Chapter 32
CALLUM
I’m fucked. Not in the literal sense, unfortunately.
I’m fucked because I can’t stop thinking about Alia. It’s been twenty-four hours and I’m itching to see her again. To hear her voice. To make sure she’s okay with what happened in Vegas.
Apart from exchanging a couple messages, I’ve taken Theo’s advice to give her space and not overwhelm her like the needy fucker I’m turning out to be.
Another reason to stay away, a much darker one if I’m being honest, is because I’m livid. Now that I’ve had time to fully process Alia’s confession, I can’t spin it any other way. She was abused.
My simmering aggression is cloying and I have no outlet for it.
I can’t forget that Alia’s piece-of-shit ex-husband decided her consent wasn’t important.
He treated her carelessly, leaving her with deep doubts and scars.
Her marriage wasn’t healthy, but I wonder to what extent her ex’s transgressions went.
I tug at my shin guards to make sure they stay in place just as Novak begins playing the song of the season.
Every year, one player gets their name drawn from a pool to pick the locker room music. Hilary Duff’s teenage voice fills the space as she belts out what her dreams are made of, with Novak bopping his head as he straps on his goalie pads. His look of focus is not unlike a man preparing for war.
Even Novak’s ridiculous antics don’t make me smile today.
I undo and redo my laces, zigzagging them multiple times before wrapping them in a tight knot.
I need to keep my hands occupied so I don’t give in to my rage and break something.
Every time I recall the tears streaking down Alia’s soft cheeks, my impulse to hunt down her ex like the rabid dog he is returns tenfold.
Clicking my mouthguard in, I test it with far more vigor than required. Better I break the guard than my own teeth by clenching my jaw too hard.
Did she ever tell her family? She was so quick to dismiss the possibility of assault, I wonder if she hid this from them.
Embarrassment emanated off her when she confided in me.
That Alia might’ve chosen to deal with this alone makes me feel physically ill.
Fuck, no wonder she always looked a little lonely.
No wonder her opinions always held that hint of unsurety and her smiles tinged with a little sadness.
I sit back, a new wave of rage shaking me from within. From the corner of my eye, I see Rohan with his eyes closed, ear buds popped in, fully geared and ready to go. I can’t mess with his ritual and interrupt him. I’m so tempted though.
If I tell Moore what I know, I’m certain he’ll help me accidentally break every bone in Alia’s ex’s body. He would of course dismember me right afterward, because how I found out these intimate details would be tough to hide.
But the important point is that Alia’s ex-husband could learn to live without a dick, right?
With visions of me castrating an asshole with the blunt blade of my old skates, I follow my team onto the ice for our game against the Toronto Strikers. I play more aggressively than I normally do, but it works in our favor.
Nearing the end of regulation, we have a 2-1 lead. The hometown crowd has been booing us at every given chance and it only fuels me to take more slap shots at their net, pretending it’s the ex-husband I’m shooting at.
I jump the boards and take a seat when Coach calls for a line change. My knees shake restlessly as I watch DuPont lose his stick and scramble to recover, giving the Strikers the opening they need to try and even the score.
Novak makes the save on a high shot, dropping the puck immediately for our winger to pass it up the ice toward a waiting rookie, who pushes the play back into the offensive zone.
Another whistle and I’m back on ice, rushing into play like I never left.
Feeding off my energy, Vega bodychecks an incoming Toronto defenseman, letting Kubanski speed to the top of the circle.
He rears his stick back and shoots, missing by inches.
We lose possession for a couple seconds but intercept a pass gone wrong.
The clock ticks down to the last two minutes when Moore rushes down the center, forgoing a shot to pass it to me instead.
I’m instantly crowded by a Striker, # 70, who’s been shadowing me since I scored my second goal of the game.
He lunges to steal the puck, but I slip it past him to Kubanski, who picks it up and shoots.
The puck ricochets off the post just as Moore slides between # 70 and I, making him lose sight of me for mere seconds.
I scoop the puck on a rebound, seemingly heading toward the goal line and take the chance on a backhand shot when the Striker goalie performs a split to block me.
The puck hits the edge of his stick and flies in an angle no one can plan for, right into the corner of the net.
Disappointed groans rip through Toronto while my teammates cheer.
I can see the smile Coach Ross wears when she pumps her fist in the air.
Lucky shot or not, I’ve got a hat trick.
The screens on TV will play a cartoon of a gladiator with an iron helmet bursting through a wall of ice, scattering number three shaped confetti everywhere.
In here though, it’s the home team glaring at us like we’ve ruined Christmas.
I head back to the bench, content to let the third line hold defense for the final minute. Unless we lay down and let them demolish us, the game is ours.
“You’re not normally this aggressive, Finnigan,” Coach mutters, watching me with assessing eyes, “but nice hat trick tonight.”
I take in the praise, feeling physically ill from everything I’m holding in. Really though, I’d rather be cutting off someone’s balls instead.
Much later, as I’m lying in bed hoping for the adrenaline to wear off, my phone buzzes beside me.
Tater Tots:
Speedy Spud strikes against the Strikers!
That’s not me saying it, btw. It’s what the newscaster said and I liked the way it sounded.
Me:
You watched?
Tater Tots:
Of course. My friend was playing. He did well.
Me:
I know. He’s awesome.
Probably the best player the ice has ever seen
Tater Tots:
And so humble.
Me:
*sunglasses emoji*
Tater Tots:
Busy? Want to chat?
Dammit. Yeah, I want to chat. But I’m afraid the minute I hear her voice, I’ll either demand to know where her ex lives so I can pay him a visit or ask what she’s wearing so I can make her come without touching her.
Fuck, what am I doing? I don’t normally get this affected by anyone but the aggression I feel on behalf of Alia consumes me. Even if this level of emotional connection exists now, it won’t when she leaves for India.
The pinch in my chest at that reminder is sharp enough that I wince.
Thumping my fist over my heart, I try to force the discomfort away.
I’m growing too attached when what I need is to remember this is temporary, irrespective of whatever I said to Theo.
He’s right about keeping a distance—but not just for the reasons he thinks.
I need to get my head on straight before I fall too deep.
I’ll be fine.
Totally fucking fine.
Me:
Kinda wiped after the game
Gonna crash now
Tater Tots:
Of course. Sleep well.
Me:
‘Night.
Tater Tots:
Good night. Btw, your plants miss you.
Despite my frustration, the simple message makes me long for her. I wish she was in bed with me. I’d cuddle her all night long if that’s all she wanted, so long as I could hold her. I sigh, dropping my head on the pillow as I send my response.
Me:
I miss them, and the one kissing them, too