Chapter 17
When we get home, she goes straight into her room without a single word. I watch her bedroom door shut and wonder if I did something wrong. I thought we had a good night together.
Shit, maybe I did ruin it.
I do my nightly routine, not wanting to think about it. But when I lay in bed, I start getting hard just thinking about her. I finally tasted that feminine smell of hers and I felt her soft body under mine. I resist the urge to stroke myself and finish what I started with her.
Then I wonder if she really thinks Jake is good-looking.
If so, I’m fucked.
Because I look nothing like that guy, and if he’s her type, I don’t stand a chance.
The rink has always been my safe place. It always made sense to me because there is a defined purpose––win the game. Lately, it doesn’t feel the same. Something’s off.
The first time, I thought I was imagining it.
My skates felt stiff, like something was lodged in them.
I wore them anyway but almost tripped during warm-ups.
I caught myself on the boards just in time before my face connected with the floor and brushed it off like it was nothing. Shit happens on the ice, right?
Then my gloves go missing––the regular ones and the extra pairs. I’m sure I didn’t misplace them. I scan through the locker room cursing under my breath until Keith tosses me his extra pair.
“Calm down, man. It’s just gloves.”
Easy for him to say. He knows how I hate searching for things, especially those I use daily.
Today it’s the tape on my stick. I always roll it tight, the same way I have since I was a teenager but when I pick it up before practice, the handle feels loose, like someone messed with it.
I grit my teeth in frustration. Whoever’s doing this should better get ready for what’s coming to him when I find out.
Coach blows the whistle. “Move it, boys!”
I skate out, but the whole time my mind won’t let it go. I find it hard keeping a good grip on the stick because a small voice in my head keeps telling me that it’s not the same thing until I fix it but there’s no time for that.
The first shot I take, my blade slips. The puck wobbles, ugly. I hear someone snicker under their breath.
“Rough morning, Cam?”
“Shut up, Jack,” I snap.
He holds up his hands. “Easy, man.”
He just can’t fucking help himself. He always has something to say about something.
I push harder but no matter how much I move, the stick still feels wrong in my grip.
When practice ends, I slam my gear into the locker and storm straight to Coach’s office.
He doesn’t look up from his papers. “What’s the problem, Gray?”
“My gear keeps getting messed with,” I say. “Skates, gloves, my hockey stick, everything.”
Coach finally lifts his head, thick brows furrowing. “You sure you’re not just imagining things? This is––”
“I’m sure, Coach.” I cut him off. “I know when something’s off and this is one of those times. I’ve been trying to keep it in, but it’s affecting my performance in the rink.”
“Yeah, I saw it firsthand.” The silence stretches as I stare at him waiting for his next line of action.
“Are you just going to sit there?” I ask him a few minutes later.
Finally, Coach stands, grabs his whistle, and marches into the locker room with me on his heels.
“Everybody, listen up!” His voice booms, bouncing off the walls. The guys freeze mid activity. “Someone’s been tampering with equipment. I don’t care if you think it’s funny or a prank, this ends now. You hear me? If you want toys, get your ass to the playground.”
Murmurs ripple through the room. Keith frowns. Jack leans back in the corner, smirking like he’s watching a show.
Coach’s eyes sweep the room as he continues, “If I catch anyone pulling stunts, you’ll be suspended until next season. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Coach,” the voices mumble.
I stare at them to assess their expressions, but no one looks guilty, just a bunch of blank faces and sidelong glances.
After most of the guys clear out, Keith stays back.
He comes up and we fist bump. “Why didn’t you mention it to me first before going to Coach?”
“How did you know he was talking about me?”
“I figured because I saw you march into the locker room before he walked in.”
“I wasn’t sure about what was going on until this afternoon.”
“You’re not wrong though. Something’s off and you’re the target.”
I stiffen. “You noticed too?”
“Yeah, I saw it in your game. You were second-guessing before making a pass and that’s not you. Somehow I feel like you’ve set yourself up for more sabotage by making Coach send out the warning. It shows that you’re affected by whatever the person behind this is doing.”
“l couldn’t sit still and just ignore it.
I almost got injured during warm-up. I took a risk by going ahead with practice because I wanted to prove to myself that something like that won’t weigh me down.
Guess I was wrong,” I mutter, kicking the bench.
“Out there, it felt like someone was predicting my move before I even hit the puck.”
Keith frowns, scanning the room which is slowly getting filled with my other teammates walking in. Then he leans closer. “Stay alert. Don’t let them see you lose your cool. Whoever it is, that’s what they want.”
