Overtime: St. Cloud Hockey Series, page 24
It’s like I’m here but I’m not. Because my mind is on Maddie. And how embarrassed she must be feeling after this video was posted online.
And how she cut me out of her life, and now I have no hope of getting back in it.
And how much I hate it.
“First line, go out there and salvage this. Webber, don’t let them score. Don’t let your captain’s mistakes ruin the rest of the season for you, do you hear me?”
The weak round of yes, sir stirs me. The guys look uncertain. But there’s no time to even think about how to reassure them. The game starts, and I can tell from the moment the puck drops that this is the real punishment. Sitting on my ass out here, having ruined the team’s mojo without even lifting a finger.
Anxiety starts building up in a way it never does when I’m on the net. My knee bounces. I can feel sweat pooling in my mitts and under my clothes. It’s not that the other team is that much better; it’s that we’re in disarray. The first line doesn’t carry the puck far enough without slamming into the other team’s defense. And every time we lose the puck, Edwards overreacts about the littlest things.
I know the moment they’re going to score on us before the rest of the guys do. When the buzzer goes off, only three minutes into the first period, Coach Green rips off his baseball cap and slams it onto the floor. As if maybe he’s regretting his life choices too.
The puck is back in play after the cellies. There’s something extra aggressive about the game now that we’re down one. Two of our guys check an opponent against the boards hard, raising deafening booing from the crowd. One of the other guys tries to clear the puck and shoots it too high. My body moves by itself, and it takes me a moment to process that I just caught the flyaway puck barehanded from the bench.
My hand squeezes it hard as the play stops, and the memory of that conversation with Coach slams into me like a physical blow. Back then, I asked him if he’d hurt the team to teach me a lesson, and now it’s clear he sure as shit would. And pin the full blame on me, as if he wasn’t the one with the power and the full responsibility.
I tear my mask off and yell above the crowd’s noise. “So you’d really see us lose this game, throw the whole damn season away, because I was seeing a girl?”
Coach looks from the puck in my hand to my face. “You’re shitting me, right, Rodriguez? This isn’t about some girl. It’s about you not keeping your head in the game!”
“My head was fully in the damn game before you messed with it.” I drop the puck back onto the ice in a full display of anger. “I have the highest save percentage in the division. And guess when I played my very best game? When I was with her!”
He jumps to his feet to push open the door to the tunnel. “Well, I don’t give a shit. You broke my rules. You don’t deserve to be on my team.”
My throat already feels raw from screaming, but I don’t care. I don’t care about anything but the rage and frustration and the pit that sinks deeper and deeper in my gut. I, too, get on my feet and look down at Coach Green.
“Why the hell do I need to abide by different rules from the rest, huh? Why is it okay for the rest of the team to fool around and do whatever they please while I can’t even fall in love? Why can’t I have a normal life? Why do I have to work so much damn harder?”
“Because you’re different! Because guys like you have to work so much harder to prove to everyone else why you deserve a spot.”
“What the hell does guys like me even mean?”
But we both know. Guys like Amadi and me. Guys who don’t look like everyone else.
Coach’s expression shifts the moment it hits me, and he tries to change tack by adding, “And on top of that, you’re the captain. You’re supposed to lead by example.”
I’m not listening because the buzzer goes off again, and I don’t need to see who scored with the way the whole place seems about to go down.
“Great, so you tried to teach me a lesson about how hard the world is for brown kids, as if I already didn’t know that. Boo freaking hoo.”
His face goes red. “Of course I didn’t—”
“But if I’m the captain, then what are you?” Coach and I are breathing hard as we square off. I point toward the ice. “You could’ve blown up on my ass after we won this game, but no. You had to put me in my place in front of everyone and make a damn mess of tonight, huh? Please tell me again how this is supposed to help me.”
“Don’t you dare speak to me like—”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me say it more nicely: teaching me a lesson wasn’t more important than the team. How’s that for being the freaking captain?”
I push the door so hard it slams against the board and walk off the bench.
“If you walk away—”
“What?” I glare over my shoulder. “You’ll kick me off the team? Good luck explaining that to the team and the boosters.”
As I head to the hallway, I’m aware of many pairs of eyes on me. Blood roars in my ears. I let out my anger in a burst when I’m alone at my locker, throwing my helmet at the bench so hard it leaves a dent. And then I hit the locker with my stick for good measure.
I stand there, shaking from head to toe.
I’m the absolute stinking worst. She was right. I really wanted to have my cake and eat it too. I fooled myself into thinking what we were doing wasn’t anything like dating and that no one would ever have to find out. Steps One and Two of my plan were a total bust the second I caught her making notes about me. I was drawn to her like a moth to a flame, and now I’m burning.
Because I’m in love with a girl who is obsessed with strawberries and writing and knitting and making me say please and thank you—and I realize now that I lost her while trying to keep something I already had.
Hockey will be there for the rest of my life, even if today’s game is my last as a St. Cloud Thunder Bolt. I will never give up on this game, because I know I belong in it. And I’m not going to let assholes like Edwards and his connections, or Coach Green and his white savior complex, bring me down. But I gave up on her, even though, deep down, I knew I belonged with her.
