Page 15 of Chasing the Puck

Tuck blows a raspberry. “Yeah, right, I don’t have to worry about not achieving the dream I’ve had since I was a kid. You know, just the thing I’ve been working my body to the bone for, dealing with aches and pains and injuries, the thing I sacrificed summer vacations and a social life for while I was growing up. Yep, no big deal if it turns out it was all for nothing. Since I’m some rich boy, that’s all that matters, right?”

I feel a twinge of guilt in my chest—but that only makes me more frustrated, because I didn’t say any of that. Tuck’s putting words in my mouth.

“That’s not what I mean,” I say, folding my arms over my chest and looking out my window. If I look at Tuck right now, I’m only going to get angrier. How is he making me feel bad just for telling him that he’s giving me advice from a privileged perspective?

“Well, here’s what I mean. You only live once. People out there would kill for the natural talent you have on the stage. I don’t know shit about acting and even I can see it when I’ve gone to your plays. You owe it to yourself to see how far you can go with it, and you need to take every opportunity available to you to make it happen.”

Yeah, I’ve seen what happened to my parents who followed Tuck’s advice. A life of struggle and stress because following your dreams isn’t always guaranteed to pay the bills, no matter how talented you are.

“My street is on the left here,” I say, side-stepping Tuck’s last comment. I’m done with this conversation.

“I know,” Tuck grouses, turning onto my narrow street and rolling to a stop in front of my house.

I take a deep breath and push past my frustration with Tuck to say, “Thanks for the ride. And trying to help with my car.” The thanks seem necessary, but there’s no warmth in the words.

“Sure.” The same coldness of my voice is mirrored in Tuck’s.

Maybe I slam the passenger side door a little too hard when I hop out of his car. And maybe I walk a little faster up my walkway than I usually do.

I definitely let out a heavy, ragged huff when I shut the door behind me.

The frustrated feeling in my chest lingers. I keep playing back my conversation with Tuck.

I don’t know why it should bother me. Of course I had a bad experience with Tuck. Don’t I always? He and I are utterly incompatible, even as acquaintances.

But … before we had that spat, I was kind of, actually, sort of … heaven help me for admitting this … enjoying our conversation. For a brief moment.

I guess there’s a lesson in that: nothing good can ever come of letting my guard down with Tuck McCoy.

6

TUCK

I’m an idiot.

For the first time since I laid eyes on her, Olivia and I were actually having a conversation. A real conversation, beyond me trying to pick her up and her telling me to get lost. We were joking around, getting to know each other. Fuck, it felt good.

Somehow it managed to turn into a stupid argument. Somehow, I managed to turn it into a stupid argument.

I’ve played the conversation back in my head enough times to realize I probably came off as insensitive.

At the same time, when people imply that I haven’t worked hard for what I’ve accomplished, that everything’s come automatically for me, even in hockey, just because I come from a wealthy family … well, it pisses me off. It’s something I’ve had thrown in my face a lot.

Sure, being annoyed that people underestimate you because you’re rich is the quintessential first-world problem. Still, it stings when it happens over and over again.

I don’t like having accomplishments I’ve worked hard for dismissed. Who would?

And now, thanks to me getting lost in my head, ruminating on all this shit for the fiftieth time today, Jamie’s managed to skate deftly up and steal the puck from me.

“Shit,” I grumble.

The rookie just made me look like a rookie, taking advantage of my inattentive puck handling.

That’s not the first time I’ve cursed myself for screwing up during this practice session. Frankly, I’m playing like shit today. And everyone notices.

After we’re dismissed from practice, anxiety crawls up my back while I’m getting changed, just waiting for Coach Torres to shout my name and call me into his office to give me the tongue-lashing I deserve for my performance.

“McCoy!” Coach’s voice booms from outside the locker room entrance just as I tug on my jeans after coming from the shower. “My office!”

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