16. Austin
AUSTIN
M idway through the second period, I’m ready to crawl out of my skin.
The crowd is on their feet, buzzing with energy. Music thumps through the speakers, echoing off the rink walls, and I swear I can feel it in my teeth.
Our boys are lined up. Logan at left wing, Cole on the right, Ryan holding down defense, and Nathan crouched in net.
And me?
I’m sitting behind the fucking line like a fucking mascot.
Suspended. Benched. Irrelevant.
Logan steals the puck, slices down the left, jukes a defenseman. I lean forward, my jaw tight as I track his moves. If he passes right now, they’ve got a clean shot. But he doesn’t. He cuts in, tries for the corner, and the goalie blocks it with his chest.
I know every inch of this rink. I’ve played on it more times than I can count. I know the way the puck bounces off the boards in that back corner, the dead zone where the sound dies for a beat when you pass through it, the exact amount of pressure to apply on a wrist shot from the left circle.
And I know—I know —I could have made that play.
Ryan missed the opening. I’d seen it a full second before he did, but he hesitated. Passed instead of taking the shot. And just like that, a perfect scoring opportunity vanished.
It feels like I’m watching my life slip out of my hands in real time.
My fists clench, thumb twitching against my palm.
I don’t belong on the bench.
I belong out there.
Fixing that. Driving the play.
But instead, I’m stuck here. Powerless.
My leg bounces restlessly. I run a hand over my face, and close my eyes. Just for a second. I try to block out the cheers. The whistles. The crash of skates against the boards, but none of it works.
They need me.
But I let them down.
I let myself down.
I exhale through my nose, drag my hand down my face.
Screw it.
I pull my phone out of my hoodie pocket, notifications lighting up my screen, but I swipe past all of it and tap on Maisie’s name.
Her profile picture pops up, then our thread. I scroll, rereading our last few messages like I don’t already have them memorized.
I wanna text her. Just see what she’s doing. Hear her voice in my head when she types something sarcastic.
Mostly, I just wanna feel like I’m not completely fucking drowning. And for whatever reason, being near her quiets the noise.
But my thumbs hover. Frozen.
Because last time she saw me spiraling like this she looked at me like I was about to shatter. Like I was fragile.
And I don’t want her thinking that. Not again.
I let out a sigh, and exit out of her profile, pulling up my text thread with Cherry instead.
Me:
You busy?
Cherry:
Wouldn’t you like to know.
My lips twitch.
Me:
I would. Tell me.
Cherry:
Maybe I’m out living my best life without you.
I shake my head, leaning back in my seat as the scoreboard flashes—end of second period. We’re up by two.
I lower my eyes back to my screen, typing out a reply.
Me:
Not possible. I’m great company.
Are you out shopping again? Clubbing? Secret underground chess tournament?
Cherry:
None of the above. I’m at a hockey game.
My brows pull together.
Me:
Wait, what?
Cherry:
You seem so surprised.
Surprised that Cherry is at a fucking hockey game? Yeah, I am.
Me:
I just didn’t know you liked hockey.
Cherry:
I’m still deciding if I do. I kind of hate how aggressive it is.
I glance back at the ice just in time to see Cole take a monster hit near the boards. He bounces off like a pinball, his shoulder crumpling slightly as he skates it off. The whole crowd lets out that collective oooh.
My nose scrunches, practically feeling the pain. That was a hard hit.
Cherry:
For example, a guy just got slammed into the boards. How is that fun to watch?
My heartbeat stutters.
I sit up straighter, my thoughts running wild.
It… can’t be… right?
Me:
Hold on. Which game?
Cherry:
Why?
Me:
Because I’m literally at a game right now.
There’s a long pause before she replies. Feels like it takes for fucking ever, until I feel my phone vibrate and her text comes through.
Cherry:
Oh.
I blink down at my phone. Could she be watching this game?
Me:
What game are you at?
I watch the dots come and go, my stomach twisted in this weird knot.
Cherry:
We said no details. Remember?
Me:
Cherry. Are you at Colton U?
More dots. Longer this time.
Cherry:
Please don’t come find me.
That makes my pulse spike.
Holy shit.
She’s here.
My head jerks up, eyes snapping to the crowd like I’ll spot her among thousands of fans packed into the stands, bundled in team jerseys and face paint, swinging foam fingers and waving cardboard signs.
I shift in my seat, trying to get a better view of the bleachers across from the bench.
The lights catch on a dozen ponytails. Girls in beanies, flannels, fleece vests.
That girl two rows down with popcorn in her lap and her eyes glued to her phone—could be her.
