Page 26 of Jaded

“Right,” I agree, even though I don’t agree.

I should, though. Bad-boi is really not my type. I mean, I appreciate bad boys the way I appreciate a lot of men. Like fine art. Something to admire, but not to want.

So, why’s he feel different?

Dunno, but I can’t afford to feel it. If I so much as start to imagine something might be there, I’ll hyperfixate. Overthink almost to the point of obsession. And just . . . no.

I tug a practice jersey over my shoulder pads and head for the ice. I’m first out—always—skate a couple of practice laps while I wait for the rest of the boys to join me.

The others pool onto the ice. Skates scrape, sticks slap, pucks crash against boards. Voices call out and laugh and jeer. More than a few sets of eyes turn towards me, like they’re already sizing me up.

Fair.

Coach’s whistle cuts through the noise, and we’re lining up for warm-up suicides. Adrenaline pulses through my veins in a steady drumbeat.

Another whistle shreds the quiet.

I leap, an instant before anyone else. My skates tear through that smooth ice, and the volley of answering scratches indicates the rest of the team’s joined me.

Muscles instantly burning with exertion, I fight to keep my place at the front of the pack.

Stride-stride-stride. . .

Heart racing. Lungs burning. Legs pumping. First, first, first.

I beat Devereaux to the blue line by a nose. My edges cut hard as I reverse direction. Skates scraping, muscles burning, lungs heaving—

Stride-stride-stride—because I won’t accept anything less than first. When you have a dream, when you want something so badly it overshadows everything else in your life, you’ll accept nothing short of perfection.

Every skate is high pressure, a test, a quest to gain some kind of minute edge over the Olli of yesterday. That’s how dreams work, right?You keep pushing to be a better version of yourself, to inch a little closer, until you get there or you break.

Another whistle tears through my ragged breaths and wayward thoughts, drawing us all to a heaving halt.

“Passing drills!” Coach roars, jabbing a finger at the air to direct me towards—“James! Holland! Devereaux!”

My new linemates. A froth of nerves and excitement churns my stomach as we line up. Dev snatches up a puck, sends it sailing towards me, and the play begins.

I catch the pass, redirect it towards Holls’s tape as we soar over the blue line. A quick flick of his wrist, and our goalie’s cursing and Coach is grinning.

I bite down on my own grin of relief.

When we climb onto the bench to make way for the next line, only then do I let my eyes wander. Into the stands, the shadows beneath the bleaches, the locker-room hallways.

Not that I’m looking for him.

Not that I’m expecting him to be here, watching.

Nope, nope, nope.

I don’t have time for wayward thoughts like that. Not now. I’m not about to let such meandering sentiments throw off my game.

Not when I’ve got players like Devereaux and Holls making me look good, not when there are so many hopefuls out there, across the country, waiting to take my spot.

Not when Coach seems hell-bent on running us ragged into the ground. I wouldn’t want any less.

Ilivefor that ache of exhaustion.

I wasn’t born with ice-god talent. I’ve worked for it, worked for it every minute of my life. With every breath. With every thought and dream. Hockey is my world, and everything else is just something that happens when I’m not on the ice.

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