42 - Nathan
Nathan
The arena stinks like varnish and sweat, but it comforts me. I’m sitting on the edge of the locker room bench, gloves in my lap, and helmet tucked under one arm.
I woke up at noon and skipped my morning lift. It’s the routine that usually steadies me before a game, but I didn’t feel like being on the receiving end of the skeptical glances from my friends.
I’m ninety-nine percent sure that my skull will split in two if I tilt my head the wrong way. I’d deserve it if it did. Bile rises in my throat, but I force it back. Going out last night, after almost a week in a row, was an awful decision.
The practice squad guys were desperate to hit a bar before the game, and for whatever reason, I went. They won’t see the ice today, but I will. Normally, I’d never do this before a game, despite what the paparazzi likes to publish. Now, I’m paying for it.
No one has said anything. Not Liam, Wyatt, or even Grayson.
Maybe because I’ve been pulling it together on the ice despite it all.
I’ve been on fire, even if my off-ice attitude has been hard to deal with.
As long as I’m not collapsing in the middle of a shift, they don’t have much room to complain.
That doesn’t help me feel less guilty or less terrible, though.
Liam sidles up next to me, silently dropping a couple of Tylenol into my palm, along with a bottle of water. He tilts his head at me, his silent way of saying: chug, idiot. I do. The cold water slides down my throat, dulling the edges of the pounding.
Grayson’s glare catches me across the room. He’s leaning against the locker room wall with his arms crossed. It’s his job as captain to be concerned about my performance, and his judgment is pressing down on me. I nod in his direction, but he just turns towards his locker.
Wyatt appears beside me with a smug half-grin plastered on his face. “Better pull it together come game time, Wilder,” he warns, voice loud enough that a few heads turn and mine throbs. I almost tell him to shut up, but only manage another nod.
Then Coach Rylan’s office door opens, the black of his silhouette framed by the fluorescent hallway light. He calls my name, and the room empties a little as I head in his direction.
Aside from his desk and the dry-erase board, the room is empty. Coach leans back in his chair. The intensity of his gaze leads me to believe that he knows exactly what I did last night.
Great.
“Sit,” he orders, motioning to the chair next to me. I drop into it, still gripping my helmet like it’s a lifeline.
I’ve been a jackass this week. Drinking before game day would be careless for anyone, but considering my contract is up, it’s incredibly stupid.
“Do you know why I called you in?” He folds his hands on top of his desk.
This is it. I’ve officially blown it.
An apology is on the tip of my tongue when he adds, “It has nothing to do with the hangover. I’ve heard plenty of rumblings about you this week. I trust you’ll get it under control.”
“Yes, sir,” I mutter, rubbing my forehead, trying to massage away the pain.
He leans forward slightly, eyes softening, though not entirely. “I’ve been watching all season. Even this week, even with your… extracurriculars, you’ve been delivering. You’ve been reliable. On the ice, you’ve been exactly who we need.”
I blink, trying to figure out where he’s going with this.
“And there’s more,” he says, a small smirk twitching at the corner of his mouth. “The organization has decided to renew your contract. It’s not signed yet, but they’re willing to take another chance on you. You’re getting another shot, Wilder.”
I swallow hard, the tension in my shoulders melting away in an instant. For the first time in a month, a genuine smile flashes across my face, relief coursing through me.
My mind immediately races, almost irresponsibly, to the thought of telling Wesley, before I remember everything.
A bitter thought creeps in. Everything with Wesley started as a means to an end. For her and for me. I’m getting exactly what I wanted when I’d asked for her help. And yet…
I nod once, voice full of gratitude. “Thank you, Coach. I won’t let you, or the team, down.”
He leans back, satisfied. “Good. Now get out there. And Wilder? If you ever show up hungover again, you’ll be skating sprints until you puke. You’re better than that.”
I nod quickly, the pounding in my skull returning with a vengeance. But beneath it all, I’m too excited to be miserable. Another contract. Another season. And maybe, just maybe, the spark for my sport that I thought I needed Wesley for is keeping aflame all on its own.
