Chapter Two
Rowan
“What the hell was that, brother?” Luka asks as he skates up next to me. I’m still staring at the damn net that the puck should have gone into but didn’t.
Nash, our goalie, skates forward and drops the puck down onto the ice out of his gloved hand. I hear the ping of the little black disc hitting the ice. I should be rather impressed with my goalie, if I wasn’t so damn pissed at myself for missing the shot in the first place.
It’s Friday night and instead of chilling at home with my best friend and teammate Luka, or going out to a party on frat row, we’re at a practice that Coach Cunningham called just yesterday morning.
We wouldn’t know a slap shot if it hit us between the eyeballs. His words, not mine. After our game Wednesday night, Coach didn’t like what he saw, so he called a last-minute practice and told us to be here, or risk being benched.
“I’m tired is all,” I say as I continue to stare at the damn empty net, my stomach clenches with apprehension. My glove hand spreads wide before it clenches down on my hockey stick.
“Go again,” I command.
“You just said you were tired. Maybe take a break, then we can go back at it,” Luka suggests as he watches me closely.
My jaw hardens with frustration. I should be able to make that fucking shot in my sleep. I’m the damn captain for fuck’s sake.
“I don’t need a break. Line up for the shot.” I’m not leaving here until I make that shot my bitch.
Luka’s head tilts to the side before he mumbles, “Whatever you say, cap.”
I bristle at his tone and the use of the nickname cap, because I may technically be his captain, but that’s not our dynamic. I’ve never pulled the power card on him, and he damn well knows it.
I have too much respect for him, as a friend and as an equal on the ice, to pull that hierarchy bullshit with him.
I pull my helmet back down over my head and circle out toward the middle of the rink. I watch as Luka rounds behind the net and comes skating toward me at full speed. I pump my legs forward, ready to intercept him.
We battle for the puck; it definitely takes more out of me than I would like to admit to finally get the puck from him, and when I do, I break away for the goal. I work to slow my breathing, my eyes laser-focused on the net ahead.
I pivot to the right, digging my skates into the ice to come to a stop before I swing my stick back, aiming for the top left corner of the net. Knowing that the spin I put on the puck will drop it down right before Nash can stop it.
I hold my breath as the puck sails through the air. The spin is beautiful, the speed on it isn’t my best but isn’t my worst either. Nash reaches for it right before it drops, missing it completely.
“Fuck yeah!” I say right before I feel a hard slap on the top of my right shoulder pad.
“Nash didn’t stand a chance on that one,” Aiden, a junior and center like me, says as he comes up beside me.
“Nice one, cap,” Beau, our right winger and interim goalie, adds.
Internally, I bristle at the compliment because, by my standards, that shot was subpar at best. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m fucking relieved that it just went in at this point but fuck.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me.
I haven’t known what’s fucking wrong with me for months now.
The one thing that I could count on was that when I laced up these skates and stepped out onto this ice, I would feel remnants of my old self.
And now it feels like even that is slipping away.
“We need to do better. I need to do better if we have any chance of beating Minnesota in the finals,” I say.
Aiden looks at me questioningly. “I know we have some work to do, Cap, but you’re making it sound like we’re going to get massacred.”
“We fucking will if we don’t get our shit together. We’re too unfocused and sloppy,” I chastise.
“Woah, woah, woah. Now wait a minute. We’re at the top of our division league. We got this shit in the bag,” Beau stupidly says.
“Don’t ever say that again,” I command as I grab him by the collar and pull him toward me. He raises his hands in the air in surrender as I continue. “Nothing is fucking guaranteed. This isn’t the time to get lazy and complacent.” I shove him away from me without any resistance from him.
I feel out of control.
Like I’m spiraling and there isn’t a damn thing I can do to stop it. My eyes slam shut as I work to control my heartbeat, reciting the damn phrase a therapist my parents forced me to see gave me.
I accept this feeling, for it is only temporary.
And I wait.
I wait for some magic wand to appear because I said some abracadabra bullshit.
I’m supposed to feel better, more in control, but all it does is make me feel like I should be in the looney bin. It’s supposed to help me take control of my inner critic, the therapist’s words, not mine, and release all the toxic mumbo jumbo. Blah, blah, blah. Bullshit.
It doesn’t work. Nothing happens. I don’t suddenly have this well of inner peace or deeper understanding, and it certainly doesn’t take away this black hole that seems to be swallowing me whole.
All I know is I can’t lose my shit in front of them. They need me to lead, not bark orders like a fucking asshole or have a mental breakdown right here in the middle of practice.
Being captain used to feel natural to me. I don’t want to sound arrogant when I say I was born to lead, but it has always been easy for me. I’ve always tried to connect with people, and when you earn their respect by showing them respect in turn, it just clicks together. Everyone works as a team.
But right now, with four of my guys staring me down and waiting for my next move, I feel like I want to crawl out of my own skin. A feeling I’ve only recently become accustomed to.
I fucking hate it.
