Page 20 of Save the Game

Leaving my room, still in my pajamas, I pad softly into the kitchen. Marcos is standing at the counter, coffee cup in hand as he scrolls idly through something on his phone. He looks up when he catches sight of me and smiles his small smile. It’s a testament at how good I’ve become at hiding my feelings from him that he can’t notice how perfectly fucking awful I feel right now.

“Hey, Max. Coffee?” He goes to fill me a mug when I nod. I sit down on one of the tall barstools and wait for him to bring it to me, murmuring a thank you. “How did your date go?”

“Oh, well, I hurled all over his bed and then sat on the floor and cried, so,” I shrug and try to sound like this isn’t terrible. He stares at me, setting his mug down so hard that coffee sloshes onto the counter. I pick my own up and take a few, scalding hot sips.

“What? Are you okay? What do you mean you threw up?” He looks panicked, eyes wide. “Why did you throw up?”

“I’m fine, unless you can die from embarrassment, in which case, I’ll say my goodbyes. And I don’t know why I threw up, I didn’t do it on purpose. It was just…spontaneous. We were…having fun, and then all of a sudden, I just lost it and I couldn’t breathe, and I thought I was going to faint. I thought I was having a…a heart attack or something, swear to god.”

“Let’s go to the hospital and get you checked out. Just to be sure,” he says, snatching up his phone and even going so far as to step toward the front door, as though we were both going to head out in our pajamas.

“No, I’m fine. I don’t need a doctor,” I tell him, and he scoffs, shaking his head. “What?”

“I think you do need a doctor, Max. You need somebody you can talk to.”

“I talk to you,” I counter, but he’s still shaking his head.

“No. You don’t.”

We stare at each other over the expanse of the kitchen: Marcos wrestling with his guilt over leaving me alone at the party last year, and me fighting with the shame of the result. He’s wrong. I can’t talk to somebody about this; hell, I can’t even remember the thing I’d be talking about. What would be the fucking point? I don’t need a doctor to tell me why I can’t sleep and have no appetite. I don’t need a doctor to push pills on me or give me a bunch of empty, textbook platitudes.

“I’d better get ready for class,” I say, and look down at my coffee mug. Marcos nods, walking to his room and wrapping his fingers around the handle. I call him back. “You know it wasn’t your fault, right? And…and that I don’t blame you for what happened? You know that, right Marcos?”

He turns around, slowly, and meets my eyes. “The funny thing is, I do know that. But knowing something and believing it are two different things. There are a lot of things that might have changed what happened that night, Max, and every single one starts with me.”

“Sounds like we both need to talk to somebody,” I joke, and he smiles, sadly.

“Yeah, maybe.”

“I mean it, though. I don’t want you to think I’m…I don’t blame you, or hate you, or anything like that. Okay?”

“Okay.” He pushes down on his door handle, cracking it open a few inches before pausing again. He bites his lip, looking uncertain. “Uhm, but about last night… Was Luke…?”

“No need to defend my honor and kick his ass today, Marcos. He was a perfect gentleman. Jesus, the poor guy. I owe him an apology. Puked on his fucking bed,” I mumble, mostly to myself, and take a gulp of coffee.

“Has he texted you?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to see, so I didn’t check.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I doubt Luke is upset about whatever happened. I’m not the guy’s biggest fan, but he’s not one to let things bother him. If you…if you want to keep, uhm, seeing him, you should just talk to him.”

I laugh, looking at the pained expression on Marcos’ face. “That kind of hurt you to say, didn’t it?”

“Leave me alone,” he says, chuckling. “I’ve got to get ready for class.”

School is a trial, each class longer than the next. I can’t focus on anything except my memories of last night, the conversation with Marcos this morning, and the absence of any text messages from Luke. He’s probably disgusted. He’s decided you’re obviously more trouble than you’re worth, and has already moved on to the next guy. He’s probably told his roommates the whole, ridiculous story, and they’ve been having a good laugh about it all day.

“Hello, Max,” a soft, German voice breaks me away from my thoughts. I look up to see Henri Vasel standing next to me, collared shirt halfway unbuttoned as he starts getting undressed.

“Hey, Vas, how are you?” I’m already dressed in my practice gear. Like usual, I came early to change before the rest of the team arrived.

“I am very well, thank you. It is a good day for hockey,” he says, and I laugh.

“Yeah, it is.”

“Something is bothering you, though, I think,” he adds, carefully going through the motions of putting his gear on. I look at him in surprise and he shrugs. “I am friends with Carter Morgan for a long time. And you are not so good at hiding, as he was.”

He grimaces at me, apologetically. I shrug. “Just had a bad night, is all.”

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