42
Nate
By Friday night, I know Hannah isn’t coming.
I know it before warmups, before the national anthem, and certainly before Carter catches me checking my phone for the sixth time and says, “You realize staring at it harder doesn’t summon her, right?”
I know. That’s the most irritating part. I’m the one who suggested space. I’m the one who paused the lessons. I did the "responsible" thing with both hands and a shovel, and now I get to stand in the hole I dug, admiring the craftsmanship.
Hannah has plans with Ethan tonight. She didn't tell me during some emotional, heavy sit-down; she told me through a painfully polite, distant-enough-to-have-a-porch-and-a-mailbox text this afternoon: *Hope your game goes well Friday.*
Not *Good luck*. Not *I’ll be there*. Just... *Hope it goes well.*
I’d replied with: *Thanks. Have a good night.* Like a bank teller. Like an uncle. Like a man who isn’t currently picturing her in a candlelit Italian restaurant with Ethan Cross looking at her like he has permission to want her.
Technically, he does. That’s the deal. I’m the one who insisted on the rules, and tonight, the rules are winning.
The locker room is a riot of pre-game noise—music vibrating through the lockers, tape ripping, Mason telling Brooks that his pre-game banana “looked emotionally unripe.” Carter is beside me tying his skates, watching me not check my phone again.
I check it anyway. Nothing.
“Man,” Carter exhales, his voice dropping below the roar of the music.
“What?”
“You’re waiting for something that isn’t coming.”
“I’m not waiting.”
“Right. You’re just repeatedly confirming the absence of a text. Legally, a huge difference.” Carter leans back, watching me wrap my stick with enough aggression to snap the composite. “You could text her, you know.”
“No.”
“Because you’re not getting in the middle of her trying with him?”
I stop, the tape hanging loosely from my hand. Carter’s face softens, and I hate it. I hate that my best friend has become an emotional sniper.
“It’s not normal with her, Carter,” I say, the admission slipping out raw. “None of it is.”
Warmups are a slow-motion car crash. I skate my usual loop, take my usual shots, and I look. I tell myself I won’t, but I scan the student section three times, then five.
Ella and Ava are there. Mason’s cousin is there. But there is no blonde hair, no cream sweater, no careful smile from behind the glass.
I take a shot and miss wide. Coach barks from the bench, “Wilder, the net is the red thing with mesh!”
I lift my stick, but my chest feels like it’s been hollowed out. Hannah isn't here because she chose Ethan tonight. It feels like swallowing broken glass while wearing skates, but I tell myself it’s healthy. This is what letting her figure things out looks like.
The buzzer sounds. Carter bumps my shoulder as we head down the tunnel. “Don’t let her absence play the first period for you.”
“I won’t.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
The first period is a slog. Colton State plays a defensive trap that clogs the neutral zone like wet cement. Their captain shadows me, chirping about my “PR girlfriend” being missing. I don’t bite. I’m evolving. Or maybe I’m just too tired to care.
Colton State scores first off a deflection. The bench tightens. Coach points at my line. “Next shift, answer.”
I hear him. I feel the ice beneath my blades, the weight of the game. For the first time all night, it actually works. Hannah disappears. The missing text disappears. There is only the puck and the speed.
Carter springboards a pass to me in stride. I carry it wide, draw the defenseman, and snap it home. Top corner.
The arena detonates. Mason and Carter crash into me. I grin, the adrenaline finally overriding the ache. I glance up at the stands—habit, reflex, instinct. Ella and Ava are jumping.
Still no Hannah.
I skate back to the bench. Coach claps my shoulder. “Good response. Stay in the game after the good moments too, Wilder.”
The message is loud and clear: Don’t turn a goal into another excuse to look for what’s missing.
We win 3-1. I finish with a goal and an assist. In the locker room, the energy is high, music blasting, Mason giving a speech about potassium. I should feel great. I’m proud of the discipline. I’m proud I didn’t take the bait when that guy chirped me about her.
Then I check my phone.
No "good game." No "saw the goal." Nothing. The silence hits harder than any check I took tonight.
“That’s what missing someone looks like,” Carter says, sitting beside me.
“She’s on a date,” I say, staring at the dark screen. “She’s focusing on Ethan. That’s what I told her to do.”
“No, you told her the lessons should pause. You pushed her toward him, and now you’re acting surprised it hurts.” Carter nudges my skate with his. “You can give her space and still admit that this sucks, Nate. Stop treating wanting like it needs legal permission.”
I rub my face with both hands. I hate that he’s right. I hate that I’m sitting here, a winner, feeling like I’ve lost everything that actually matters.
At Theo’s afterward, I go through the motions. I laugh at the right times, eat enough wings to satisfy Mason, and check my phone every ten minutes. At eleven-thirty, a text finally comes in. My pulse jumps so violently I almost drop my drink.
It’s Ella: *Good game, hockey boy. Gerald gives it 4.5 tiny helmets. He docked points for emotional brooding.*
I laugh softly. It’s not Hannah, but it’s a thread.
I get home at midnight. The apartment is too quiet, every corner remembering her. I stand at the kitchen table—the place where I paused the lessons—and stare at the empty chair across from me. It feels like a verdict.
My phone buzzes.
**Hannah:** *I saw you won. Good game.*
Small. Careful. Late.
**Nate:** *Thanks. It was a good one. You okay?*
The dots appear. Disappear. Long pause.
**Hannah:** *Yeah. Just tired.*
**Nate:** *Sleep then.*
**Hannah:** *Goodnight, Nate.*
I set the phone down. I don't need her in the stands to play well. I don't need her good-luck texts to win. I don't need her jersey or her smile.
But God, I want them. And wanting, apparently, has become the only thing I can't control.