Or maybe the one in the oversized hoodie near the railing, tapping something out with her thumbs and smirking at the screen.
Is she alone? With friends?
Is she someone I know?
The thought knocks something loose in my chest. My stomach flips, too full of nerves and questions.
I lean forward, my elbows digging into my knees as I scan the crowd again, searching for something—anything—that might make it click. Like I’ll just know . Like my heart will recognize her before my brain does.
But it doesn’t.
I don’t know what I’m looking for. I don’t even know what she looks like.
This is insane.
I suck in a breath and push to my feet, muttering a quick sorry as I shimmy past someone’s dad holding a tray of nachos. A girl glares at me when I bump her elbow, but I barely register it. My mind’s somewhere else entirely.
I hit the concrete concourse behind the bleachers, the cooler air hitting my face. I pace a few steps, then stop, my thumb hovering over our text thread. I could message her again. Ask where she’s sitting. What she’s wearing. Who she’s with.
But what would I even say?
Hey, are you the girl with the puffer jacket and peanut M&Ms?
Yeah. No.
I exhale hard and let my head fall back against the cinderblock wall behind me. My heart’s still pounding. This whole thing is stupid. She told me not to look for her. I should respect that.
But I can’t stop thinking about it.
I can’t stop thinking about her .
I don’t know who she is.
But I want to.
Badly.
My fingers tighten around my phone. My thoughts are a mess, spinning too fast, colliding into each other. I lean my head back against the wall, eyes closing for half a second, just trying to breathe .
But then I hear footsteps and I glance up, freezing when I see Maisie.
She’s walking toward the exit, head tilted down slightly, one hand curled around the strap of her bag.
I push off the wall without thinking.
“Maisie?”
She startles slightly, her head lifting. She stops walking when her eyes lock on mine and blinks. “Oh. Hey.”
My brows knit as I step toward her. “What are you doing here?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says with a shake of her head. “I don’t even like hockey.”
I press a hand to my chest, mock wounded. “I kinda like you, so I’m gonna pretend you didn’t say that.”
She rolls her eyes, her lips twitching at the corners.
“But seriously,” I ask, taking a few steps closer, “if you hate it… why are you here?”
Maisie’s mouth parts. Her gaze drops to her feet as her fingers twist the sleeve of her jacket. “I just… I wanted to support you.”
Something inside me stutters.
She looks up again. “I can only imagine how hard this must be for you. Watching them play and not being able to. I figured… maybe you’d need someone.”
I swallow hard. My chest does something weird. It tightens and lifts all at once.
Because she’s here.
For me.
She didn’t have to do this. She could’ve stayed home, stayed in her warm bed with Waddles by her side. But she came anyway. She just sat in that crowd because she thought I might need someone.
“You came to a game for me?” I ask, unable to stop the smile that tugs at my lips.
Maisie shoots me a dry look. “Don’t make it a thing.”
“I’m definitely making it a thing.”
She lets out a little huff, tucking her hair behind her ear.
I sit down on the edge of the old wooden bench near the ticket booth. I nod toward the open spot beside me without saying anything.
Maisie pauses. She shifts her bag higher on her shoulder, glances back down the hallway like she might bail. But then her shoulders sag, and with a quiet sigh, she lowers herself beside me.
The game noise is faint now, just a dull hum behind the concrete walls. I lean forward, propping my elbows on my knees.
We don’t talk at first.
And for once, I don’t feel like I have to fill the silence.
Maisie just sits there, her hands resting on her thighs, her fingers picking at the edge of her sleeve.
I stare at the scuffed floor between my sneakers and mutter, “It fucking sucks.”
She looks over, but doesn’t speak.
I shake my head, trying to swallow down the knot in my throat. “Not playing. Sitting there, knowing I let everyone down. My team. Coach. Myself.” I pause. “My mom.”
Maisie doesn’t say anything, but I can feel her listening.
“She works at a private school,” I continue, voice low. “She’s a janitor there. Been doing it since I was a kid.”
My leg bounces. I press my hand down on my thigh to stop it.
“She used to come home with bleach stains on her pants and holes in her sneakers, but still found a way to buy me skates. Ice time. Weekend camps. She said if I loved hockey, she’d make it happen. Even when we could barely afford groceries, she made sure I had new laces before a tournament.”
Maisie’s hand shifts slightly on the bench, close to mine. She doesn’t touch me, not quite. But I can feel the space between us shrink.
I let out a breath, staring straight ahead. “I owe her. I owe her to make it. Get drafted. Go pro. Buy her a house. A car. Something. Anything that says thank you for working yourself into the ground for me.”