Chapter 6
JENSEN
Gearing up for a game always reminds me how lucky I am to play professional hockey for a living. I feel that gratefulness even more so as the ache in my knee throbs, my old injury haunting me every time I take a step.
Years ago, back when I played a short time in the American Hockey League, I tore my ACL and meniscus. After surgery and a long road to recovery, I was back on my skates like new. But recently, it’s felt different again … that throbbing, weakening pain returning.
I’m afraid I really tweaked it—or worse, that I’ll need surgery again. If it’s torn …
I force the thought away. I can’t spiral down that rabbit hole again.
My life has always been a battle with my mental health, but during my injury and the months post-surgery, I hit a new low. I fell into a dark pit that I’d thought I was done visiting after losing Carly. But I got reacquainted with the heaviness of those shadows.
For a lot of days, getting out of bed was the hardest thing I’d ever done. My meds—the same ones I’ve been on since the car accident—weren’t helping much anymore.
My doctors upped the dosage of my Zoloft, which helped a little bit, but it didn’t cure me, like I had hoped.
Apparently, I had to save myself, so that’s exactly what I did.
God, it took me nearly two years to dig myself out of that hole.
I’m scared that I’ll slip and fall back into it if I need knee surgery.
I need to tell the Nighthawks medical team about my pain, but I haven’t even told my teammates. I’ll tell them later, eventually … probably. Maybe the pain will heal and go away altogether.
In the meantime, I have the rest of the third period in this game to play, and in order to get through it, I’m going to deny to myself that anything’s wrong. We’re tied and there’s no way I’m pulling myself from this game.
I’m a defenseman for the New York Nighthawks, number sixty-six. My sole purpose in this world is to play hockey. That’s how it’s been and how it’ll always be.
“JD!” Brett “Burnsy” Burns—one of my closest friends and a forward for the Nighthawks—calls my name as we skate toward the bench for a time-out. “You good?”
“Yeah.” I nod my head a bit too enthusiastically, causing Brett to cock his head to the side with suspicion. “I’m fine.”
Looking into Brett’s puppy-dog brown eyes almost has me spilling the beans, but I refrain, clenching my jaw to keep my secret from slipping out.
Assistant Coach Hartwell spends the next minute going over the game plan on how to keep the Eagles at bay for the remaining few minutes of the period.
We’re up by one, but they’ve been ruthless since the puck dropped at the start of the third.
They are fighting like their lives depend on winning, and we have gotten comfortable in our lead.
It’s time to change the momentum, and we have to find a way to do it.
Hopping the board with my defensive partner, Reed Larinski, we change out with the pair coming off the ice while the forward line skates into the offensive zone with the puck.
Kos passes the puck to Burnsy, who sees me coming past the blue line. Burnsy passes to me and I slap it to Reed.
Hockey players and dedicated fans have a sixth sense you can feel when the stars are aligning on the ice, when their team is about to score, and it feels like magic humming in the air.
It’s not a guaranteed feeling, obviously, but I certainly never get it when we’re about to be scored on or mess up a play.
Reed dishes it back to me, and I pull it right, drawing the defender along with me, knowing that Brett is working to slide into place behind the net. Cam “Costy” Costello, number nineteen and a forward, sinks deep into the zone in the left wing, right at his sweet spot.
Closing the last piece of the puzzle, I chip the biscuit to Alec “Kos” Kostelecky—a center and Captain for the Nighthawks—who’s resting between the two face-off circles, at the same time that Brett wraps around the net, opposite of Costy.
Kos passes to Burnsy, and in one smooth motion, Burnsy swings the puck through the Eagle’s players’ legs perfectly. Costy pulls back and glides his stick down and through the puck right as it reaches him. The goalie is completely blindsided with his back to Costy, his attention on Burnsy, our bait.
The puck sinks into the back of the net, and cheers erupt throughout the rink after our flawless fucking play.
“Fuck yeah!” I scream as our guys group together, all patting Costy on the helmet. “That was fucking dirty!”
Burnsy skates into the group, howling. “Are you kidding?! Costy, that was nasty!”
Costy leads the line of us back to the bench, and we bump gloves with our teammates, who cheer us on, smacking their sticks against the boards.
“That’s what I’m talking about, boys!” Assistant Coach Hartwell shouts, proud of the setup we just worked on at morning skate today.
With only seconds left in the period and game, we burn the clock, passing it back and forth to each other while the clock runs out. The Eagles know and have accepted their fate, not challenging us for it as the buzzer sounds and the Nighthawks arena roars to life, celebrating our win.
This is all I need in life, all I’ve ever worked for and earned.
Nothing compares to the high that pumps through my body after giving every ounce of effort on the ice and leaving it with a win.
Yet there’s still an emptiness in my chest, a coldness that hasn’t warmed for years, where happiness never quite reaches.
But I’ve learned to live with that ache and still enjoy the victories when they come.
Since it’s a home game win, that means one thing: we’re all heading to The Penalty Box bar to celebrate. It’s a Nighthawks tradition to go there after a win. The owners even have a section reserved for us for when we get there, roped off and guarded with security.
There are pros and cons for having a known and established bar as a pro hockey team. Pros are that we chose it and love the staff and owners. Cons are that, sometimes, paparazzi show up to try to get photos or videos of us and our company.