Nash, Beau, Aiden, and Luka watch me closely, all of their faces set in a hard line of determination and focus.
A tiny spark of my old self flares to life, and I grab onto it with everything I have in me. “This is our time to shine, boys. For some of us, this is our last hoorah. I don’t want to leave anything on the table—you with me?”
There are nods of approval and determination, along with some, “hell yeahs.”
I can’t quell the relief that I feel when Coach blows the whistle to dismiss us. The feeling is so foreign that I’m taken aback by its appearance.
I try to shake it off, and just as I start to make my way toward the exit, Wyatt Thatcher—Stella’s boyfriend and current enemy number one, at least to me, comes up beside me.
I stiffen, and my hand tightens around my hockey stick just to have something to hold onto so I don’t punch the fucker in the face.
I might have promised Stella that we were good, but that promise doesn’t extend to her now boyfriend.
Nope, he’s still on my shit list.
“You okay?” he asks like we’re best buddies or some shit.
“The fuck you care?” I bristle.
He sighs and looks around, something that looks an awful lot like regret passing over his features.
Good.
“Look, man, I’m trying here.”
I’m already shaking my head because I know exactly what’s going on here. “Tell her I’m good, and that we’re good.”
“So lie to her?” He actually looks affronted.
“Yeah, basically. She doesn’t need to worry about this shit. She needs to focus on healing.” My stomach sours when I think about what she went through not that long ago. I don’t want her thinking or worrying about the trivial shit between Wyatt and me.
“We finally fucking agree on something. Trust me, I’ve tried to tell her that, but you know how she is.”
I smile because I do know. That’s why I call her Little Chihuahua. Small and feisty.
“Maybe you can talk to her?” His suggestion shocks the shit out of me.
"Let me get this straight. You want me to talk to her?" I stop and turn toward him.
He stops alongside me. I look over to see Luka watching the two of us closely, his eyebrows pulling together questioningly. I tilt my head as if to say I don't know what the fuck this is.
"No, I don't want you to talk to her. But if that's what she needs to put this shit to rest so she can focus on herself, then so be it. She doesn't believe me when I tell her we're good."
My laugh lacks humor as I stare at him. "So you want me to lie to her?"
"Isn't that what you just told me to do?" he scoffs.
I shrug my shoulders. "Yeah, that's fucking different." Stella and my relationship is complicated. I thought I was in love with her not more than a month ago—until she told me she loved this fucker standing in front of me instead.
Then she told me I didn't love her like I thought I did. That I was only in love with the idea of her. I don't agree.
So no, I'm not going to lie to her and tell her everything's all roses and sunshine between us.
"What the fuck am I supposed to do, man? We both agree she should be focusing on healing and not this stupid bullshit between us. But if you won't help me convince her we're good, she's not going to let it go."
"Sounds like your fucking problem," I say as I push past him, done with this conversation and done with this fucking practice.
But as soon as the words leave my lips, I feel guilty, not for being an ass to him, but because I'm essentially refusing to help Stella.
And that's something I thought I'd never do.
But I can't bring myself to stop, turn around, and tell him I'll do it. That I'll talk to her.
I keep going, skating right past my best friend , who knows something's fucking up with me, past the boys who count on me to lead the team, and past my coach, who expects me to carry this team to the Frozen Four and then the Division I championship.
I don't know if I can do this anymore.
“Want to join Lily and me for dinner tonight?” Luka asks as he slams his locker door closed and leans on it as he watches me stuff my shit in my bag.
“And be the third wheel?”
“It won’t be like that and you know it. Come on man, you haven’t gone out with us since—”
He doesn’t get a chance to finish his sentence before I finish it for him. “Since Stella.”
He swallows uncomfortably. I get it, it’s his sister and he feels caught in the middle of the two of us when that’s the exact opposite of what we wanted. That’s why we made the promises to each other. Now it’s my turn to swallow uncomfortably.
Guilt sinks low into my gut. I haven’t made an effort to be there for my friends. Honestly, I haven’t had the energy to put on an easy smile, or laugh when I’m supposed to, or listen when they need me to.
I barely have the energy to breathe right now but I know I need to try. I can’t keep doing this. I want my old self back.
“You know what? Sure. What time?” I say as I sling my bag over my shoulder. If I didn’t know any better, I would say he looks shocked. But I definitely catch the flash of relief and that only makes me feel even more guilty that I’ve been such a shit friend lately.
“Seven?”
I nod and say, “that works. Where?”
“Jack’s?”
My stomach sours but I push the feeling away.
It’s time to move on, Rowan.
Jack’s used to be my favorite place to eat. That is until it became tainted with memories of Stella. Of promises made and broken.
“Sounds good. I’ll see you two there.” I turn and walk out of the locker room before I have a chance to change my mind and back the hell out. It’s stupid, how I feel right now is stupid.
I shouldn’t care that it was my favorite place to go with Stella. It shouldn’t bother me that I opened up to her more than I have anyone else in my life sitting in one of those damn booths.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
And I hate it.