Page 112 of Your Pucking Mom

With a heavy heart, I retrieved my phone from my pocket, the scent of my hangover clinging to my clothes like a bitter reminder of my own shortcomings. My fingers trembled as I unlocked the screen, hoping against hope for a sign of Auburn’s forgiveness. But the screen remained blank, devoid of any messages or missed calls. I’d poured my heart into each text, only to be met with silence. The weight of her absence settled heavily on my chest, a crushing reminder of the rift between us.

No missed calls, no texts, no voicemails. The silence was deafening, a stark reminder of my own solitude and our fuck-up.

I glanced at the clock, noting the time ticking away relentlessly. With each passing minute, the uncertainty gnawed at me, fueling a growing sense of dread. Would she ever respond? Did she want to hear from me anymore?

I’d also reached out to Austin in my drunken fit to tell him I didn’t realize I had to ask permission to date his mother. Alex expressed that it was probably the wrong time and the wrong tone to text him with, but I didn’t care. I checked for messages from Austin, but once again, my inbox remained empty. I expected to have a message from Coach or my agent firing me, but the silence echoed the void in my heart.

Closing my eyes briefly, I struggled to shake off the lingering haze of alcohol and regret. But no matter how hard I pushed the thoughts away, they lingered like a shadow, casting a pall over my already troubled mind. With a heavy sigh, I pocketed my phone, resigned to face the day ahead, knowing that no matter whether I was ready, I would have to face Austin in practice.

* * *

Austin was up front, controlling the puck and readying to take the shot. Dirks was our goalie as we scrimmaged with each other on the ice at the end of practice. Austin and I had stayed away from each other most of the afternoon, but when Coach suggested a quick game and put Austin and me on separate teams, there was no denying we would have to face each other.

I tried to shoot against their goalie, grabbing an assist from Alex, but the puck deflected and went wide. Austin skated over to get the puck, bringing it back down the line as I chased him. He attempted the shot, but the puck bounced to the corner. He went behind the puck and then out on the other side, shooting on Dirks, but he blocked it. Austin made another attempt, coming within inches of the post.

I got the puck back from Austin, and it bounced again into the right corner. Austin checked me, hooking my stick and stopping me from getting cleared.

“Get off me,” I shouted at him. His stick still held on to mine as Coach blew the whistle to get us to stop. This move would’ve cost him penalty box time. As Austin continued to hook me, pain pulsed through my knee. Between the lack of physical therapy and the last two days of drinking myself stupid, my injury was in bad shape.

“Fuck you,” Austin spat, then pushed me. Adrenaline coursed through my veins at the single contact, and my gloves were immediately off.

“You got your mom out of babysitting by sending Nova to hang out with you. You spent this time hiding out in a hotel room.”

“Don’t bring Nova in this.” Austin pushed me again.

“I’m just saying. You should feel happy about this. Your mom isn’t here to watch over you anymore.”

“You’re an asshole.”

Austin threw his on the ice as we dropped the sticks and our helmets. With a primal roar, I lunged forward, fists clenched, ready for the clash. Austin met me head-on, his own fists flying as we grappled in a frenzied dance of rage and adrenaline.

The sound of flesh meeting flesh echoed through the arena as we traded blows, each strike fueled by Austin’s pent-up frustration. Blood seeped from split lips and bruised knuckles.

Regret hit me instantly. I’d tried to avoid him most of practice, but he was in my space, and I was overwhelmed with this primal need to win at the game. My feelings for Austin were getting confused, and I pulled away from him.

Coach roared behind us to get us to stop. Some of our teammates eventually came in, attempting to pry us apart, but we fought on, oblivious to everything but the burning intensity of our feud.

Nothing else mattered but the raw, visceral struggle between us. Eventually, Alex and a couple of other guys separated us. My lip was bleeding, and a big purple knot was already forming on Austin’s cheek, but Alex grabbed me and skated me toward the locker room.

“What the fuck, Cole?” Coach shouted from behind him. “Get in the lockers. Now.”

“Yes, sir,” I said, waiting for whatever was coming for me. Coach ran in front of me, but the moment I stepped off the ice and onto the rubber mat, my knee gave out on me and I fell.

“Fuck, dude. Are you okay?” Alex reached down, grabbing my arm before I hit my head on the ice. Coach had spun around to see what happened. I was a big guy, and falling, even if it was on rubber, would make a noise.

“Now what?” he barked.

“My knee,” I grumbled, not wanting to sound like I was trying to get out of the talk, but I legitimately didn’t think I could walk.

“What the fuck happened during bye week?” Coach grumbled as he grabbed his phone and called for medical to come down and get me.

* * *

The dimly lit locker room enveloped us, the faint scent of sweat and leather hanging heavy in the air. Dark-red lockers lined the walls, their surfaces marked with years of wear and tear from countless seasons past, some bearing the puckered signs of players who had lost a game and took it out on the lockers. I sat on the bench, my injured knee stretched out before me as the medical staff hovered nearby.

I waved off their suggestion of heading to the team’s medical facility, insisting that I could tough it out. With a resigned nod, they administered a pain management shot, and the cool sting of the needle was followed by a rush of relief as the medication took effect. A wave of numbness washed over me, dulling the sharp edges of the pain and allowing me to focus on the fact that Coach was pacing in front of me.

As I leaned back against the locker, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of exhaustion.

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