18. Self-Mediocrity Is So Out
SELF-MEDIOCRITY IS SO OUT
LAKE
Ipace back and forth across the floor of the rink, a reel of thought unsnarling with each heavy-footed (and heavyhearted) step I take.
I can’t believe I lost my shit in front of Max like that. I should’ve tried to de-escalate the situation, not make it worse. Unlike me, my brother doesn’t have a bad bone in his body. He’s sweet and well-behaved and, ironically, my role model despite his age.
I’ve never told anyone all the details about Audie’s death.
Hell, even Ellaria doesn’t know the full story.
To think that Sutton is the first person I confided in brings me both relief and unease.
He was so sweet and understanding, but the truth shouldn’t have come out like that.
I wanted to confess it on my own time, with no one else around.
Yet he handled it—me—so, so well.
The memory of my sister is my Achilles’ heel. Everything I do is a distant reaction to the choices I made that night, and it still informs how I view myself as a person. My self-worth will always be tied to that singular moment.
But Max…he doesn’t have to follow in my footsteps. I need to set a better example, and that starts with me apologizing for how I act at protests. Speaking up for the voiceless is one thing—creating an environment where I go to jail is something else entirely.
When I see him toddling over to me on his skates—secured in his padded hockey uniform and looking exceptionally small beneath every layer—guilt slips its metaphorical leash.
“Hey, hi,” I say, taking my brother gently by the arm and leading him over to one of the benches.
I can feel my ribs tightening around my heart, clamping down on viscera with the intent to scar. Sutton’s voice—akin to the rolling growl of thunder—crackles in my ears, playing on repeat.
You make things better.
Come on, Lake. Just be honest with Max.
As exposed as a ship’s hull on a jagged outcrop of rocks—waterlogged wood peeling down lateral panels—I take a seat on the cold, hard surface, unintentionally examining the healing trajectory of his extensive injuries.
The swelling around his eye has gone down, and after we treated his cuts with antiseptic, they’ve been on the mend.
Still, it’s not an easy pill to swallow having your brother walk around looking like he was jumped by a bunch of mobsters.
Despite the clipping of skates and the whisking of ice shavings, the rink feels as silent as a mortuary. I funnel all my courage into a well-meaning apology that I should’ve jettisoned years ago.
“I’m so sorry, Max. I’m sorry for the way I blew up and made things worse with your principal. I was supposed to set a good example for you, and I failed.” My truth is the equivalent of a death knell, and white-hot agony floods my stomach.
My sweet, sweet brother tilts his head as confusion flashes across his expression. “Why are you sorry? I’m the one who got into a fight and made your life harder.”
I sweep him into my arms, exacting a small amount of pressure so I don’t exacerbate his pain. “Oh, God, no. You make my life easier, bud. There’s nothing you could say or do that would make me love you any less. You stood up for yourself like I taught you. You called bullies out on their bullshit.”
“You shouldn’t cuss,” he reprimands.
Laughter spills from my throat, and for the first time since I can remember, I’m not drowning in self-hatred.
I pull back from our hug and do my best to discreetly hold my tears back, the first makings of a smile christening my lips. “I promise I’ll be a better role model from here on out, and I want you to know that you can come talk to me about anything.”
He nods, pretty unfazed for a kid who’s on day two of his suspension.
Instead of jumping up and down for joy though (or to the best of his ability), I can tell that worry still steels his spine. It’s even written in the little creases of his face. He wrings his gloved hands, contemplating his next set of words to spare me from guilt.
“Why is Mom always so mad at you?” he asks in a small voice.
Ugh, right. The woman who sees everything but also nothing at all.
We’ve been on better terms than we were immediately after my arrest, but we fell back into disarray over the news of Max’s suspension.
She obviously blames me, even though she hasn’t been around.
Of course, I’d take the blame a thousand times if it meant my brother’s perfect image is maintained in her mind.
My heart is practically beating through the thin skin of my throat. “She’s not mad at me. We just have some stuff to work out. But it’s not your job to handle Mom, okay? It’s my job. All I want you to do right now is focus on kicking Whittaker’s ass.”
Max lights up brighter than a Christmas tree.
Just when I thought Sutton couldn’t get any sweeter, he offered to give Max some private lessons to hone his hockey skills. On top of his busy schedule, he somehow carved out time to help carry my burdens. I truly don’t know where I’d be without him.
The next time those asswipes see my brother on the ice, he’ll be skating circles around them.
I know I was high on adrenaline when I had my mental breakdown, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t want to kiss Sutton in the moment. I would’ve made a move if the situation wasn’t so dire. He means more to me than I ever could have imagined.
For fuck’s sake, he’s turned me into a hopeless romantic, and I’m not the relationship type.
I thought I would overcome this tiny obstacle like it’s the common cold, but Sutton has burrowed his way into my heart.
The scariest part? I don’t think I mind being the object of someone’s affection—not after I’ve been deprived of it for so long.
Sutton comes gliding effortlessly into the picture in his hockey gear, and butterflies tight-fist my gut, scrambling my brain with a siege of hormones. I didn’t know it was humanly possible for him to look any hotter, but I guess I’m a slut for a man in uniform.
The rink is fairly empty except for a few stragglers, and my brother narrowly avoids colliding into his teacher from the excitement vibrating through his tiny body.
Considering the Mustangs are household names in Minnesota, Max wouldn’t have passed this opportunity up for anything.
Plus, bragging rights in middle school go a long way.
I take a seat in the front row, watching both of them intently as they converse amongst themselves.
Sutton seems to be spewing a lot of jargon that runs a circuit through my mind, and I hope the overpowered lights wash out the gradual blush clawing at my cheeks.
He’s so patient—so gentle. You can tell a lot about a person’s character by how they treat children.
