Page 23 of Bitter Sweet Heart

Knife’s Edge

Maverick

I’ve never suffered from anxiety. Not really. At least not the way my sister does, or Kody.

When Lavender was little, even before she disappeared for what was the longest single hour of my entire life, she was always quiet when we were out in public places, a silent observer—and especially with people she didn’t know well. But inside the walls where we lived, she was different. Herself. Full of life and giggles and smiles.

Kody’s anxiety is different and layered with his obsessive tendencies. He still pukes before almost every single game, like he did when we were kids. Our freshman year, the older players made fun of him for it—until they saw him play. He has the grace of a figure skater and the speed of someone half his size. And he constantly worries about everything. It can’t be easy to deal with the shit that goes on in his genius head all the time.

Between Lavender and Kody, I’m pretty used to dealing withotherpeople’s anxiety. But until this week, I’d never experienced it myself to such an extreme level, and it gives me a very different perspective on what those two battle. My every waking minute is consumed by thoughts of Professor Sweet. I keep waiting for a call from the dean, or my coach, or the head of my department, or the athletic facility manager, asking me where I got a key to the building and why I never turned it in, and what was I doing in the women’s freaking sauna.

So, on Sunday night, when the athletic facility manager stops by the locker room to talk to us right before the game, I nearly shit my pants. But he doesn’t single me out. Instead, he tells us a key was turned in this week, and that there’d better not be any more of them floating around out there, or some of us will be looking at game suspensions.

Unfortunately, my relief over not being expelled is overshadowed by the questions I don’t have answers to—like, did Professor Sweet intentionally leave my name out, or are they just going to let me get away with this?

As a result, my head is a mess during the game, and I’m playing like garbage. It’s the beginning of the third period, we’re down one, and Kody and I are sitting on the bench, waiting to be called back into the game.

“You all right tonight, man?” He taps rhythmically on his thigh.

“Yeah. I’m good.” I nod once, and my knee bounces a couple of times.

“You sure? You’ve been . . . off all week.” He raises his hand, as if he’s going to rub his bottom lip, but his cage is in the way, so it drops back into his lap.

“I failed an assignment in one of my classes.” That’s only a small part of the reason, but I’m not going to tell him the truth.

“I thought you’d pulled your grades up. Can you do something for extra credit? Or redo the assignment?”

The idea of failing something gives Kody hives.

“I dunno, but I resubmitted it, so I’m hoping I get a passing grade. I don’t want my dad to have another reason to sit me down and lecture me, you know? But my professor isn’t my biggest fan, so who knows how that’s going to go.”

“Why does he hate you?”

“He’s a she. And because I’m me.”

Kody frowns and opens his mouth to ask a question, but we’re called back to the ice, ending our conversation. A few minutes later, Kody scores a goal, and I manage the assist, which is better than me continuing to shit the bed for the rest of the game. My dad often watches the replays, so I’m glad there’s something semi-positive for him to focus on. I hate it when he struggles to find something good to say about the way I played.

“Nice goal, Bowman.” Cooper, one of the rookie forwards, pats Kody on the shoulder as he passes him on the way to the shower.

“Thanks, man,” Kody mumbles as he grabs his towel from his locker.

“We’re all going to Eddie’s for something to eat. You guys wanna join us?” Treble, a junior, asks.

Kody looks to me before answering.

I shrug. “Better than reheating that lasagna from two nights ago.”

“I think BJ ate that for breakfast anyway,” Kody says.

I roll my eyes. “Don’t you guys have food at your place?”

“Yeah. But we don’t have you or Lavender at our place. And she can make a mean lasagna.” He doesn’t even have the decency to sound apologetic about it.

I look to Treble. “We’re in.”

Half an hour later, ten of us are sitting around a table at Eddie’s, an off-campus restaurant and bar, rehashing the game. Eddie’s is not far from where Kody and I live. The food is better here, and the chances that I’ll run into one of the girls I’ve formerly dated is lower.

Normally I’m a social guy, but I’m exhausted from all the freaking worrying, and my head is still all over the place, so I find myself zoning out, watching the hockey game on the TVs above the bar and plowing through my plate of wings while everyone else picks apart tonight’s game and speculates on how our next game is going to go.

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