Page 33 of These Wicked Games
“Next stick you lose or break I’m deducting it from your paycheck,” Coach grumbles.
I smile, sitting back on the bench and watching the game.
Finally it’s my turn to get in on the action, but I’m just terrible. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m sluggish, unfocused. I’m missing passes and forgetting plays. I get checked into the boards when I’m not paying attention, and end up tripping over Ryker’s stick during a face off.
“You want to get your head in the fucking game, Oli?” Colton snaps as I pass him.
It’s the beginning of the season, but I wanted to set us up for an easy ride to the playoffs. This is not the way to do it. I don’t know how to fix this. I want to win. I want to fix this ball of poison seeping into my lungs and heart. I sit on the bench and realize now with fatal clarity what this is.
I’m . . . depressed.
Fuck. I just . . . I don’t have it in me. I feel like I’ve lost. Andre betrayed me, he hurt me. I’m hurt. Rubbing my chest, I let this newfound revelation hit me in the gut. I’m upset. Why is that so weird to think? I’ve fought my entire career to get here. Andre nearly derailed it, and while I’ve worked my ass off, with a flick of a pen he’s here again. Killing me all over.
He was my best friend. I had no one. No one. He knew how hard my mother struggled. He knew the pain she was in after her diagnosis. He knew what going pro would mean to me.
He betrayed me anyway.
My eyes sting, I try myself to blink back the pain rising up inside me now of all times.
I try to focus but the rest of the game is just shit. I don’t get any better and maybe my mood is leaking into my team because everything sucks. We miss passes, our timing is off. I’m tripping, not paying attention. It’s a mess of a game.
“Hey, Oli!” Andre shouts at me. “A little help now and then would be fucking nice!”
I ignore him.
We end up pulling Andre at one point toward the end but it’s hopeless. I hate empty nets anyhow. If you’re down by this muchthis close to the end, what’s the point. The Atlanta Fire Hawks end up getting another goal, bringing the grand total to five to two.
When the buzzer sounds, we immediately head back to the locker room, and after Coach hands us our asses—specifically me—I shower and don’t talk to anyone. Our tradition only happens when we win, and honestly, Grey and Atlas look like they want to skin me alive.
Guess I’m not going back to their room tonight.
I get it. They’re pissed. I’m pissed at me too.
All I want to do is sleep and forget.
Hours later I’m still awake. I can’t close my eyes. Tonight was a shitshow, and what pisses me off more is I can’t even blame Andre. Wait, nope. Yes I can. Does it make sense? Not exactly, but it doesn’t need to. If we had a goalie who didn’t make me see red, I’d be able to focus better. It’s all Coach’s fault, which again, I know isn’t true. He has no more say in trades than I do. Sign the asshole, whatever. Making me room with him, though? That’s a whole different level of torture that is so fucking unfair.
Get along. He doesn't get it. This isn’t some silly rivalry. Andre tried to sabotage my chances of going pro. He did sabotage me getting onto the Vipers.
My head’s throbbing.
After my positive test most teams didn’t want to touch me. It’s a miracle that the Otters took a chance on me, and I’m thankful, but right now I feel paranoid and I hate it. I can’t keep doing this. Something has to give.
Maybe I’ll smother him with a pillow in his sleep.
Tossing, I roll, punching my pillow a few times. It helps a little. Helps more when I imagine it’s Andre’s face.
I hear a commotion outside our hotel-room door before it opens slowly. I hear voices, plural. Light flares quickly before snuffing out when the door closes. The city lights behind the curtain don’t help any. I can’t see, but I hear Andre’s muffled laugh along with . . . Did he bring somebody back?
“Oh, shit,” I hear someone whisper. “You have a roommate?”
“Don’t worry about him,” Andre says softly. “He’s probably asleep. He’s old.” The man giggles at his stupid joke. We’re basically the same fucking age!
Fuck you, I’m not old.
“So you’re telling me I have to be quiet,” I hear the man he’s with say.
“Can you be a good boy for me?” Andre whispers. I hear the sound of clothes shuffling, then a belt, before what sounds like jeans falling to the floor. I open my eyes, looking at the wall, facing away from them. My chest feels tight. I can’t breathe. I don’t know what to do. I’m so uncomfortable, but I’m afraid to move.
