6. Familiar Faces
FAMILIAR FACES
SUTTON
Lake stood me up. And since then, she’s dropped off the face of the earth entirely.
I haven’t spoken to her recently, so I have no idea what would make her dip out on me like that. Maybe she got cold feet because of the Buford situation? I don’t really do the whole dating thing—and not because I adhere to a fuckboy philosophy like a lot of my teammates. I’m just picky.
It’s going to sound cliché, but I found that it was easier to be myself when I didn’t have to live up to someone’s inflated expectations of my hockey alter ego.
I adore the Mustangs’ diehard fans, though there’s a line where I feel like more of a show horse than a human being.
Lake didn’t care about my reputation. Hell, she didn’t even know who I was.
And, despite the…slightly illegal…circumstances I met her under, her fearlessness was a breath of fresh air.
I’ve grown up most of my life heeding caution instead of heralding chaos.
I never approach a problem without a solution.
Acting on impulse, ironically, is the one thing that isn’t written into the helix of my DNA.
My animal instinct actually supplicates that I de-escalate in highly charged situations—which my therapist says is a result of my people-pleasing tendencies.
It’s been me and my dad since I was three. I never needed a mom, nor extended family. My father is my one and only rock, and I wouldn’t be anywhere without him. I try to see him on the weekends, but since I don’t live at home anymore and he works full time, it’s been hard to align our schedules.
It’s taken me years to accept the fact that his job is dangerous, and that one day, I might get the call he’ll never come back home again.
His affinity for making calculated yet reckless decisions has impacted me a lot more than I realized at first. I’ve seen how they’ve played out—I’ve been the brunt of his one-man show for a long time.
I’ll never forget the time he barreled into a burning house without backup because there was a child trapped beneath a fallen beam, and I genuinely thought that was the last time I would ever see him.
He was off duty when he came across it. None of his colleagues were in the immediate area.
He knew the risks—asphyxiation, structural collapse, flashover—but he also knew that there was a reason he stumbled upon the scene first. He was the only person who could’ve saved that little girl, and if he hadn’t acted when he did, she wouldn’t be with us today.
Every time my father gets a callout, I have to wrestle with the possibility that something might go wrong.
That’s just the nature of his job. I have to lead with caution because I’m familiar with the detrimental effects of half-assed decisions.
One misstep and all my dad’s hard work to provide a future for me goes up in an inferno of fire and ash.
I bear the worry, I bear the overthinking, I bear the insomnia that stirs quietly in the silence of the night when I don’t hear from him. I’d never tell him any of this, obviously, because I know it would affect his performance.
My whole life has been a drag path of fear, and I think I was so drawn to Lake in the first place because she emits this aura that’s unapologetically her.
She’s completely exorcised of self-doubt and unconcerned with contorting herself to fit society’s expectations.
I was already sucked into her orbit when she drank me in with her cerulean eyes and refused to let me go.
I’ve been conditioned to bite my tongue; Lake revels in the taste of blood.
Maybe a neglected part of me yearns to be as carelessly free as she is, because I’ve restructured my whole life around my father’s occupation.
So, it’s pretty on par for me to worry about something I can’t control—like whether or not she’s still interested in me.
Disappointment fires through my chest like a close-range bullet, shattering bone and brutalizing delicate tissue in a bloody, ruthless trail. Though it doesn’t compare to the sudden physical pain of something hitting me over the helmet and jarring awake some of my on-leave brain cells.
“Dude, Foster sped right past you!” Axel—the other defenseman on the team—hisses, gesturing to the dwindling silhouette of my opponent careening across the ice.
I absentmindedly rub my helmet, even though the sting is buried a few layers deeper. “Shit. Sorry.”
Crew—my captain—comes skating toward me, jerking his body sideways at the last second and spraying the two of us with an avalanche of ice shavings.
I don’t bother with shaking the cold off. Maybe it’ll rekindle my love for the game, or at the very least pump me with enough adrenaline to look good in front of Coach.
