Page 2 of Wrong Pucking Player

My aching legs no longer burn or yearn for salvation.

I’m but a floating essence, drifting in this new world of water and calming serenity.

The oddest part of it all is the wonder why I could never experience this level of peace above.

My mind always spiraled on the whys.

Why did my family abandon me?

Why wasn’t I good enough for them?

Is it because I couldn’t be a doctor, lawyer, dentist, or a career that brought them pride?

Maybe being a female who couldn’t be a part of the hockey world and fulfill their legacies deemed me inadequate.

That could have been why they called me Alexandra on paper and called me Alex until I was submitted to the system.

My thought process over my born gender makes me smile.

Even as my eyes begin to droop and 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…

I want to feel sad when the thought of Wyatt comes to my mind—his wide, beautiful eyes, blond locks, chisel body, and yet tender hands. The equipment manager, who should have been on the ice with everyone else.

My ex-boyfriend, who I honestly wanted a second chance with…

The thing is, I can’t feel saddened by this predicament because maybe he’d find someone better.

Someone less problematic.

Less loud.

Less tomboyish, who isn’t 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.

Thinking about him settles me into a state of acceptance.

Encouraging my eyes to begin to close.

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