31. Ash
Usually, before games, my focus narrowed down to the sound of my breathing.
The ability to ignore my teammates came in handy, particularly when some of them said the rosary or prayed so quickly they droned on like a hive of bees or when the others sang along to fifteen different songs.
Loudly and offkey. Usually, I didn’t need help hyping myself up.
I loved hockey, the sounds and energy it built were electrifying. The pounding of my heart, the slap of the puck against a stick. Teammates banging sticks on glass or ice, swearing and screaming. The crowd’s mercurial reactions.
But this game was different.
When I first started skating, I didn’t know how to filter out all the outside sounds.
Hecklers, even at youth games. Parent “coaches” in the stands, who wouldn’t know a hat trick from a hole in the ground.
Music and commentary. All of it trickled past the cage on my helmet into my ears.
Eventually, it disappeared when the buzzer sounded.
But as sweat dripped down my face tonight, everything assaulted my senses.
And I didn’t know what changed.
Except maybe I did.
Responsibility .
I was always responsible for myself before, and only me. I never had to lead before.
When Coach pulled me aside before boarding the plane and handed me the captain’s C, my stomach plummeted right through the bottom of my Jordans. It was what I wanted, and Coach put it right in my hand.
So why was the dread of the past twenty-four hours only curling tighter around my bones rather than going away?
Pre-game jitters weren’t new. Adrenaline built up and with nowhere to go, it spun around leaving tensions high and tempers higher. But this…this was new. The fear of fucking up. If the game went poorly, it would, at least partially, be my fault.
If I called the shots, what if I called the wrong one?
I wanted so badly to do it right , but what if I didn’t? What if what if what if?—
The narrow hallway walls began closing in on me, and every sound but my breathing and heartbeat went away. Harsh and jagged, the sounds scraped against my ears as my vision narrowed to pinpricks. Blood rushed out of my head and hands, leaving me lightheaded and unable to grip my stick.
My pulse raced, the throbbing in my neck cutting off my circulation and air. The too-loud hacking of my breath disappeared, and I would’ve taken the painful sawing sound over the lack of oxygen in the room. Each time I tried to inflate my lungs, they squeezed as if an iron band wrapped around them.
Someone pushed me from behind, and I stumbled forward out the door and onto the ice. There, at least, muscle memory took over and I could breathe again.
At intermission, the Knights were down by two. Coach Olsen eyed me, trying to convey something with his eyebrows.
Right. I was acting captain; I was supposed to say… something.
“Allen, you missed that last shot, but Goldstein was open.”
“I thought I had it.”
“Did you not see Goldstein?”
“I thought I had it, Wilder.”
“But you didn’t.” Shit. This wasn’t helping. Pushing the sweat-damp hair off my forehead, I knocked Allen with an elbow. “Look, we all know you can make any trick shot in the book, but not when someone’s marking you so closely. Take the shot to whoever’s open next time.”
I needed a way to bring them back, though, now everyone was scowling and turning away. I wished I could do the same.
“Um. Nice pass, though, on the next one. It went right over the goalie’s head.” A few yeahs and bumps on Allen’s shoulder pads. “D, nice block. That footwork was fancy.”
“I know, right?” Dante’s light brown eyes crinkled with his wide grin.
“And Martinson, your last goal was excellent. Keep it up.” They looked slightly less prepared to slit my throat with their blades. And that was a positive, at least. The only one.
“I need to keep my dumb ass out of the way when Goldstein makes a pass, and we’ll be golden.” Goldstein sent a beautiful shot down the center, and like an idiot, I skated directly in its path.
A few laughs from the guys, then the knot of players broke apart, scattering to find water bottles or take a breath.
“Not bad, Wilder.” Coach beckoned him nearer. “Next time try the compliment sandwich.”
“The what?” Someone pressed a water bottle into my hand, and I sprayed it in my mouth and over my face and hair.
Coach gave me an exasperated look when a few drops of water landed on his jacket.
“A compliment sandwich. ‘You hit the first shot perfectly, then you tripped over your own ass halfway through, but you still got up and made the next goal.’ You drop in what they did wrong in between what they did right.”
“Ah, got it. Thanks, Coach.” I made a mental note for next time.
“Not bad, though, Cap.” Coach smacked a fist against the C on my chest.
Pride tingled through me, though the metallic tang of anxiety quickly replaced it. Because we had to do it two more times to finish the game. I had to get us through this somehow.
* * *
Back in my hotel room, I ordered room service and flopped across the bed.
Methodically, I switched off all the lights in the room except the damn blinking alarm clock.
I couldn’t unplug it; the cord snaked behind the headboard bolted to the wall.
I debated ripping the thing apart so I could wallow in full darkness, but the assistant coach made it very clear there was a zero-tolerance policy on destruction of hotel property.
Okay, I did let a hotel party get out of hand one time four years ago, but the assistant coach had a long memory.
The darkness settled over my skin and into my mind as I replayed every wrong move on a loop in my brain. I might as well have been watching a game tape titled “Ash Wilder’s Mistakes”.
And I made a lot .
It was like being on the ice for the first time again. It was horrible .
A missed save replayed for the thirtieth time when a sharp rap sounded on my door.
The cart pushed in, nearly rolling over my foot as soon as I opened it.
