Page 70 of The Beautiful Collision
The crowd goes silent. That awful, suffocating silence that’s worse than boos.
I can feel my teammates’ eyes on me. Feel their confusion, their concern, and their growing frustration. But worse than all of that is knowing Maya is watching this disaster unfold. Watching me reveal myself as the absolute mess I’ve been hiding behind jokes and charm and borrowed confidence.
Third shift. I’m trying too hard now, gripping my stick like I’m trying to strangle it. Their defender steps up at the blue line and I try to deke around him, but my edges catch wrong, my ankle rolls, and I go down like I’ve been shot. The puck squirts free and they’re off on another odd-man rush.
This time when they score, I’m still on my ass at center ice.
Coach calls for a line change. I pick myself up, each movement feeling like it’s being broadcast in slow-motion on the Jumbotron. The skate to the bench is excruciating. I can hear the murmur of the crowd, that low rumble of confused disappointment. I overhear someone asking what’s wrong with me.
Everything. Everything is wrong with me.
I collapse onto the bench, trying to shrink into my gear, to become invisible. But there’s no hiding from this. No joke to deflect with, no charm to smooth it over. This is me, stripped of all pretense, failing at the one thing I’m supposed to be good at.
“Hamilton!” Coach’s voice cuts through my spiral. “You hurt?”
I shake my head because what am I supposed to say? That I’m fine physically but shattered mentally? That I can’t stop thinking about the girl in the stands and the money I owe but can’t afford if I say the words I desperately want to say? That being honest about having deceived her would be just as bad?
“Then get your head in the game!” he barks before turning back to the ice.
I risk another glance up at Maya. She’s leaning toward Sophie, who’s obviously explaining something, probably why the player she came to watch is playing like he’s never seen ice before. Maya’s brow is furrowed, that little crease between her eyebrows that appears when she’s trying to figure something out.
Please don’t figure this out. Please don’t see what a fraud I am.
Fourth shift. Coach must be giving me a chance at redemption because he puts me out on the power play. But it’s no good. The puck comes around the boards to me in the corner. I’ve got time, space, and options. Mike is open in the slot. I have three different plays I could make, all of them good ones.
Instead, I try to force something that isn’t there.
The puck gets intercepted easily.
The guy dekes Rook out of his jockstrap and scores.
They scored a short-handed goal, on our power play, and I directly caused it. As the visitors celebrate, the arena erupts in boos. Not disappointed silence, not frustrated murmurs, but actual vocal boos. They’re booing me, and I’ve never felt smaller in my entire life.
“Jesus fucking Christ!” Rook shouts from his crease, his voice carrying over the crowd noise. He’s pissed at me, and has cause. “What are you doing out there?”
I don’t have an answer. I can’t tell him that every time I touch the puck, I think about Maya watching. That every mistake feels like confirmation of what I’ve always feared—that without the performance, without the jokes and the charm, I’m just a guy who can’t deliver when it matters.
The period mercifully ends with us down 3-0. All three my fault.
The walk to the locker room is a death march. My teammates give me a wide berth, like failure might be contagious. I can hear the crowd buzzing, probably discussing whether I’m drunk or high or just having the worst game of my until now pretty solid collegiate career.
Spoiler alert: it’s the third one, and it’s about to get worse.
In the locker room, Coach’s face is the color of a ripe tomato. He’s trying to contain himself, to be strategic rather than emotional, but I can see the effort it’s taking. And that tells me plenty, because Coach Pearson isn’t usually the get-on-your-ass type.
“Hamilton,” he says, his voice deadly quiet. “I don’t know what’s going on with you tonight, but you need to pull your head out of your ass. This is embarrassing.”
Every word lands like a slap, and all I can manage in response is a small nod and a mumbled apology. “Sorry, Coach,” I say.
“I don’t want sorry,” he snaps. “I want you to play like you give a shit. Can you do that?”
I nod, and he moves on, but his words hang over me like a death sentence even as I take the ice for the second period. I tell myself it’ll be different. I compartmentalize, lock away thoughts of Maya and the bet, and focus on the ice. For about thirty seconds, it works. I make a clean pass, start to feel like myself…
Then I catch a glimpse of her in my peripheral vision…
The puck is on my stick in the offensive zone. I’ve got space to work with. I could make the safe play, cycle it to the corner, and maintain possession. But I’m desperate now, desperate to prove I’m not a complete fuck-up, desperate to be the player she came to see.
Desperate to give hersomethingwhen I can’t give herthosewords.
