Chapter 11
Jack
I’ve got the puck in my glove, held protectively against my chest, when the offenseman hits me.
I don’t see him coming, having tucked my chin when I’d caught the puck, and grunt in surprise as I’m shoved hard into the pipe.
Having already stopped the fucking shot , I lose my balance and sprawl on the ice, unwilling to use my glove hand to catch myself.
Not when that puck is nestled in there, and there is any chance of them scoring a goal. I stopped it, for once.
Someone lands on top of me, and the sharp retort of the referees whistle is offset by the grunting and swearing of the players.
“Get the fuck off of him,” I hear Nate growl, right before the weight is lifted off my back.
It takes a lot of effort to push myself up onto hands and knees, encumbered by the pads, but I manage to eventually sit up onto my knees.
Nate is directly in front of me, apparently doing his best to strangle the forward who hit me, and completely ignoring the referee trying to pull him away.
The rest of my teammates are piled against the boards, gloves and sticks littering the ice as everyone fights.
I rise to standing, using the crossbar to pull myself up, and watch as the ref finally manages to free the Denver player’s neck from Nate.
He says something to him I can’t hear over the screaming of the crowd, hands outstretched to keep them separated.
Allowing himself to slide away, Nate bends down and picks up the DU player’s helmet.
Casually, he chucks it down the ice. Not quite done, he snags a glove and tosses that out of reach, too.
He keeps scattering the DU player’s gear as the referee tries fruitlessly to get him to stop.
Watching him, I find myself grinning—a rare enough occurrence on the ice that I can’t remember the last time it happened.
As he’s turned forcefully toward the bench by the referee, he catches my eye and winks.
It takes a couple minutes for everyone to gather their disseminated equipment and the referees to confer.
Unsurprisingly, Nate is given a ten minute misconduct.
Coach Mackenzie steps carefully over the bench, hand resting on Vas’ shoulder, to lean over the boards and talk to the ref.
I watch him, flushing when he gestures toward me and the referee looks my way.
I look over at Desmond instead—always the safer option.
He catches my eye across the ice, and places a hand flat on his belly.
Oh, right. Dutifully, I carefully go through a few rounds of muscle relaxation, breathing deep and even through my nose.
I’ve felt better tonight than I usually do, and while I do think Desmond’s techniques help, I don’t think that’s the main reason I’m feeling so calm right now.
I’m feeling good because this is it—my last game.
Tomorrow, I’m going to talk to Coach Mackenzie and quit the team.
The knowledge sits comfortably warm in the center of my chest, like a kitten curled up there, purring. The light at the end of the tunnel.
The puck is dropped, and the game goes on.
Nate’s absence from the ice does break through some of the flimsy calm I’ve been able to maintain, which only adds to my certainty that I am making the right decision to quit.
If one player missing from the bench means I can’t play well, I shouldn’t be here at all.
It’s not fair to use Nate as a safety blanket, or to keep bringing the team down so I can pretend to be something I’m not.
We win the game and tears prick at the corners of my eyes, throat scratchy as my teammates skate over and hug me or bop my helmet. It’s the last time they’ll ever do it to me. I miss it already.
Vas skates up, glove already reaching up to tap my helmet.
I pull him into a hug instead, squeezing a little harder than necessary and trying to say thank you without actually saying the words.
We all love Vas, and I’m no exception to that rule.
It’s possible I love him a little more than the others, if only because he works so hard to help me when I’m feeling rotten.
“This is a good night,” Vas says cheerfully, skating next to me as we make our way to the chute.
“Yeah, it was. Sucks Nate got in trouble, though.”
Vas chuckles. “Oh, I do not think he will be feeling badly about this. We must protect our most valuable player, yes?”
I blush as he claps me on the shoulder. Most valuable player, my ass. Only Vas could manage to say that without laughing. I’m the least valuable player.
Desmond is standing beside the bench, waiting for us to step off the ice before following us to the locker room.
As I pass, he puts his hand on the back of my neck and squeezes gently.
I smile, cheeks warm but otherwise pleased with the attention.
He doesn’t even seem to care that my skin is slippery with sweat, which is nothing short of a miracle.