“Sutton! What the hell is going on with you today? You would’ve pancaked Foster Flat Stanley-style before he got the chance to make it past center line,” Crew barks, his words laced with an agitation that instills fear in the very pit of my belly.
Fear that spiders in black veins like a subcutaneous disease.
I don’t like disappointing the people who rely on me. But fuck, Lake has recalibrated every thought in my head from miles away. She’s got her nails embedded in me, and I don’t have half the mind to break free. She’s the cat, and I’m the mouse with a nasty case of toxoplasmosis.
Heat crawls up the nape of my neck, undoubtedly turning my cheeks a matching tint of pink. “No, yeah. That was my fault. I’m sorry. I’m, uh, distracted.”
Knox—the last person who I’d invite into our half circle of truths—pierces my privacy bubble and airs out everything he can get his grubby hands on. He has a tendency to make things worse. Not maliciously, of course. It’s just his unfortunate default.
“Don’t tell me this is about Lake Capitano.”
I think I’m going to throw up.
I don’t even try to deny anything. “How did—”
He pats me on the back sympathetically. “Could’ve sworn I saw you guys making eyes at each other.
You’re just lucky your clothing exchange didn’t end up all over Mustang Mania.
People love to run with gossip. Buford has been reading you to filth behind your back.
Probably the only way he’s able to considering you’d crush him like a roly-poly if he said it to your face.
I’d take it as a compliment. Dude doesn’t have the balls to run his mouth around you. ”
I don’t keep up with Mustang Mania. I don’t want to fret over what everyone’s thinking about me.
Also, that seems like a very fucked-up compliment. Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a scary guy. Sure, I can get aggressive on the ice, but that’s what a defenseman is for. I’m really more of a gentle giant. It’s not my fault I was a twelve-pound baby.
“We were just…” I trail off, feeling sweat pearl on my hairline as my heart revs a few beats in the pit lane of my chest.
“Flirting?” Harlan chimes in, somehow teleporting to my side.
I guess all my friends have taken a break from practice to interrogate me. If we don’t disperse soon, Coach is gonna make us do bag skates until someone collapses.
“Talking,” I grumble, pushing my shoulders back as I try to strangle the nerves that burgeon amidst a fastidious prod at my iron-forged defenses. I love my teammates to death, but they’re not above employing the help of a battering ram to break down my walls.
We usually tell each other everything. Maybe too much of everything. Knox isn’t shy about his sex life. Hearing him talk about experimenting with a flogger in the bedroom is a form of cruel and unusual punishment.
I curl my fingers into my gloved palm. “None of it is important, okay? Lay off the third degree.”
I don’t want to talk about her. I don’t want my teammates to know that I’m the loser who got stood up on his first date in months. It’s embarrassing.
Crew’s expression tightens around the edges, and despite being two inches shorter than me, he straightens his spine to make himself larger, imposing. “It is important if my best defenseman is clamming up on the spot. We have a game next weekend, and there’s absolutely no room for error.”
Ugh, he’s right. Hockey should always come first. Lake made her decision.
She’s not interested, and I need to move on and focus on the team.
We’re on a winning streak right now. That kind of success sets the precedent for the rest of the season, and we have a pretty superstitious student population.
I grind my molars together before forfeiting a sigh. “No, it’s—I promise that my head is in the game. I’m sorry. It’s just been a tough week.”
Not totally a lie.
Crew eyes me like he’s got some internal imaging device designed to unravel the seams of poorly fabricated lies, but whatever response he has poised on his tongue dissipates when he chooses to, thankfully, absolve me.
“It’s fine. Just try to be more aware of your surroundings next time, yeah? I know these practices can get monotonous, but they’re important. We work together as one oiled machine. If one of us is off, it affects the rest of the team.”
I nod, cowing my head. I know he isn’t trying to mortify me, but I can’t, in good conscience, keep eye contact with any of the guys. I’m never distracted during practice. I always bring a hundred and twenty percent. Hockey is the only constant I’ve had in my life.
When I’m playing, all the outside noise gets shut out, and I don’t have to think about my school workload, or interpersonal relationships, or any of that messy stuff that plagues me in the waking hours of sleep deprivation.
