Page 2 of Afterglow
“You don’t even need stitches. I promise you’re gonna deal with much worse. Now sit your ass on that bench so Coach Zeb can tape it.”
A watery haze covers my vision momentarily, and when it clears, Parker catches my gaze.
His chin lifts in a sideways nod, but it isn’t affirming. It’s a directive.
I coast to him.
“Let’s talk,” he says flatly.
Suddenly, I’m fifteen again. Getting reprimanded for something likely out of my control.
“Quit being a little asshole and go after the puck!” Park yelled, slamming a fist on the boards behind the bench.
“That goon is way too big to be in the U16 league,” I argued.
“Grow the fuck up, Fletcher. If I were you,” —his jaw ticked, hand reaching for his bad knee— “you better convince your coach to let you play again. I swear to God, if you don’t score a goal this period, I’ll have you bag skating at the crack of dawn until you’re sick.”
We exit through the gap in the boards and slow to a stop in the hallway leading to the lockers. “What’s up?”
“You extended your contract?”
My throat tightens. Who told him?
“Yeah.”
Two fingers roughly massage his forehead as he exhales. “You couldn’t negotiate any higher?”
I shrug. “It’s only for a season.”
He scoffs. “Didn’t you win two Stanley Cups?”
“That was years ago.”
“And whose fault is that?” His eyebrows rise in question. “I can’t tell you how much it kills me to watch you throw this away. You’ve been on the team for nine years, Fletch.”
“I know, but?—”
“Ninefuckingyears. Is there a C on your sweater? An A? No? Are you a leading scorer, then?”
“I—”
“You could do so much better!” he grits through his teeth. Both of his hands stretch and curl into the space between us, as if trying to strangle air itself. “But no. Do you even care? Does it matter to you? That so many rely on you? Because for 750k, it sure as hell doesn’t seem like it.”
“Parker.” Miller appears behind me, her hands akimbo. My almost-twin’s telepathic connection is strong today.
My brother’s not wrong, though. My stats have plateaued, if not steadily declined. I’m one of the lowest-paid in the league, and whatever I’ve earned for nearly a decade has gone mainly to the things my parents couldn’t afford. Dad’s gambling debts. Their mortgage. Covering housing, expenses, and tuition for my brothers and sisters while they were at university.
“You’re being too hard on him.” Mills stands between the two of us.
“He’s wasting his potential. He could be so much more?—”
As if I don’t know that. Doesn’t he think I want that? To play better? To earn respect amongst my peers in my profession? But I’m not like Landon or Wade. I don’t have charm, wit, or skill. Hell, most times I can’t even speak up. Ask me a question in a post-game interview or at a press conference, and I do my best to push away the anxiety and briefly answer. Tell me to inspire a locker room, or casually defend my life choices, and I’ll hide in a washroom stall with only a toilet as a companion for all eternity.
But for some reason, this time, Parker’s tone cracks me open.
I throw an arm up, effectively moving my sister to the side. “Maybe this is just how it is, Park. Not everyone is destined for greatness. I’m trying my best, and I’m doing okay.”
I’m definitelynotdoing okay.
