Page 5 of Bound

It doesn’t take long. Undergarments, pads, socks, skates. Hockey pants, jersey, helmet. A glance at my phone, checking my levels, making sure nothing fucked-up is happening. If my blood sugar is too high, it can fuck up my eyes, my heart, my nerves, my kidneys, my blood vessels—fun right? And too low, and I can pass out, have a seizure, hit my head.

Oh, or die.

That’sa fun fact.

Today, though, my numbers are behaving and I’m good to shove on my gloves, snag my stick from the rack by the door.

Warm-up.

Sit and wait as the crowd files in.

Then game time.

And getting a fucking win against the Grizzlies—the newest team in the league and pretty much the biggest pains in the asses to play against.

I never thought the Sierra would give up that mantle.

But they sure as shit have.

The Grizzlies are a motley crew of old guys and rookies, and they’re tenacious as fuck with a renegade head coach who’s blasting through barriers left and right.

A former Olympian. A gold medalist many times over. A scout, a skating coach, an assistant and now…the first female head coach in the league.

Kick ass for sure.

But, God, I hate playing against her team.

Rolling my shoulders, I step out onto the ice, glancing up at the rapidly filling arena, our fans in Breakers blue and the jagged pieces inside me settle.

This is where I feel myself, where I feel normal, where I can just be a player and not someone with a disability, with a lifelong illness that requires constant management. Where I’m not the kid who was teased by my teammates and classmates about eating too much sugar or junk food—newsflash, that’s not how someone gets diabetes. Where I don’t feel awkward and exposed because my medical devices are beeping or I’m surreptitiously pounding fast-acting carbs or my stomach hurts because my numbers are off.

It’s been years since a teammate—and definitely longer since a classmate—has been a dick about me having type one, but that shit sticks deep.

So, even now, stepping onto the ice feels like a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Today’s about pucks and hitting hard and connecting passes and winning against the fucking Grizzlies.

“Let’s fucking go, yeah?” Smitty says—or yells, basically, because the man has never met an inside voice that he likes. He claps a big hand on my shoulder as he zips by me with a speed that belies his size, scooping up a puck and focusing on his own pregame routine.

I skate and stretch, my muscles warm already from the thirty minutes on the bike I did before getting dressed, but I still take a moment to stretch, to check in with my body, to loosen up my hands and wrists.

To focus.

And I’m ready by the time the buzzer counts down and we slip off the ice, marching down the hall to swap out our practice jerseys for the game ones, to plunk our gloves on the drier, to change out any equipment that’s uncomfortable—or needs to be swapped for the lucky version, e.g. Aiden and his lucky T-shirt with the Superman emblem he wears during every game.

Coach comes in and gives his pregame check in and pep talk.

Marcel always has something insightful to say.

Smitty cracks jokes.

And I’m here, in this moment…

At least until my phone beeps, interrupting the punchline.

I grit my teeth together, make the necessary adjustments on my pump, eat a couple of spoonfuls of peanut butter from the jar that’s in my cubby—a jar that I know Claire put there because she’s thoughtful and beautiful and far too fucking good for my ass, even though I’ve wanted to fuck her from almost the first moment I saw her, all those years ago, and wanted to claim her as my own the more I’ve gotten to know her. Thoughtful. Gorgeous. A survivor with a backbone that rivals any of the guys in the locker room.

She’s fuckingeverything.

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