Page 46 of Mr. Broody

“Then what kind of teammate would you be?” Conor says.

Tweetie puts his gloved hand over his heart. “I thought we were friends.”

Rowan skates around me. “Time is a tickin’.”

Fucking hell, they annoy the shit out of me sometimes. After Jade left the other day, I didn’t know what to do. To say my head is a mess doesn’t even begin to describe the clusterfuck it actually is.

How did I get here, and how in the hell is my love for her still so fucking deep? It should have died a long time ago, but it’s still a burning inferno deep in my heart. The need to be her protector, to be her person, is so ingrained in me I’m not sure it will ever disappear.

“See, this is why you need to spill. You’ve been standing there for, like, a minute staring at the stands.” Tweetie decides to throw in his two cents—which is ironic, given he’s still afraid to face his own past.

Shit, is that what I’m doing? Avoiding facing the past? No, I followed Jade after she ran out on Saturday, determined to explain what happened three years ago. And I was grown up enough not to sleep with her all those years ago but pushed her away instead.

“Let’s go!” Conor shouts.

“Just takes one.” Rowan stands with his chin resting over his gloves that hold his stick, watching as though his money is on Conor. Well, fuck them.

I take the first puck and skate around Rowan just to piss him off, but all he does is laugh.

“Look at our boy,” Tweetie says, adding gasoline to my shitty attitude.

I skate straight toward Conor, and at the last minute, I pretend I’m going around the back of the net, but don’t, shooting the puck toward the net.

“Gotcha.” Conor deflects it by lowering on his legs to the ice. The puck shoots off in the other direction. “Four more.”

I’m already annoyed. I need to center myself because Conor’s a helluva goalie, but I’m a better winger. He’s going to be eating his words.

Deciding I’m better off just doing straight shots, I slap four pucks over to the left. The only thing on my side against Conor is he’s a little weaker on his left. And that’s not really saying that much.

“Love the confidence,” Rowan says.

Pretty soon, a couple other teammates come by, asking what’s going on. Tweetie fills them in on the bet, but not what the terms are, which I appreciate. I don’t need the entire locker room knowing my business.

I set up my shot, and Conor’s up on his skates. He deflects it. And the next one. And the fourth one. I can’t deny I feel a little defeated.

“Just quit now and give it up,” Conor baits me.

I don’t want to open up my chest and let them dig out all the demons living there.

With the last puck, I take a chance and skate toward him. I zig right then left, swinging around the back of the net, down to where I started before circling Rowan and Tweetie and send a slapshot at Conor.

“Oh shit, maybe…” Tweetie says.

But at the last minute, Conor uses those expert goalie skills, falling to his legs, and the puck ricochets off his guards and hits the plexiglass.

Fucker.

Rowan makes a loud buzzing sound.

Conor gets up and takes off his helmet, tossing it on the top of the net and grabbing his water bottle.

We all meet in the middle between center ice and the net.

“We’ll do it on the flight home tonight. Be prepared.” Conor pats me on the back.

“I thought you had him,” Tweetie says on our way to the bench to get some water.

I can’t lie, I did, too. But once upon a time, I thought I had Jade as well. When will I learn that nothing is ever what I think it is?

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