“Holy shit, it is so dark in here. Were you planning to eat in the dark, too?”
The voice was familiar, but I had to squint against the light spilling in from the corridor. A lamp flared on, illuminating the form of a woman?—
“Barnes?”
“The one and only.”
“What are you doing here? And how did you get my food?”
“I’m here for you, Wilder. And the server said he’d been standing outside your door, knocking, for like, five minutes. He was very grateful your wife showed up when she did.”
“My…” I trailed off, considering how the word tasted. I didn’t hate it, and damn, what a frightening concept.
“Wife, yeah. Sorry, I figured it’d be the only way he’d let me in. Next time I’ll try yoga instructor, though, if pretend matrimony scares you.” As she spoke, she took the metal covers off plates, plunking them on the tiny table across the room.
“Wasn’t it my idea to pretend to be married last time?” My tone was mockingly playful as I remembered our first night.
“What—oh. That first night.” A smile brightened her eyes as she pulled out a chair and plopped into it. “I guess it was. I must’ve missed the proposal somewhere in all the smirking and leaning.” When I stood there, staring, she pointed at the chair opposite her. “Sit.”
I did as I was told, trying not to think about her being the real Mrs. Barnes. “Those are mine,” I said as she swiped a handful of limp French fries off a plate.
“They’re terrible. You can keep them.” She ate a few more anyway, popping the lid off the tiny jar of ketchup and dunking them in. “Actually, since you took so long answering the door, I took the liberty of ordering more. They’ll be here soon.”
“Took the liberty, huh?” The old-fashioned phrase sounded out of place but not entirely unexpected from Olivia, with her leggings and sneakers and oversized sweatshirt emblazoned with the chemical structure of dopamine.
“Yeah. You’re welcome for my liberties.” Leaning back in the chair, she popped another fry in her mouth as she eyed me. But I didn’t have energy for a rejoinder to her double entendre.
My insides gnawed at themselves in hunger. Tomorrow, a litany of sore muscles would remind me not to wait so long to eat after a game, but my stomach kept churning.
“That bad, huh?” Olivia gestured to the uneaten burger on my plate.
“If you want it, you just have to ask.” I slid the plate toward her.
She frowned. “Ash.”
“I’m fine.”
“Well, that is certainly something a person who is fine would say.”
“I am.”
“Clearly.”
I grumbled. I didn’t want to do this; I wanted to let my bad mood sink in and wrap around my bones until it took over.
“Stop wallowing.”
Did she read my fucking mind? With a scowl, I crossed my arms over my chest, kicking the leg of the table, more petulant teenager than grown ass adult.
Fire ignited in her eyes, the blue sparking like a lit match. Shoving a final sad fry in her mouth, she stood and crossed to me. When she settled herself in my lap, her weight was a grounding comfort. One arm settled over my shoulders, and with her other hand, she ran her fingers through my hair.
Instead of admitting how much it relaxed me, I made a grumpy sound at her instead.
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want me to stop?”
As if they had a mind of their own, my arms snaked around her waist, and I shook my head.
“Hmm.” She hummed in response, her fingers sliding through my hair again. Relief slowly trickled down the back of my neck and into my limbs until breathing came easier again.
Olivia’s familiar citrusy vanilla perfume enveloped me when she leaned my head to rest on her chest. The long curtain of her hair fell over her shoulder, blocking out the rest of the world.
A long sigh pulled all the hard-won air out of my lungs.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
“It’s okay, you know.”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.” A snap in my voice I rarely used cracked the space between us.
“Okay.” With a flick, she slung her hair back over her shoulder.
I should tell her how much I’d fucked up being captain for the first time.
I should tell her how shitty it felt to let everyone down, at how badly I screwed up.
At how certain I was this was my last chance and now I’d be stuck as Asher the Basher forever.
Never getting the chance to be something greater.
Words caught in my mouth, refusing to speak about the failures plaguing me.
“Alright, come on, get up.” She pressed a soft kiss to my cheek and stood, holding out her hand.
I took it, and she pulled until I stood, rumpled and dejected, before her. Her arms wrapped around me, holding tightly, and she held me there until I did the same.
A few moments later, the waiter returned with more food. Olivia tipped him, ushering him out the door.
“Okay, Wilder. Change out of your fancy pants.”
When I didn’t move, she gave me a gentle push toward my suitcase. “Come on, before the food gets cold again.” Weirdly grateful for her bossiness, I did as she commanded. “We’re eating this in bed and watching a sitcom. They’re always on this time of night.”
“You don’t have to stay.” My voice muffled as I pulled the grey t-shirt over my head, not wanting to see her face when I spoke. I didn’t want to be around me right now, so I didn’t imagine she did either.
“Absolutely not.” I raised a brow at the command in her voice.
“We’re lying on the bed, stuffing our faces, and debating the merits of Ross and Rachel or Chandler and Monica.
The age-old debate. Even though Ross is the literal worst.” A moment of silence while she poured water into a glass.
Ice clinked. “It’s what I do when I’m—I don’t know…
sad. Tired. Mad at myself. All of the above.
” Earnest blue eyes reflected the glowing yellow lamp light, her wide-eyed gaze all concern and awareness.
Her understanding and acceptance of my mood rather than trying to pep-talk me nearly knocked me off my feet in relief.