There’s a spring in my step as I reenter the locker room. That same enthusiasm is conveyed in my voice as I tell the guys. They all can’t help but be happy for me despite how annoyed they are with how I’m acting lately.
By the time we head to the ice, the water and Tylenol are doing what they do best, and I am focused on one thing: winning this game.
Warmups are already underway. The rink buzzes with the sound of blades scraping ice, pucks clattering, and teammates calling plays over the noise of the PA.
I tie my laces, adjusting my pads and gloves methodically, trying to let the routine ground me.
On the ice, I have a role. A purpose. A contract that’s essentially guaranteed.
After weeks of feeling broken, I suddenly feel invincible.
I glide toward the boards for warmups, the puck snapping off my stick, drowning out everything else. I catch a pass and wind up for a shot. I lift the stick, aim, and miss. The puck slides way too wide, clattering against the boards.
“Get in the fucking game, Wilder,” Grayson shouts, his eyes cutting into me like lasers. His patience for me has run out, and I don’t blame him. None of my bullshit has a place here.
I skate back to position, muscles coming to life the more I move. Warmups blur together as a sequence of passes, slap shots, and defensive drills, each one pushing me deeper into the zone. My head might be pounding, my stomach queasy, but my body knows what to do.
Next is the flashy team introductions. The crowd is loud.
The announcer’s voice booms over the speakers, each player’s name drawing cheers from the stands.
I skate to center ice, stick in hand, feeling the weight of the pads and the familiarity of the jersey against my skin.
The lights glare down. This is where I belong.
Right before the whistle blows, I let my mind wander one last time, before I lock in completely. My eyes scan the crowd, searching for the one person I know I won’t find.
Wesley’s the invisible constant in the background. She’s the silent motivator and complication all at once. Every decision, every push, and every extra drill started with her. And now? My contract’s renewing, the team has decided to take another chance on me, and she won’t even know.
I’d like to think she’d be happy for me. If anyone understands how much hockey means to me, it’s her. She gets it because soccer means just as much to her.
That’s why I can’t blame her for her choice.
I can be mad. I can be hurt. I wish things were different constantly, but I can’t blame her.
Because the commitment and drive she has to ensure she reaches her goals is what drew me to her from the get-go.
She wouldn’t be Wesley without it. I just wish she could be that Wesley with me.
I skate to the circle, my legs coiled and ready. When the puck drops, we win it clean. I pass to the center and immediately start tracking back on defense. The game breathes around me, the rush of the crowd and the slap of sticks setting every nerve ending on fire.
I move like I always do when I’m locked in, reading the play before it unfolds and anticipating passes.
There’s a streak of adrenaline that runs from my shoulders down my legs.
It’s a brutal joy that nothing else compares to.
I make a give-and-go at the blue line, backhand a rebound to the slot, and see Liam slam it in.
The bench erupts. I smile, just for a second, because the satisfaction is immediate.
The opposing team’s center comes in fast. I square up, anticipating a pass, and force him wide. My skates carve arcs in the ice. Every hit I take, every puck I block, fuels me further. The pounding in my head from last night recedes into the background.
Fifteen minutes in, we’re trading chances with the other team, neither side giving ground. I’ve already logged more minutes than usual, pushing to show Coach I’m deserving of the chance he’s giving me.
I get the puck in neutral ice, see a gap, and surge forward.
There’s an opening near the slot. I rush forward with speed, ice flying beneath my blades.
My heart races in a satisfying rhythm. I lift my stick, ready to snap it toward the net, but from the corner of my eye, a shoulder comes in too hard. And too damn fast.
The collision hits me like a freight train.
Air leaves my lungs in a sharp, punishing exhale I can’t control.
The world tilts violently. My knees buckle, my stick slams against the ice, useless.
Pain flashes across my shoulder, exploding into my skull.
I try to brace or push myself upright, but gravity has other plans.
The lights above blur, the crowd noise distorts, and a high-pitched ringing takes over everything. My vision narrows and then fades. The cold ice bites at me through my pads. My helmet digs into the surface.
I’m aware of the whistle, players yelling, and skates skidding to a halt nearby. A voice shouts something, maybe Grayson or maybe the ref, but it’s distant.
Then it all goes black.