Chapter 9 I Try, but I Fall, Close My Mind, Turn It Off #2
The Aspen Snowdogs intend to trade me. Que merda.
They really want to get rid of me. It’s not uncommon for this kind of news to be kept from the players, who end up finding out through others or the press.
It’s ice hockey, and everyone just thinks, Cool, great sport.
They think everyone’s there out of passion and that everyone who supports the team is the same.
But, truth is, a hockey team’s big business.
All they care about is money. Just like with so many things in life.
Not being upfront about that kind of thing with the players isn’t unrealistic, but it’s still a disgrace.
And I never—I mean, under no circumstances—ever thought I’d be involved in something like this.
Carl opens his mouth to speak. But I can’t let him do that because I know, I know, when those words leave his lips, there’ll be no turning back.
The Titanic is going down. I’m Jack. Carl is Rose. I go for the mic. It’s the door we’re swimming with, and, sorry, Carl, sorry, Rose, but I need this door because I want to live.
“I’m playing,” I say firmly.
Everyone is staring at me. Every single pair of eyes in the room is hanging on my every word.
I can feel sweat beginning to bead on my neck and race down my back. “Next weekend. Home game. Against Boston. I… Umm… I will be there. Out on the ice.”
Man, whatever I just did was the dumbest goddamn thing I could think of. Shit, I can’t even lift my water glass without wincing.
The team’s looking at me like I’ve lost my mind or something.
Carl looks like he is on the edge of a breakdown.
His eyelids are trembling. But Coach Jefferson looks proud.
He’s a bit like me. A bit off, I think. That’s why I like him.
The light reflecting off his half-bald head is blazing as he nods and smiles, nods and smiles, as if I actually did something right when all I feel is that I’m a total ass.
Suddenly the silence ends like my bomb had only just exploded.
The journalists jump up and start yelling over one another, all the cameras trained on me, thousands of questions, and then a thousand more, and all that’s in my head is fear.
Next to me, Owen can’t take it anymore. It’s all too much.
He’s been farting the whole time; it’s awful.
His face is deep red, but no one seems to notice because they’re all looking at me.
“Paxton,” I say softly, as I just can’t pretend right now. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
My teammate creases his blond eyebrows, and his forehead breaks into so many wrinkles, it’s like they’re overlapping. “Funny,” he hisses. “You’re so funny, Lopez. It’s not like we’re in the middle of a fucking press conference or anything!”
“You can’t just go,” Samuel mumbles. His voice is deep and warm and reminds me of Samuel Jackson, which is funny because they even have the same name. “Are you aware of what kind of shit you just dropped, man?”
“I don’t give a fuck.” I stand up. The legs of my chair screech across the polished floor.
I push past Owen without a word. Carl moves to grab my arm but stops when he sees that I’m at my limit and casts me a threatening glance instead.
Don’t even think of leaving, it says. Don’t even think of going, kid. I’m going to murder you.
But I leave anyway. What do I care about Carl and the look on his face?
Camila is waiting for me in the parking lot. She’s sitting at the wheel of her car scrolling TikTok when I get in.
“That went quick,” she says, putting her phone to the side and starting the engine. “How’d it go?”
“Like a prison break.”
“What?”
“I fucked up, Mila.”
“Porra.” My sister rolls her eyes while putting the car in reverse. “You’re constantly fucking up, Wy.”
I put on my seatbelt. “Yeah. But this time it was bad.”
“It’s always bad.”
I lean my head back and massage my temples. “They want to kick me off the team.”
“What?”
“Yeah. So when the reporters asked, I said that I’d be playing next weekend.”
“WHAT?”
“I know, Fodasse, Camila. Fodasse! What should I do now?”
“Umm.” She turns onto the main road and blinks her eyes. Several times. “Clarify? Say you’re sorry? Say that you’re doing better but that you’re not ready yet?”
“No can do. I’ve got to do this.”
“Oh, right, of course, you mean to tell me HOW?” Camila’s voice grows shrill.
Her fingers are clutching the wheel. I’m quite sure she’s imagining it’s my neck right now.
The woman is terrifying. If she wasn’t my sister, I’d be afraid of her.
“What’s wrong with you, Wyatt? Seriously, what’s wrong with you? ”
“No idea! Maybe I’m just trying to make everything okay?”
“To make everything okay?” She steps on the gas, and we shoot down the highway. “You still all right there upstairs? You can’t play!”
“Well, I mean, in theory, I can. Practically, on the other hand…”
Camila makes a frustrated sound, hammers her head four times against the headrest, and takes the downtown exit. “What do you want to do, Wy?”
I look out the window and think. Houses rush past. Jack-o’-lanterns out front. Jack-o’-lanterns out in front of Aria’s. Kids in costumes trick-or-treating.
“Oh my God, hold up,” I say.
Camila looks at me. “What? Why?”
“Stop.”
“I can’t stop here. This is William’s no-parking zone.”
“Meu Deus, Camila, it doesn’t exist! He simply made that shit up. Hit the brakes!”
“I don’t want to. William scares me.”
“STOP THE GODDAMN CAR!”
She stops. I turn around in my seat and look through the rear windshield at the other side of the street.
The B she could always turn me on, make my heart beat quicker; I didn’t need booze—love alone did the trick.
She’d touch me, and I’d be drunk. She’d kiss me, and I’d be even drunker.
She’d say my name, softly, as if it was something precious and she had to be careful not to break it. But now everything’s broken.
“Halloween,” I say to myself. “Today is Halloween.”
“No shit, Sherlock, for real? I wouldn’t have figured that one out.”
“The B she understands that this is what I’m doing.
“Well, fantastic. Great. But I’m coming with you to this party, Wyatt. I’m coming with you because I am certain that something’s gonna happen that shouldn’t, and that pisses me off. You feel me?”
“Yeah.”
My sister makes a sound somewhere between a groan and a growl. A little like a frustrated guinea pig.
She takes off and heads left, past William’s movie theater, The Old-Timer, past Don Giovanni’s Pizza, toward the costume shop.
“Why can’t I simply not be interested in your life?”
I tug at her earlobes. Her helix piercing moves along. “Because you love me. You’d never admit it, but that’s okay, because I love you, too, Mila, and I’d never admit that, either.”
She rolls her eyes again but smiles faintly this time.
It disappears as soon as we stop in front of the store, which is decorated with clowns and bats. Now she looks concerned. Concerned and afraid.
“This isn’t a good idea, Wy.”
“I know.” I take off my seatbelt and open the door, my stomach full of butterflies again. “Let’s do this.”