Despite being anti-wife material, I can’t help but picture Sutton as a father some time down the road, cherishing his little boy or girl with the kind of love that poets write about. That’s—dear God, that’s not a fantasy I should be having. I’m twenty-two, and I don’t even want kids.
Not saying that Sutton and I even end up together in the future.
Having witnessed every single one of Max’s hockey games, I can say, with confidence, that I’ve never seen him so happy before. And I’ll be damned if I take that away from him.
SUTTON
Lake is watching me.
I know this is a super low-stakes hockey lesson, but it feels like I’m performing for a goddamn scout. Can she tell I’m flexing really hard right now? Does my ass look good? I mean, I have been squatting more.
It doesn’t matter how close we get—physically or mentally—I’m always all sweaty and nervous around her. With my heart chugging and my thoughts grinding together like rusted gears, I force myself to focus on the task at hand, praying that my face hasn’t gone as red as a fire hydrant.
I’ve never taught anyone how to play hockey before, but this is important to Lake, which means it’s important to me. I try to cherry-pick Coach’s words of wisdom that have fallen to the far-off, underused part of my brain.
“Okay, where do you seem to be struggling the most?” I ask Max, leaning my weight on the butt of my hockey stick.
His adorable little face—wreathed in fluorescent striations—crumples into the kind of frown that prefaces a fountain of tears. “Um…I’m not really good at anything,” he responds quietly, turtling in on himself.
The little guy practically just jammed my heart into a fruit pulper. I know what it feels like to not be good enough. I know what it feels like to be surrounded by people who constantly outshine you—my teammates, my father. I don’t hold it against any of them, of course.
Sympathy draws my belly against my spine. “I don’t think that’s true.”
Max doesn’t try to shrug it off. He explodes in the most contained way possible, heaving out all his emotions like a newly thawed spout after a winter storm.
“I’m not fast, and I’m not good at stealing the puck from the other team.
I’m not good at guarding. I can never make a goal. Everyone’s just better than me!”
I crouch down to meet him at eye level, placing a hand on his shoulder and offering him an understanding smile. “You learn all those skills with time. Some of your teammates might be further ahead than you, and that’s okay. It doesn’t mean you’re any less worthy of being on the ice.”
Max sniffles. “I just want to make my mom proud.”
“Trust me, buddy. I know what that feels like.” I straighten my knees, jerking my thumb toward one of the unoccupied goals. “How about we start off simple, okay? Just try to score while I’m in the goal so I can assess your quick-release shooting and the accuracy of your aim.”
Although he gives me a nod, he drags himself over to the net like he’s already accepted defeat.
Situating myself in the goal zone, I bend my knees, broaden my wingspan to take up as much of the net as possible, and track the minute twitches of his body to predict his next move. Darting eyes, clenched dominant hand, the placement of his front foot.
He takes off as if he’s an out-of-control firework, and the speed of his skating…could be improved. His small size gives him an advantage to be more aerodynamic on the ice.
There’s a moment when I think I’ve greatly underestimated him, but his setup for a slap shot is too premature, and the crook of his right arm supplies me with all the indication I need of where the puck’s trajectory will end—the lefthand corner of the goal.
Unfortunately, I don’t have to move much to block the disc, and it bounces off my shin without so much as a dent.
Max throws his arms up in exasperation. “See! I can’t do it. You blocked that so easily.”
“That’s just because your body gave too much away. I knew where you were aiming, and you gave me plenty of time to act before your blade even hit the puck.”
“I don’t have fast hands like you.”
“You don’t need to have fast hands. You just need to catch the goalie off guard, and you need your opponents to underestimate you.”
Max glances up at me with his cartoonishly big eyes, and his helmet tips to the side a bit. “How do I do that?”
I’ve never had someone look up to me before. I’ve never been a role model for anyone. It gives me a sense of purpose that I thought had been lost to a murky hinterland. Hope—still a foreign feeling—waxes in the pantheon of my chest.
“Read their body language. See which side of the net they instinctively favor. You have to be three steps ahead of them. Whatever you think they anticipate you might do next, do the exact opposite.”
Color me surprised when Max skips his wallowing and resumes his previous position, fetching the puck with his stick.
After that single talk alone, I can already tell there’s something different about the way he carries himself. This time, he has something to prove, and that can light one hell of a fire under someone’s feet.
I brace myself for Max’s slap shot, and he takes a few calculated strides toward me before turning around, concealing the placement of the puck, then hurling it with his non-dominant hand.
The force is uncontrolled as it flings into the upper righthand corner of the net—deliberately lacking in coverage—and propels off the frame into the nylon.
Did I let him sink that shot? Maybe, but he doesn’t have to know that.
Max bursts into cheers and hops around haphazardly on his skates while I hear Lake whistle from the sidelines, backing his well-deserved win.
I slip my helmet off and wrestle my hair free. “That was awesome, Max. I —”
Suddenly, my sentence is interrupted by two small arms squeezing my tree-trunk thighs, and I don’t move a muscle in fear of scaring him off.
His show of gratitude, ironically, has my tongue feeling like sandpaper in my mouth.
I’ve only known this kid for two days, and I’m already so protective of him.
I see myself in Max—someone who just wants to belong despite his familial hardships. Someone who inadvertently flaunts his flaws like a butcher showing off a high-quality cut. Someone who wants to matter.
“Thank you! My coach never tells me what I’m doing wrong, so I can’t fix anything. But you helped me fix it!”
I pat the kid on the back. I don’t know how to describe it, but a malaise of self-doubt lifts from my body in the same way steam emanates off the rim of a scalding, stainless steel pan.
I think I needed this moment of reflection more than he did.
My eyes find Lake’s one last time, and peaceful serenity has never been so close within reach before.
“You’re going to do great things, buddy. I’m just the lucky guy who gets to be in your corner.”