I drop a mitt onto the floor and rub my eyes. This thing in my chest that’s squeezing my lungs until I can barely gasp for air feels a lot like that night at the hospital after Luz took the hit.
I was just a nine-year-old kid, and I didn’t understand a lot of what was going on, but I did get very well acquainted with a sense of loss. Pure dread filled me up, and I didn’t know how to deal with it. So I lost my shit. Just absolutely went on a rampage in an ER waiting room, hitting chairs and people and myself, until they had to sedate me.
Somehow, I feel as if I’ve skipped all that now and I’m already sedated.
I feel nothing as I sit back on the bench. My ears barely register the noise from the stands above. I lean back against the closed locker and shut my eyes, wishing I could just sleep.
Is the rest of my life going to feel like this? Empty. Nauseating. Distant.
I can’t.
That can’t be it.
The door bursts open, and Assistant Coach Thomas sighs in relief when he sees me. “Oh, praise be. I thought you’d walked off the premises.” He jerks a thumb behind him. “I cooled the hotshot down, and we’re subbing you in.”
“Why?”
“Because Edwards’s friends in high places won’t get him to actually catch a puck tonight. We need you, captain.”
I rub my head. “I don’t know if I can.”
“What’s that you said in an interview once?” He makes air quotes with his fingers and says, “‘When I’m in the net, I don’t think; I just am.’ Some real philosophical crap that we’re now banking on.”
“Have I always been such a clown?” I mumble.
“C’mon, Rodriguez. Time to stop moping. Take care of your team first, and once we win this game, you can take care of whatever this mess is.”
A plan.
Maybe that’s what I need. A new plan. After all, I’m a numbers guy. And that sounds like a good one to me.
New Step One: win this game.
New Step Two: avoid Coach, deal with him later. Or never. Whichever one’s easier.
New Step Three: …
That one stays blank for a moment. I drove an hour to some barn wedding in the middle of freaking nowhere so I could explain myself to Maddie, and she shut me down basically on sight. She’s determined to get over me, and probably more so after this whole video leak.
But she needs to not see me so she can forget me, which is exactly what I don’t want. Something hot explodes in my chest and imbues my limbs with renewed energy.
New Step Three: set up camp at the library until Madeline Berkley acknowledges my existence.
I jump to my feet and grab my mask and stick. To make it to Three, I first have to make it through One.
“Let’s go,” I say.
CHAPTER 32
MADDIE
Ifeel like I’m going to die for real this time.
Every time my period’s early, it feels worse. As if my uterus thinks it’s my freaking fault that it is bleeding ahead of schedule.
“Just because you’re graduating soon doesn’t mean your conduct should deteriorate. Do you understand me?” Melinda says, tapping her finger at the phone screen where she just played a video of Aran and me making out that I know was leaked by Lori; she said so herself at the infamous party. Or maybe she sent it to Aran’s ex. I don’t know.
Slowly, I nod. “Yes, ma’am.”
She leans back in her chair and folds her arms. For a good moment, all she does is regard me like she’s intending to paint my portrait. Finally, she smirks a little.
“Now, not as your boss or as a staff member of this illustrious institution… you go, girl. Get it.”
“Huh?” My head’s spinning, vacillating between confusion and sheer, self-destructive pain.
“I thought you were a goodie two-shoes, but va-va-voom.”
I can’t believe I have the capacity to blush in these circumstances, but here I am. My face is so hot I could melt an iceberg.
Well, apparently not “the Iceberg.” That one doesn’t see me as va-va-voom enough, I guess.
Whatever.
“So, um. Am I going to get reprimanded or… or fired?” I ask in a shaky voice.
She snorts. “Of course not. Your private life is your business. Just, next time, keep it behind closed doors.”
“Thanks?”
“Now, I know you have a student to tutor in”—she checks the massive decorative clock on the wall that only she can read—“eighteen minutes, so I suggest you get going.”
That might not even be enough to make it to the library in time, with how slowly I’m moving. As I stand, it takes Herculean effort to stifle the groan threatening to spill out of my mouth at the stab of pain in my nether regions. I sway a little and grab the back of the chair.
“’Kay, see you later, Melinda.”
“Bye, kiddo.” Her attention goes back to her computer screen, and I’m dismissed.
Approximately ten years later, I manage to walk out of her office. Outside, I find Wyatt sipping gross coffee from a paper cup.
“Isn’t it great?” Wyatt chirps as he joins me. “We’re just a month and a half away from graduation. And even better, just two weeks from your book debut.”
“Yay, so exciting.”
I wince with every step away from the student center. Oh, how I wish I had a golf cart to take me all the way to the library. Or better yet, that I could teleport there. Or even better still, teleport into a life where I’m not such a loser. Wouldn’t that be sweet?
“Why don’t you look excited, though?”
Maybe because I have two aliens trying to tear my body apart from the inside. One is obvious. The other one is my heart. This excruciating pain today is nothing compared to how I’ve felt since…
I sniffle. No, I don’t want to cry in public. Again. Today.
