Page 301 of Wrong Pucking Player

It’s a mindfucker to pull out of it.

To remind myself of the present of who I’ve discovered these last few weeks since meeting Armani. My brain struggles to differentiate the two sides, and soon, I’m beginning to separate myself like two identities.

Andrews, the old me, with Wyatt and my life as the orphan of Strattonville.

Androsovs, the new me, with Armani as the Team Nurse of Pincers who got pulled into a world where money and power are everything.

That eases my pounding head and tames the spiraling insanity that was desperate for reign.

Even as my eyes begin to droop, I’m hopelessly looking upward at the beautiful twinkling light above.

If I was a boy, they might as well call me Xander.

The name only reminds me of the nickname that’s stuck with me, thanks to one person.

Xandra…

My Wyatt…

The old me…

I want to feel sad when the thought of Wyatt comes to my mind.His wide beautiful eyes, blond locks, chisel body, and tender hands.

The equipment manager who got to show the world what he’s made of on the ice. The man I’ve been madly in love with for years and only now got to be in a relationship that favors us both.

It’s a shame really, because in my current mind space, I bet he can find someone better.

Someone less problematic.

Less loud.

Less tomboyish and feminine only behind closed doors.

Someone who yearns for public affection.

More attractive.

Better career and future goals.

A loving family he can sit with during the holidays and boldly express his interest in.

This really is for the better.

Someone new can maybe get him back on the ice again.

That’s where Wyatt Cyrus deserved to be.

On the ice, showing the world that he was born to shoot pucks into nets and not dirty towels into various hampers.

Then I remember the new me would rebuke all these silly thoughts. That she’d want to discover the side of Wyatt he hides so well. Get to unravel why his eyes are so dark and dangerous as he surveys our surroundings when danger is lurking. To figure out what trauma hurt him, and that it took all these years before he felt comfortable showing me that ‘switch’ of himself.

Thinking about him settles me into a state of acceptance, even though a part of my mind yearns to figure out all the pieces of him here and now.

I have to accept that’s not possible anymore. That time has run out for me, and I have to accept that truth with open arms.

This resolution encourages my eyes to begin to close.

There’s no need to fight anymore.

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