Worse than that, puck bunnies try to wiggle their way into our section. Some of the players don’t discourage the behavior, using it as their own personal dating app. I couldn’t care less. I’m here to play hockey, not fuck around. I don’t need any added distractions in my life.
After a few too many drinks, I’m finally sliding into my bed in my New York penthouse, my body sore and tender. I’m feeling the damage of the game tenfold with my knee tonight. It’s like every muscle in my body is compensating for its sudden weakness, and it’s really starting to wear on me.
Unlocking my phone, I read a text from Matt MacArthur, our starting goalie and one of my other close friends.
Matt: You escaped just in time. Burns and Costy just started karaoke.
Oh God, ha-ha. Send me videos, please.
Matt: For sure. I might send them to Charlotte too.
Charlotte Larinski is the wife of my defense partner, Reed Larinski, and she’s the marketing director for our team. He knows sending them straight to her will get them blasted all over our socials. As long as they’re semi-behaving themselves.
Dirtyyyy.
Matt: You know damn well they’d do it to us.
Yeah, fair, but we would kick their asses. They’re too nice now that they’re all loved up and happy.
He doesn’t answer for a few minutes, and I wonder if he got dragged up on stage for the next number, or maybe he found someone to distract him.
Matt puts on a front that he doesn’t want anything serious, but that couldn’t be further from the truth.
The only problem is, he also doesn’t want anything fleeting, so instead, a lot like me, he isolates himself.
Matt and I are the only two singles left in our tight-knit friend group, which consists of Alec Kostelecky, Cam Costello, Reed Larinski, Brett Burns, Matt MacArthur, and me.
I might not have room in my life for someone else.
But that’s never seemed to stop me from swiping on dating apps.
It’s become more of a form of entertainment than reality, mostly because I never swipe right.
I may use the apps for fun, but I’m not a complete dick who wants to fuck with anyone’s emotions.
After a little perusing of single ladies, I close the app and sigh, dragging my hand down my face before opening Instagram and scrolling through the feed.
I watch a video of a nasty shootout goal, made by a player on the San Jose Badgers against the Seattle Sharks.
He psychs the goalie out before pulling the puck back between his legs and shooting it over the goalie’s shoulder into the net.
I watch it again before scrolling on, and my stomach sinks through the floor as a picture crosses my screen.
Lainey and Cole are arm in arm, posing for some team charity event.
He’s dressed in a plain tux, and she’s in a shimmering blue gown that looks like it was made to be worn by her.
Her smile is stretched across her face, her eyes tipped up at the corners, but I don’t miss the heaviness in her gaze, one I’ve been seeing increasingly as of late in her photos.
But I know that reaching out and checking in with her would probably only fuel the fire between us.
Lainey, Luca, and I remained best friends after he and I left for the AHL and even after Lainey left for college.
We stayed in touch as much as possible, not letting the distance between us get in the way.
But when she started dating that rat Cole Wilder, our FaceTimes and constant messaging fell off, more and more as time went on.
She chalked it up to being too busy, but I know the truth—that boyfriend of hers didn’t like us being so close.
Cole Wilder, the biggest joke I’ve ever known, somehow convinced Lainey, the most brilliant and beautiful woman in the world, to love him.
He’s an asshole who spent our younger years targeting me every chance he got on the ice.
He’s a dirty player and an even dirtier person.
I’ll never understand why or what the hell she sees in him.
But Luca and I are stuck with the consequences.
The caption of her post reads Life lately.
It’s a carousel of photos, each one making me want to crawl into a cave and rot.
Cole’s grubby hands are all over her in almost every photo, and in half of them, it doesn’t even look like Lainey’s happy to be there.
Other people probably don’t notice the subtleties, but I certainly do.
I’ve memorized her face over the years, and I can probably tell when a single muscle twitches, which is how I know that paradise can’t be as great as she’s trying to make it seem.
I know damn well that she isn’t the problem in that relationship. I may be biased, having a deep hatred for her partner, but I know Lainey and know that she would sacrifice anything for the people she loves. Sometimes, she’s empathetic and selfless to a fault.
Which proved true when I took Cole’s knee out a season ago, making damn sure he was leaving the ice for more than a shift.
I succeeded, and he ended up on the bench for a few months.
The next time we faced one another, he chirped to me about Lainey—about how good she was in bed, about how he owned her.
I beat his ass into the ice after that. Fuck, I practically blacked out when my gloves fell, multiple players and refs having to pull me off of him.
The game after that, he was quiet as a mouse—fucking pussy.
Maybe I should reach out to Lainey and check in. Even if she hates me, like she claims for my hurting innocent Cole, I want to know she’s okay.
When I open our old messages, my heart clenches at the date of our last text—almost an entire year ago. We were never supposed to go this long without contact. But since I injured Cole, she’s been giving me the silent treatment.
The whale shark tattoo on the side of my wrist catches my eye, tightening the twist in my chest, a reminder of who we once were to one another and who we are now.
Locking my phone, I toss it on the bed and exhale obnoxiously, trying to force my frustration out of my body, but to no avail.
I stare up at the ceiling, the ache in my knee throbbing, somehow increasing the constant gnawing black hole in my chest that’s been there since I was a kid.
I’ve come to terms with the fact that no matter what, this feeling isn’t going anywhere.
It’s part of my DNA, even more so since Lainey walked out of my life.