Page 150 of Jaded

I slam my phone face down.

The words ring in my head, the air billowing my lungs too hard, too fast. There was a time I wouldn’t have cared about something like this. When I would have skated even harder to prove exactly how wrong they were.

But not today. Not with the darkness lurking just around the corner, so close, ready to pounce.

My hands shake, and I don’t think it’s got anything to do with the caffeine.I can’t fucking do this.

Jesus, Olls. Get a hold of yourself. You read one little hate article on social media and what, throw the towel in?

I exhale in an extended, slow sigh. Forcing out all the air, until my lungs collapse. I need to get out of this house. Need to get to the rink. Breathe in the icy air and the smell of old sweat baked into older pads. Hear the cut of skates and the crash of pucks.

Need to be in the same place where Nat is, even if he’s just a glimpse of tattoos and backwards hat across the ice. I just need tonotbe alone with myself.

So I climb into the truck and head to the rink. It’s three hours before showtime, so the building’s quiet. The rest of the team hasn’t shown up yet, and nobody appears to be scheduled right now, so the ice gleams wide and white and empty.

The watery shimmer beneath the pale lights tells me it’s been freshly cut, that Nat was here recently, though I don’t see him as I walk along the glass. Not that I’mlookingfor him specifically.

Not that I’ve checked my phoneagain.

I go against my better judgment, send him another text.What do you think are the odds the Zamboni driver would let us shoot some pucks out on the ice?

Surely something jokey and fun like that warrants a response?

I don’t know, but I head into the locker room for more deep breathing and a quick vinyasa flow. Not sure when the rest of the guys will be rolling into the rink, but I need to get my head on straight well before that.

Which is sort of ironic, right, coming from a guy who’s currently upside down.

I flip back over onto my feet. Check my phone for the bajillionth time.

Nothing.

The emotions inside me are a twist I can’t fully sort out—frustration, maybe. Concern. And of course, the constant anxiety ofoh, God, I’ve screwed something up and now he hates me. . .

Which is totally ridiculous and I know it’s ridiculous, but I can’t help but replay our last interaction over and over in my mind. Trying to search out what I did wrong, something that might explain his silence—

But it’s like Dr. Huxley is always telling me: I gotta stop framing it from my perspective. Making it about me. Essentially, putting myself at the center of everyone’s universe.

That’s what social anxiety does, but the reality is that it probably has nothing to do with me at all. Hell, he’s probably more nervous than I am, and here I am, making it all about me.

I wince, tug my sneakers on, and decide, once and for all, I’m gonna be a good friend. So I head towards the Zam room at the back.

“Yo, Mouse!” I pat my knuckles against theStaff Onlydoor before I can second-guess myself. “It’s Aspen. Let me—”

The door opens.

Only, it’s not Nat framed in the doorway. It’s a vaguely familiar bearded dude IthinkI can label as the rink manager and roughly name Jerry. Jeremiah? Joey? Something like that—“Hey! Um. Sorry. I thought Nat would be back here. You know where he is?”

The manager—Jerry or Joe or whatever—shakes his head. “Not here.”

“What?” My stomach plummets.

“Called out sick. Sorry kid.” J-man shrugs. “You got his number?”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice going very, very small. “Thanks.”

He closes the door.

I stand in front of it anyway, like I’m waiting for a better outcome. Without realizing I’ve reached for it, I find my phone in my hand, the screen lit up. Nothing.

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