Page 146 of Jaded

I rarely bother to check the forecast; it’s almost a guarantee there’ll be some type of snow, in addition to the cold. But today, I can’t help but stare at the screen of my phone as I lie in bed.

Naturally, they’re calling for a storm.

Doesn’t matter, though. I throw off the covers, climb from bed. Today’s not a repoing day; I already agreed to Zam duty from start until close.

Not sure if I’ll regret that. On the one hand, I’ve got an excuse for not making an appearance on the ice. On the other hand, I’ll be at the rink all fucking day. Wouldn’t be hard for Charlie or Olli or even Syd to find me, convince me to get out there.

It’s early enough the aforementioned teenager isn’t up yet, but late enough the sun’s already crested the horizon. What little of it will deign to make an appearance, anyway.

I should make breakfast, get the day started, but a restless energy churns the blood in my veins to froth.

So I head to the gym, try to burn some of it off.

Doesn’t help.

The memories keep resurfacing, peppering their way through the veil of reality to haunt my waking life.

Arms wrapped around me, holding me back. Refs yelling. My vision tunnelled in on a fallen body. The roar of the crowd a muted fuzz outside my head, like waves crashing against a distant shore.

I was a mess that night, out of my head on coke and booze. I knew it was stupid, so fucking stupid—or maybe it’s just now that I know, and that colors my understanding of the past.

Just like I know now that I never truly believed in myself—and that is what destroyed my dream.

Back in my kitchen, I’m a mess of nerves, of muscles that should be soft and tired instead of tightened to a painful clench. My mind races, trips over the same dark thoughts like a pinball.

The memories.

The stakes.

The idea of facing my own brother at that tournament.

I can’t sit still, so I pace. Back and forth, back and forth, across the kitchen, into the living room, down the hall to my bedroom, pace.

I’m going to wake Sydney.

So I force myself into the kitchen for breakfast.

I peer into the refrigerator. We’re running low—and I still haven’t bought Syd’s yogurt—but there’s plenty of eggs and cheese and bread.

While my omelet bubbles cheerfully in the pan, I perch at the kitchen island with a cup of black coffee. Down the hall, a door snicks open. Soft footsteps pad across the hall to the bathroom, and the door clicks closed.

Well, she’s awake.

I get up to flip the eggs, sit. Almost wish I had social media so I could see what people are saying about the tourney, about Jess. But I don’t, so I stare at my hands instead. My hands—inked in black letters, bruised and scarred, still scabbed from the remnants of my last fight.

The same hands I’ve always had, aside from the ink. These hands have served me through so many hard years—hockey, broken dreams, janitorial services, repoing, Zamboniing.

These same hands have won almost every fight I’ve ever fought. They’ll win me another one tonight, should I choose to stand in front of that crowd. Skate. Play. Fight. Win.

Those same hands now clench tight into fists.

Do I want to be that person, the broken, scared, confused, angry kid I was then? Do I want to go back to that? To the selfish little boy I was, pursuing dreams I never truly believed I could have? Dreams make us—and just as easily break us. Turn us into monsters, into the very demons from which we run.

Just look at Jess. At young me.

Do I want to be that boy when I’ve worked so hard to be this man, the father Syd needs?

That’s why the crowd loves you—because they see themselves in you.

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