Page 29 of Top Scorer
Maybe I’ll return to the Huskies.
Maybe all my hard work will pay off.
Maybe Denver.
Maybe Columbus.
Maybe fill-in-the-blank hockey club in need of a third liner.
Maybe no club at all.
Maybe I’m simply going through the motions until someone kicks me out for good.
A lot like the way she kicked me out that morning.
When Ligaya shared that stupid platonic kiss goodbye, she had said “see you around” like we bumped into each other in the grocery store.
Maybe I shouldn’t be so damn eager to see her again.
Maybe I won’t see her at all.
God, I hate maybes.
CHAPTER 17
LIGAYA
The final curtain of a production is as wonderful as it is devastating. Sometimes, when the group of kids is especially memorable, I get sentimental. Not the sobbing-into-tissues kind of wreck, but a surge of nostalgia for something you know is temporary. You’re smiling until your cheeks ache while your insides splinter with pride and that weird connection only teachers and theater kids understand. A mix of relief and heartache because it doesn’t matter how many shows you do, each one demands your commitment, your presence, your courage. Each one asks you to leave a bit of yourself on the stage.
The audience is still applauding. I see Lucy Hughes, our Wednesday Addams, eyeliner smudged, black braids halfway undone, beaming like she won a Tony. She catches my eye and mouths,Thank you, Miss Torres.
I flash her a heart gesture with my hands.
The lights dim, the curtain closes, and another high school production is in the books.
Cue the chaos.
Parents storm backstage, armed with flowers and Starbucks gift cards. Kids are shrieking, hugging, crying. The tech crew is mainlining Red Bull. Mandi, my fellow masochist in musicaltheater education, stands next to me with sweat on her brows and the manic expression of a woman who hasn’t slept in a week. Toby approaches with a prop skull tucked under his arm like a football.
“You guys did it!” he exclaims, pulling us both into a hug.
“We survived.” Mandi exhales heavily. “We should be knighted.”
“Or committed,” I quip.
Exhaustion looms over like a cloud about to downpour. Tomorrow is strike day, when we take down the set, organize the costumes, and sort through whatever unclaimed hoodies, script pages, and emotional baggage the kids have left scattered around backstage.
But tonight? Tonight, we have karaoke.
It’s tradition. Post-show decompression at Pitch Slapped, our favorite hole-in-the-wall bar between Centerstone and Cincinnati. Teachers only. Occasionally a spouse or sibling sneaks in. The bartender knows us. The drinks are cheap. The audience is easy to please. And the songs are unapologetically sappy.
I glance down at my phone, staring at the top of my feed.
Tristan:I can’t make any of the shows. I’m sorry about that. The team is traveling Thursday and Friday. Home game on Saturday.
Tristan:Tell the kids to break a leg.
Me:I will.
