Page 43 of Unrecognizable Player

“Hey, seriously, you go first, please. I’d feel bad if you didn’t.”

He looks up at me, his eyes all big and brown and pretty.

“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure.”

“I’m positive.”

I have to watch TV while he’s in the shower and try not to think about that picture horror boy sent. I can’t do what I was planning to donow,not now I know Stef’s awake and might hear me.

The away gameagainst Quinnipiac is a shit show from the start. I don’t know what happens, but we’re just… off. Or they’re really on their game. Or maybe a little of both.

They get on the board in the first five minutes and from there on out it’s a mad scramble just to keep them away from our net.

Ryan, our goalie, is standing on his head out there, but they’re just outclassing us in every area, and that’s worse somehow. Like there’s nothing we can do about it, they’re just better.

As soon as I think that, Papa’s voice floods into my head, telling me I’m giving up, reminding me he didn’t raise a quitter.

I take a hit in the right corner behind our net trying to take possession from Quinnipiac’s star center and my shoulder screams.

I ignore it, playing through the pain.

By the time the last whistle blows, we’ve lost in a 4 goal shut-out and I can barely see straight from the searing pain in my bad shoulder.

I stand under the showers with my good hand pressed against the wall for support. I hate showering in away-team showers. Hate using other people’s shit. It’s especially rough after a loss like that.

The one good thing about an away-game loss is that my dad doesn’t have time to sit me down and give me a play-by-play of everything that went wrong.

He waits for me outside the arena and has just about enough time to give me a few bullet point highlights of what we need to work on for next time. Luckily he’s speaking in Russian and only Pawlowski should be able to pick up on some of what he’s saying, though he’s not shy about using names even though the team are feet away getting on the bus.

“Thanks for coming Papa,” I say, giving him a hug. “Sorry you had to watch us lose.”

“You’ll do better next time,” he says, patting the back of my head.

Yeah, next time.

“Everything okay?” Coach asks as I get on the bus.

“Yes Coach.”

Michael’s sitting up front and I can feel his eyes on me as I try to pretend my shoulder isn’t killing as I listen to my music. Blocking everything else out.

I’m wrungout by the time we’re dropped back at campus. But I manage to hold it together until I crash through the door of the apartment.

I wasn’t expecting Stef to still be up. Watching one of his house flipping shows in a pair of clean grey sweats and a college t-shirt. He looks so clean and fresh and I’m sweating like a pig again from the effort of pushing through the pain enough to get my ass home. When all I wanted to do was curl up in a ball and go to sleep on the sidewalk.

“Hey, you okay?”

I ignore him. I don’t think I can talk right now. I need an ice pack and to be horizontal. He’s watching me as I crash into the kitchen and lean on the counter for support.

“Hey, what do you need?”

He’s always buzzing around. Trying to help. It’s annoying. I can take care of myself. I try to say that, but when I open my mouth, a wave of nausea hits me and all that comes out is, “ice.”

“Okay, sit down, I’ll get it.”

Iliedown. Face down on the couch. Listening to him rustle around in the freezer. I hope he finds the ice pack I keep in there. I don’t want frozen peas defrosting on my shoulder. Not that we have frozen peas, or much food in that freezer. Unless Stef’s stocked it from his parents’ restaurant.Fuck, am I getting delirious with pain?

“Here.”

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