Page 68 of Good Boy

I’m so fucking frustrated I could spit. My neck aches too. The pain radiates down my shoulder, wreaking havoc with my concentration.

We position ourselves for another face-off. I catch Wes watching me with nervous eyes. Then the puck drops, and Eriksson passes to Wes. I put on a burst of speed as he lines up to send it over to me.

Once more with feeling! I get my stick on that puppy and…

Lemming steals it with a poke check that I never saw coming.

Coach Hal blows the whistle. “Let’s change a few things up,” he says.

Wes groans. He knows what’s coming. Hal is going to make a line change before our game tomorrow night. Goddamn it.

And then it’s worse than I thought, because Coach puts Wes with O’Connor, who’s a glory hog. Wesley spends the rest of practice looking sour. And when the final whistle blows, I leave the ice so fast there’s probably a contrail behind me. I’m in the showers before anyone else has even unlaced his skates.

Under the spray, I knead my shoulder while the hot water pelts me. My teammates shuffle in. They leave me alone, but I can feel eyes on my back. So I cut the shower shorter than the ideal length—eternity—and get dressed.

While I’m changing, the head trainer hovers, asking me what’s the matter. “Is it something we should evaluate?”

“Just a stiff neck,” I insist, because it is. There is nothing really wrong with me except a little pain and the horrible sense of doom that’s descended like a dark cloud. I just can’t shake the feeling that something is switched off inside me.

Last night, I lay awake worrying about it. That’s so unlike me it’s not even funny. But it’s as if my carefully calibrated sensory balance has gone haywire. Last year when I had that sprain, I bounced right back. But this time? My bounce has bounced elsewhere.

I hightail it out of there and drive to the one place that will never let me down.

The bar, of course.

It’s only five o’clock, and at this hour Sticks & Stones is empty. The other players will all drift in here eventually, but for now I have the place to myself. Except for Lisa, of course. She hustles over and plunks a mug of beer in front of me.

“I didn’t order yet,” I mumble.

She shakes her head. The mohawk is green today. “I can always tell what my customers need. And what you needed was speed, man. You need a beer, like, yesterday.”

“That obvious, huh?” Good ol’ Lisa.

Her smile is patient. “What’s her name?”

“Who?”

Lisa gives me an eye roll. “Whoever has you twisted up in knots. And she must be somebody special, because you’re never the one who’s sitting here with a mopey face.”

“Her name is Jess.” I take a big gulp of the beer she’s brought me.

“Wait…” Lisa puts her elbows on the bar. “She drank the Velvet Fog, right?”

“Prolly.”

She nods like a sage. “Nice girl. Not everyone jibes with a wheat ale. I’d do her. But I thought you weren’t ever dating again after what’s-her-name.”

“Molly.”

“I didn’t forget, Blake. I just don’t like saying it out loud.”

Right. Lisa is awfully protective of the players. I never told her what Molly did to me, but during my rookie season, Molly used to come into Sticks & Stones and guard me like a Doberman. She never liked this place, and she used to complain that her beer was served too warm.

Now that I think about it, Lisa might be responsible for that.

“She’s back in town, you know,” I hear myself say.

“Damn.” Lisa makes a face. “I’m sorry. She giving you a hard time?”

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