He’s right. Everything that’s been happening recently has been targeted at getting me off the rink for good.
“Any idea who?” I ask even though that seems unlikely.
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter. Just keep your guard up.” I was hoping he’d say Jack, but I guess he doesn’t want to fill my mind with crazy ideas.
He pats my shoulder casually, “I gotta run now. I have an errand I need to run before sundown. See you tomorrow.”
I sit there for a long time, staring at my skates. The laces are uneven, not the way I tied them. Somebody touched them again after Coach’s warning yesterday. Keith was right. Whoever this is…is having the time of their lives messing with me.
I used to come here to escape from my demons and lose myself in the game. Now I’m looking over my shoulder, waiting for the next screw-up. When will things go back to the way they were?
The next day, I double-check everything. I lace my skates twice. I redo the tape on my stick myself, never letting it out of sight. I even shove my gloves deep into my duffel and not the usual spot.
Still, once I’m on the ice, something’s off. Half a pair of my left skate feels too tight.
I stumble in a drill and crash into the boards. Someone snorts.
My blood surges as I feel the fury burn in my veins.
“You think this is funny?” I shout across the ice.
“Whoa, chill, man!” Keith calls back, his hands raised.
Coach’s whistle rents the air. His looks right at me. “Cut it out, Cameron!”
I want to scream and tear down the rink until I catch whoever’s doing this. Instead, I go through the rest of practice, teeth clenched and that voice in my head reminding me that I have to watch my back.
Mid-practice on a Saturday and practice still feels off.
We’re scrimmaging hard, sticks clashing, blades cutting lines into the ice. My legs are on fire in a good way, that burning that usually clears my head but today it doesn’t work. Instead, something old and ugly creeps in, like a shadow hovering over me. It has a voice––my pathetic dad’s voice.
I don’t even hear the puck leave Keith’s stick until it slaps against mine. I fumble it. My chest tightens.
“Jesus, Gray! Wide open net and you miss?” Coach’s voice rips through the air angrily. “Sit your ass down on the sidelines now.”
The whole rink goes quiet for a while before the play picks back up like nothing happened. I drag myself off the ice, every step heavier than the last.
I sit, helmet in my hands, trying to breathe.
You’re useless, Cameron. Can’t even carry the damn puck right. What the hell are you good for?
I blink hard. It’s like my dad is right here, spitting in my face all over again. I rub my palms into my eyes until I see white dots.
The whistle blows. It’s timeout. Coach jogs over, sweat dripping from his temples, eyes burning a hole straight through me.
“Whatever it is that’s bothering you, deal with it before you come here.” His voice is lower now, not yelling, just talking. “I need you to be present mentally and physically, Gray. There’s a lot at risk here.”
He pats my back then jogs off before I can even think of what to say.
I sit, chewing the inside of my cheek as I ponder on his words.
Later that night, I’m on my balcony, cigarette between my fingers. I hate how much I need it, hate how calm it makes me and most of all, I hate that it works.
The street below is quiet. I can hear faint laughter from a neighbor’s TV. My lungs feel heavy but it’s better than the noise in my head.
I hear light footsteps behind me before a familiar scent hits my nostrils. She stops behind me. I don’t turn, just take another drag of my cigarette.
“Hey!” she greets, but I don’t respond.
“Cameron? Are you okay? Did something happen at work? Practice? Whatever you call it.”
I stifle a groan at her barrage of questions.
“You know that’s going to kill you one day, right?” she continues unfazed by my silence.
I smirk bitterly, exhaling. “Yeah, well, we’re all going to die someday.”
“That’s not funny.” She steps closer, arms folded. I can feel her eyes on my back. “You smoke early in the morning, after practice, before bed, after meetings, any chance you get. You can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
I take another drag, slower this time, just to annoy her. “Lay off, Brie. You’re not my mother.” The second the harsh words leave my mouth, I regret it. She goes quiet.
I finally turn, and she’s standing there, her face blank except for the small flinch I catch before she masks it. Shit.
“Brie, I—”
“It’s fine,” she cuts me off, “I spoke out of line. I don’t care what you do, Cameron.”
She turns on her heel and goes back inside before I can say anything else.
The cigarette’s burning down between my fingers, the weight of guilt heavy on my chest.
Nice going, Gray. You’re your father’s son after all.
The thought makes me sick.
I lean against the railing, head hanging low, wondering how the hell I can fight all my demons when I keep acting like them.