Page 118 of Jaded

“Eh, I kinda think he’d be like one of those big fluffy dogs.” Everton leans in past Charlie, grinning too. “Like a Newfie.”

“You know.” I shove my foot into the boot. “I’ll take that.”

Nobody knows yet, how wrong it’s gonna go. Nobody knows yet, how Olli James is gonna fail another team.

Or maybe they do. Maybe they're waiting for theinconsistent Olli Jamesof the media to make his appearance.

I barely hear the national anthem.

One moment, we’re skating warm-up laps, and then we’re crouched for the face-off, and how did I get here? I feel like I’m watching myselffrom far away, watching the game from outside of it. Look at all those lil ant-boys. Look at the dark one, the Olli-shaped one! He’s cute, right?

Too bad he’s about to crash this game, and burn it down too.

Please God. Help me.

It starts off okay. We hold on for a bit. Second line nets one. Vipers’ first line sneaks one past us.

It’s not enough.

Not when little ant-Olli’s skating around in circles like a drunk racoon. My line’s flat, so flat, like it’s our first time skating together. We have no synergy at all—my pass behind Dev puts him offsides. Holls’s too-high saucer hits my shinpad, and I’m slow to recover. Dev aims a one-timer my way, and I fumble it, toss it right into the goalie’s pads.

“Fuck is up with you?” Coach roars as we tumble over the boards onto the bench. “You look like a bunch of peewees.”

I stare out over the ice without seeing it.

Second line. Third. Us again—another disaster of stumbling and passes that don’t connect. This one leads to another Viper goal, evening up the score.

More swearing from Coach as the second line heads out. Third. Us again.

The game blurs.

Ends.

We exit the ice.

As I leave the shower, back in my suit and tie, the self-doubt tells me, in no uncertain terms,that wasyourfault, Olli James.

I make it back onto the bus. Into the plane. Lay my head against the cool glass and close my eyes, pretend like I might actually sleep, even though I never sleep during the day.

On the bus from the airport, Coach plops down into the seat beside me, and cold dread seeps into my gut. Still, I force a smile. Pretend to be some fractional semblance of my normal, cheery self. “Hey, Coach.”

“You all right, James?” His brow creases with worry. Another perk of being captain, I realize—more intense scrutiny. Nobody notices if a fourth-liner’s having a bad day.

“Coming down with a cold.” I lift a shoulder in half a shrug. “I’ll be fine.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah.”

He leaves me alone.

I’m first off the bus today, because I can’t stand the thought of someone trying to talk to me. I don’t have any energy for that. Don’t have anything left to give.

So I toss my bag and backpack into the bed of my truck, atop a nice dusting of fresh snow, and throw myself behind the wheel.

My hands shake.

My brain’s a fogged mess of darkness and panic, such a strange twist of illogical emotions. The world’s surreal, like I’m caught in a graymare, a dream that’s strayed a little too dark, a little too close to reality.

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