I thought I caught a glimpse of Aran earlier this morning. But the buzz cut was longer than usual and the guy had a bit of a beard. Similar build, though. And just a millisecond of wondering is it him? was enough to activate my tear glands. It made eating alone in the cafeteria very awkward.
The worst part is that I can’t write. It was so much easier to work on a romance book while my heart was still in one piece. And I hate that he took that joy from me. I wish I could sock him a good one—and then hug him so tight he can’t let go of me.
What has Aran Rodriguez done to me?
Wyatt still chatters beside me as we head to the library, and I make an effort to focus on his words. Whatever he’s saying has to be better than my thoughts.
“—taking him to the book launch?”
“What? Sorry, I zoned out.”
He takes a deep breath. “I said, are you taking your make-out partner to the book launch?”
Nope. Never mind. My thoughts were safer.
I try to go the safe route by saying, “I don’t need to take a date to my book launch.”
“So, were you dating him?” He nudges me, and I’m too weak to avoid it.
“Would you look at that. At this pace, I’m going to be late. See you later!” But my traitorous body can’t go any faster.
“Hmm.” He falls quiet, and it makes the trip to the library more bearable. But when we get to the building and he opens the door for me, I see something in his expression I don’t like. Pity. And it’s not just in my head, because he says, “If you need a rebound, just let me know. One of my friends is interested.”
“What?”
“Apparently, he saw you dancing at some party, and voilà, instant crush.”
I grunt. The only party I danced at was the one that crushed my heart. I don’t need any reminders of that night.
Wyatt chuckles. “Whoda thunk our little Maddie was such a femme fatale?”
Yeah, right. Some femme fatale I am in my cozy cardigan with pockets shaped like bunnies’ heads and a dress that could be worn by my grandma. There is no vestige of the confident Maddie of that night, the one who wore a full face of makeup and a dress that hid very little. Rather, if I could wear my fluffy blanket outside the apartment, I would. I’d stay under it until my demise.
“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I mumble as we enter the quiet area at the front of the library. I’m absolutely drained from this conversation, this day, and my life, in that order.
“The offer’s standing. See you later, gator.”
“Bye, Wyatt.” My smile is more grimace than joy.
My face stays locked like that as I make my way upstairs to the study area. I’m pretty sure my student is already waiting there and is probably docking points off my rating. He’s one of those pretentious freshmen who got into this school because they’re a legacy and can’t face up to the fact that he’s not as smart as he thought he was. Sessions with him are always a hoot—and I say that with sarcasm as thick as honey.
Sure enough, my student’s there. And he’s sitting all the way at the back, as if he knew making me walk the entire length of the building was the perfect punishment for me.
“You’re late,” he says in his snooty voice.
“Which means we don’t have a second to waste, right?” I say this with a sugary smile, and it’s the perfect way to cut his tirade short. He mumbles something that I probably don’t want to discern.
As I settle down and take my things out of my bag, I explain how I would structure the essay he has to write. This kid needs tutoring in the same kind of thing as Aran, and it makes me wonder how it’s going for the Bolts captain with his new tutor. When I canceled my remaining sessions with him, I made sure Melinda shifted him over to a guy tutor like Aran intended all along.
I hope he’s freaking happy now with his hockey and his tutor-dude and—
I shouldn’t think like this. Aran didn’t lead me on or treat me like crap. He even wanted to stay friends. I’m the one who can’t see past her giant, flaming torch for him.
Sighing, I open my laptop and try to do some writing. I get as far as three words—He doesn’t want—before my mind goes kaput. The hero of my novel is supposed to be professing his love for the heroine because he doesn’t want to live without her. But she has her reservations because she’s been played one too many times. It’s almost like I reversed the roles without realizing it until now.
“Hey, what should I do if this happens?” my student asks, his voice grouchy.
I tear my eyes away from my screen to see what he’s pointing at, but something distracts me from the corner of my eye.
It’s him. The one who doesn’t want me in real life.
Aran sits at the table in front of mine, facing me directly. He’s drinking a green concoction like on the day we met. And like then, his eyes observe me from above the rim of his sports bottle.
My heart rate spikes. I follow my student’s finger to where it’s pointing at an error message on his computer. Apparently, I’m supposed to know IT now.
“Um, I don’t know. Maybe try restarting?”
“I can’t do that. I didn’t save my work, you dolt!”
I frown. “Not my fault, and no need for name calling.”
“Whatever.” He smacks his computer a few times. I go back to mine.
Lies and deceit. My eyes go straight back to Aran instead of to my work.
This time his aren’t on me. They’re narrowed at my student as if he’s plotting a dark academia book in his mind.
This is why I fell for him. Little things like this that made me feel like he cared. And maybe he did. But it really freaking sucks when the guy you like only cares for you as a friend. I don’t know how other people cope, because I can’t. I paw around the table until I find my favorite pen and my journal and make a note to consider the unrequited love trope for my next hockey book. Except my characters will get the happy ending I didn’t. It’ll be cathartic.
