Page 74 of Confessions of a Former Puck Bunny

Instead of making me feel better, that thought only pushed the pain deeper, down into my bones. It was like bumbling through life without electricity and then experiencing life with it, and how did you just go back to being happy with candlelight?

I skated onto the rink to warm up, hoping the ice would somehow numb me.If I were going to go back in time, I’d choose to go back to the night of that party, when I lost my cool and freaked out over seeing Lindsay with another guy.

I wasn’t sure how that’d work, considering the thought of her with anyone else only sent a toxic churning through my gut.I’m sure there will be plenty of guys in New York who can’t wait to get their hands on her.

The churning intensified, and I was wishing violent ends to hypothetical guys.

By the time we lined up, I was out for blood. I slammed into the guy I was guarding when he got the puck, satisfaction flooding my veins when he fell back on his ass.

Might as well use my hulk-rage for good.

As the game continued, that’s exactly what I did. Not one of the guys I guarded scored on me, and I forced turnover after turnover. Using my size and completely humorless mood, I even engaged in some intimidation tactics and smack talking, something I didn’t normally bother with.

Playing angry was good in a way, because I needed to channel my frustration into something to keep me from internally combusting. But it also sent me spiraling further out of control, and it was like the game—and life in general—was happening to me instead of me happening to it.

The puck soared toward one of my opponents, and I coiled then slammed into him. He’d turned last second, and I instinctively knew I’d hit harder than necessary, but it was too late to undo it. I backed off, hoping against hope the ref didn’t see it.

The sharp whistle split the air—of course he’d seen it. Refs typically watch the puck, especially in games where the stakes were so high. He called me for checking from behind, declaring it a major that would result in a penalty shot for them, and sent me to the penalty box, my second trip of the night.

I skated to the box and sat down hard on the bench inside, muttering to myself. It was one thing to get that earlier penalty for charging, but that one I should’ve stopped—allowing a free shot was something I prided myself on avoiding.

Maybe holding back my emotions for most of my life hadn’t been good for me. The dam had opened, and out it all came, cutting and destructive, taking out everything in my path, good and bad.

I glanced up to the spot where Lindsay should be seated. My girl wasn’t sitting next to my teammates’ girlfriends, the way she had for two whole games before I fucked it up. Of all the good things that’d happened in my life, she topped the list.

Even after vowing to never let my dad take away something I loved again, I’d let him take Lindsay away.

Actually, that was letting myself off the hook too easily. I’d been the one to ruin it, and Lindsay meant way more to me than a fucking guitar.

Each second of the four minutes took a torturous eternity with my thoughts on Lindsay, and that became my main motivation to avoid another penalty. The fact that two more would get me ejected seemed inconsequential in comparison.

Finally I was released, and no surprise, Coach yanked me. He was too focused to yell at me with the game going on, but I knew it’d come. Especially since they’d scored the shot, bringing them within one of our once two-point lead. This game was our lowest scoring one by far, and considering it was the team we’d beat last year during this same match, they were clearly out for blood.

“Get him,” I said, leaping to my feet and leaning as far forward as I could so I could get a clear view of the action.

But number thirteen got past my fellow defensemen and shot.

“Don’t go in, don’t go—”

The crowd on the other side erupted as it soared in. Great. Now we were tied, with only seven minutes to go. I’d like to say that the high stakes cleared my head of everything besides hockey, but I glanced back at that empty spot next to Megan and thought about Lindsay living hundreds of miles away, and all I wanted to do was to go out onto the ice and level every player on the opposing team, penalties be damned.

Chapter Forty-Three

Lindsay

Every addict has their relapse, right?

That was why I was on the couch in my living room, glued to my computer screen, watching the quarterfinals game of the Division I Hockey Championship unfold. I’d told myself not to watch it—that it’d only be painful and make everything that’d happened hurt more, to the forever-scarred point.

I wasn’t wrong, either. Seeing Ryder out there on the ice, hearing the announcers say his name, it all dug at my beat-up heart, and my chest felt so raw that even something as simple as breathing hurt.

But I couldn’t find the strength to click theXat the top of the screen that’d make it stop.

He wants this win so bad. He works so hard, just please let them win…

Confession #23:I can’t bring myself to hate Ryder Maddox.

Last year after everything with Hudson had gone down, I’d chosen the vindictive route, cheering for the hockey team to crash and burn. But this was Ryder, the guy who’d tutored me after I’d pushed him away. The guy who’d taken a hit for me on the paintball field. The guy who’d cooked me dinner and then…

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