip.

“I want you so bad,” I say. I’ve thought of this moment every night for months—since I messed it up last time. I need to show her that I can take care of her, that I know how to please her.

“Fuck me, then.” She says it like a dare—like she knows her taunting drives me wild.

“I’ve thought about you for months.” I rush to get my pants off. As I’m leaning over the bed, opening my nightstand drawer to grab a condom, Lucy reaches for my hand and stops me.

“I’ve got an IUD and I haven’t been with anyone else since our night together in the hotel. So, you’re fine.”

“Okay. Same.” I nod, trying to act like I didn’t get even harder at the thought of feeling her bare. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it for you. I want you to feel good.” I sound needy, but I don’t care because I do need her, so badly.

Her knees fall apart, and I take in the sight of her. I open my mouth and let the spit I’ve gathered on my tongue drip down onto her pussy. She watches as my fingers firmly rub up and down over her clit, spreading my spit around. Her mouth parts and she gasps for air.

With my dick in hand, I spit on my head and stroke it up and down a couple of times, making sure it won’t hurt when I slide inside of her. Glancing down, I ask, “Are you ready?”

Her eyes narrow, and her top lip curls. “Fuck me already, Jaylen. I’ve waited long enough.”

I watch her face as I slowly guide my cock inside her. We gasp in unison. She’s even tighter than I remember. I thrust hard and she tosses her hands over her head; I quickly pin them in place with some force.

“Tell me I’m a good girl,” she begs with a breathy voice as I fuck her. Lucy’s cheeks are flushed as she looks up at me with pleading eyes.

I laugh nervously at her request, thinking she’s teasing me. Lucy grits her teeth at me, like she means it. Her nails dig into my hands, so I feel it too.

“But you’re not. You’re naughty and that’s what I love about you,” I say, thrusting into her harder. I adjust our positioning, taking her legs and putting them over my shoulders. Her body bounces from each thrust. Lucy throws her head back and moans. I never knew sex could be this selfless. I want it to last forever. I want to make her feel like this all night.

“Turn over.” I use my most authoritative voice. I want to see her from behind. “I mean, if you like it like that,” I quickly add, in a less threatening tone.

Her face lights up, and she does as she’s told. As she turns around, I plant a firm slap on her ass. She gasps as my palm makes contact. We’re already so in tune because she’s on all fours before I can even ask her to bend over for me.

I spread her legs farther apart and she arches down even lower to the bed. I guide myself deeper inside her pussy than I thought possible.

“Tell me if it hurts too much.” My breathing is labored while I try to keep my composure and last long enough to impress her.

She looks back at me with pleading eyes through heavy eyelids. “I want it to hurt.”

I nearly bust right there, but instead, I grab her hips and thrust into her, my body smacking against her ass.

“Don’t stop,” she cries out. “I’m going to come.” She pants. I feel her clench around me and her body shake. I finish a few thrusts later, deep inside her.

When it’s over, I gently kiss up her bare back and take Lucy into my arms. She rests her flushed face against my warm chest. She leans into my body and I wrap my arms around her to stabilize her. We’re both sticky with sweat. I tip her chin up and kiss her on the lips.

“I like your art,” she says, still panting. She tilts her head over toward my wall where I’ve hung the stolen Lucky Thirteen sign. It’s the first thing I see in the morning and the last thing I see at night.

“It reminds me of you.”

She smiles, giving me a playful shove off her. “Let’s order some food and eat it in bed,” she says sluggishly as she crawls under the duvet.

And in that moment, I know I’m in trouble, because I would do anything she asks of me.