I sure wouldn’t want to touch me right now.
Nate was wrong when he joked that I’d gotten over my crush on Desmond.
I haven’t. If anything, it’s worse now that I know him a little better.
Know Parker. Sure, I still find him insanely attractive, but now, instead of fantasizing about what it might be like to watch him undress, my mind seems to settle more on how it would feel to just be with him.
Go to the park and play video games with Parker and laugh at the expression on Desmond’s face when he eats a carrot— that’s what I want.
Which, while safer than thinking about him naked, is still something I shouldn’t be wanting at all.
I glance back at him as I lay my glove and blocker on the bench in front of my stall.
He’s grinning at Ahonen, a new addition to our forward line, smile lines fanning out around his brown eyes and several curls having escaped from whatever product he’d used to keep them tame.
Blushing, I turn away. I guess I haven’t fully managed to stop fantasizing about him naked.
My hands are shaking so badly, it looks like I’ve got a medical condition.
Held out in front of me, palms facing downward, I watch the tremors and will them to stop.
Already, this morning, I’ve thrown up twice, and even still my empty stomach is clenching dangerously like it wants to try for a third.
My heart has been pounding nonstop, and now this, because apparently getting the shakes is just another way for my body to betray me.
You can’t stand out here hiding forever, I tell myself, and wish once more that it wouldn’t have been weird to bring Nate along with me.
Nate is always there to provide a buffer when I’m around Coach Mackenzie, and the lack of him now feels like I’ve suddenly lost my left leg and am still expected to walk.
Taking a deep—very deep—inhale, I gently knock the knuckles on one of my shaky hands against Coach’s open door.
“Come in,” he calls.
“Hey, Coach.” I step into view, fighting the urge to run away as his eyes meet mine.
He smiles and beckons me inside, because he’s nice and I’m being fucking ridiculous.
Desmond’s desk is empty, which is a relief.
I’d rather not have him here, just in case I do something embarrassing like hyperventilate.
Or faint. Judging by the way my vision is spotty, it’s a real possibility.
“Micky, come in,” Coach repeats, squinting at me. “Have a seat. Everything all right?”
“Yeah, great. Fine. Everything is fine.” I fall, rather than sit, in the chair he indicated.
My face burns and sweat begins to form on the back of my neck as my body heats up.
Coach, probably realizing I’m ten seconds away from bursting into flames, gives me the kindest look I’ve ever seen grace his stern face.
“What’s going on?” he asks softly.
“I don’t think I can play anymore.” I exhale the words in a rush, so quietly even I could barely hear them.
I watch Coach’s face, but his expression doesn’t change.
Maybe he didn’t hear me. I open my mouth to repeat myself, hopefully at a volume more conducive to normal conversation, but he holds up a hand to forestall me.
“Desmond mentioned having a discussion with you about that,” he tells me.
I feel such a strong flood of relief for Desmond, realizing he’s done me a massive favor.
Now, Coach Mackenzie isn’t taken by surprise.
Now, I might not have to force out all the words I’d spent last night practicing.
Tears prick the back of my throat, and I have to swallow them down.
“Oh. That’s good,” I say, a little hopeful that he’ll take that as a resignation and I’ll be able to leave. I’ve only been here five minutes and already my shirt feels damp with sweat. I glance down at my hands—still visibly shaking.
“I’m sorry that you’ve been struggling, and I didn’t help you,” Coach Mackenzie apologizes, drawing my eyes back up to his. “It’s my job to make sure my players are comfortable, and I’ve clearly failed. I apologize for that.”
“No, it’s not…I just”—I pause, not really sure what I can even say to explain when I don’t even understand myself—“get really nervous. I hate knowing all these people are watching me fail, and it doesn’t matter how much I practice, I still suck. I’m never going to be Carter Morgan.”
Coach flinches slightly, rubbing his hand down his face and shaking his head.
“Micky. That is in no way what I was intending for you to think when I asked him to work with you over the summer. Anthony and Carter both have incredibly dissimilar styles of play—I only wanted to provide you with different instruction. Instruction that might be more beneficial than what we’d already been doing.
I don’t want a string of Carter Morgan clones in goal—I want a Carter and a Micky. ”