Page 120 of Jaded

I open my mouth to protest, to tell himno, I’m fine. I can work through this. But the truth is that hockey requires actual effort, real focus, neither of which this darkness will allow.

“James. I’d rather have you healthy for the game this weekend than try to push yourself through practice.”

I bob my head in resignation.

Slacker, my head reprimands me as I trudge down the hallway to the locker room.You’re just making lame-ass excuses now.

I know.

You should have just sucked it up. Pushed through.

I grit my teeth, will the silent admonishment to stop.

You always find an excuse to give up. To quit because you don’t feel like trying.

I fling my pads angrily into the back of my locker, burn myself under the shower, drag my clothes back on. In the parking lot, I sit in the driver’s seat and glare at the still-early sun.

I’m tired. So much more tired than I should be, after half a practice that’s only been half-assed anyway. I think I hate myself.

Back home in bed, the darkness blooms inside my chest like ink dropped into water.

Once I’m falling, it’s so hard to stop. Especially when I’m looking up, up, up at where I stood just yesterday. How can I ever get ahead when I keep slipping back?

Sometimes it’s easier to just let go, let the darkness take me down.

I’m such a roller coaster of ups and downs, of dreams and despair. Sometimes I’m so high, the world is rainbows and butterflies and hope. I’m in love with life, going after my dreams full speed. The soundtrack to my existence is my favorite eighties party hits, and every song just makes me wanna dance ’cause life’s just so fuckin’ good.

Nothing is unattainable, and I believe in myself so absolutely as to plunge headfirst off a cliff, eyes closed, hands outstretched, knowing I will fly . . .

And then I'm falling.

At the bottom, there’s only emptiness. No dreams or desires, because want is just another form of hope.

To want something bad enough to ache for it, there must be some little part of me that thinks I can get it.

The record of life’s soundtrack has skipped and now there is no music.

On days like this, it’s so hard to believe that this feeling isn’t eternal, that I will once again clamber out of the black pit. I always do—but how can I believe that now?

Especially when I can’t help but wonder: what will today’s episode cost me? The respect of my team? My starting position?

What will tomorrow’s? A game?

And the one after . . . My team? My job? My dream?

My self-respect? My hope? My will to keep going through the dark days?

What will the cost of this darkness be—and when will it be too steep to pay?

Chapter 29

Nat

Ollileaveshalfwaythroughpractice. He leaves, and he doesn’t text back or answer his phone. And that’s decidedly out of character.

As was his performance in practice—he was off. His feet were flat and his hands had lost their magic and he missed every shot. I know that feeling, when something else gets into your head and rearranges your wiring so even hockey doesn’t make sense anymore. That’s usually when I fight.

But Olli’s not like that.

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