My mind has a habit of consistently replaying my blunders over and over again until I’ve been double-whammied with unsanctioned exposure therapy and a desire to sink into the earth’s crust.
I wish I knew what I did to give Lake cold feet. I was under the misguided impression that she wasn’t capable of cold feet. She seemed so sure of herself. Maybe she didn’t want to perpetuate any nasty rumors if Buford’s lackeys saw us together. Whatever the reason, I deserve an explanation.
“I understand, Cap,” I say, homebred guilt seeming to crystallize in my bones.
I guess I should just be grateful that I didn’t get super invested in something with Lake before she showed me her true colors.
Crew’s face breaks into a smile. “That’s what I like to hear. Now run the play again.”
With a nod, everyone resumes their rightful positions before Coach can pick up on our unauthorized break, and Foster has been punching his fist into the air victoriously for making it past me.
He’s unbearable when he gets the chance to show off his skills.
This is the only time that little shit will be able to celebrate.
When Foster glissades back over to his side of the ice, we’ve divvied up the team into defense and offense. He primarily plays a goalie position, but Coach likes him to participate in game scenarios whenever it’s applicable.
I know my teammate—a little too well for my liking. Foster is going to try and score again because he thinks he’s clever enough to get past me. Little does he know that he only succeeded the first time because I was too momentarily entranced by my what-if crush to intercept his trajectory.
I linger to the right of the face-off, stick down, back hunched, warm breath slithering through the grid of my helmet and vanishing into the atmosphere.
The little version of Lake dancing in my head has ceased to exist, and I wield my honed precision like a weapon, letting the indignant fire inside me light a fuse that wasn’t there before.
This time, when Crew knocks the puck back to his teammates and Foster scoops it up in one go, I’m arrowing straight for that son of a bitch with no mercy or brakes.
I’m the equivalent of a speeding train tearing up the tracks to plow down any poor, unfortunate soul, and Foster realizes a moment too late that he’s standing in my way.
I shoulder-check him as hard as I can into the boards, watching his body fling sideways as a slam reverberates off the insulated walls.
Once the disc is in my possession, I pass it to Knox, who bobs and weaves past Axel to ultimately score a goal at the other end of the rink.
“That’s what I like to see, Whittaker!” Coach yells, clapping his hands loudly.
I grimace as I slide over to Foster’s crumpled body, lending him a helping hand. He accepts it shakily, giving me his full weight.
“Yeah, I think I’ll stick to the goal next time,” he mumbles, clinging to my bicep.
“Sorry,” I apologize, though I’d be lying if I didn’t feel somewhat satisfied with my display of athleticism. And getting swept up in hockey has, in fact, punted Lake all the way in my rearview.
At least, that’s what I think before I catch her head of familiar, blonde hair bobbing beyond the plexiglass, heading straight for Coach. She’s got it tied up into a ponytail (which can only mean business), and a veneer of determination is fastened to her face. Her beautiful, perfect face.
Fuck. I never expected to see her in our rink, and now all the cool-guy points I earned from body-slamming my opponent into the next life are at risk of repossession.
I freeze, staring at her despite the little voice in my head that says I’m embarrassing myself, and Foster follows my line of sight with a slack jaw.
Crew, Knox, Harlan, and Axel all hightail it over to my side, glued to the conversation that’s about to transpire between my talking stage and my hockey coach.
“What is she doing here?” Harlan asks.
She has a lot of nerve showing her face around here after going radio silent on me.
She doesn’t even—shit, she doesn’t even look the tiniest bit affected by her decision.
She’s acting like she didn’t tear my heart out of my chest and stomp it into oblivion.
That may be an overexaggeration, but still.
Following the post-high of me showing up for our date, where I sat alone for two hours straight until the waiter finally told me that they needed the table for another customer, I wanted to crawl into a hole and quiet the restless thundering of my heart. My impressionable, two-sizes-too-big heart.
A pinch of resentment needles me toward a radioactive drop-off point. “I have no idea, but I’m about to find out.”