Page 42 of Jaded

But that’s it, isn’t it?

There’s something a little dark and depraved about this town, about its people. Something that draws them out of the warmth and light of their homes and into the belly of the underground of broken dreams and broken bones.

Does not the darkness inside us crave to find that same darkness reflected in others?

That’s why nobody comes to Dingoes games—why would they, when they lust for violence?

I settle back into my seat, still shocked and shaken from this new realization. With the idea that this team—the thing I’ve staked my entire career on, a lifelong dream—might not be saveable.

How can I save it, when the problem isn’t hockey?

No wonder nobody stays on this team, in this town. No wonder Coach struggles to keep players on the roster. No wonder we’re losing.

That feeling of heaviness returns, so hard and fast it’s like my bones have suddenly turned to lead. And for all my sunshine and smiles, I just want to curl up beneath the blankets of my bed, close the windows, and give in to the darkness I’ve been fighting off for weeks now.

It’s only a matter of time, after all. Sooner or later, it’ll catch me. And when it does . . . But fortunately, a lifetime of dealing with it—and therapy—means I have coping methods.

When I can’t get outside and can’t get on the ice, music is all I have left. It’s time to blast my thoughts out of this funk-spiral with some good old-fashioned metal. And because I’m a nerd—poetry.

Nothing quite like losing yourself in metal and writing.

I fish in the pocket of my dress pants for my mini notebook and my phone. The edge of the notebook snags, and because I’m an awkward human, I manage to fumble both my phone and the notebook onto the ground at my feet.

“Dammit.” I crouch to snag my phone off the floor, check the screen for cracks. Nothing, thankfully. And it seems to still be loading Pandora, so that’s a win.

I start to reach for my notebook—

But someone beats me to it. A hand closes around the battered pages. Fingers tattooed above each knuckle, fingers attached to tattooed hands, hands attached to tattooed wrists, wrists attached to tattooed arms, arms swelling into drool-inducing biceps, also tattooed . . . and suddenly my poetry, a poem I wrote on a dark and lonely and terribly emo night, is being lifted off the floor by none other than—

“Nat,” I squeak, sounding rather like a mouse that’s been stepped on. Not that I specifically know what that sounds like, but I’ve been told I have a very active imagination.

“Not watching the game, Captain?” The deep voice reaches my ears in the same moment Volbeat’s “Still Counting” does. I jerk my gaze up from myUltimate Pump Listplaylist—to find Nat Taylor standing over me.

Damn, I can’t stop seeing him at the Ice Out, thinking about how much more sense his scowl and his battered knuckles make. I mean, I don’t know much about the Ice Out, but I know it ain’t for the weak of heart.

I wince, lift up my phone to display my Pandora screen. “Just getting some music.”

But he’s not looking at me or my phone. Or even the game swirling around on the ice below. No, those piercing green eyes tilt down to my little notebook in his hand.

“Is this . . . poetry?” His gaze lifts from the page, brow furrowed in consternation as he beholds me, still crouched on the floor at his feet.

“Songs, actually.” I stand and swipe the paper from his fingers in one fell swoop. “If you must know.”

“Songs,” he murmurs, still watching me. Though it almost looks like his eyes are out of focus, like he’s not seeing me—or maybe he’s seeing more of me than I realize.

“Don’t make fun.” I stuff the notebook into my pocket and flop onto my seat like I’m actually gonna attempt to watch the game. A whistle calls a halt to the play, and music thumps through the speakers.

“I’m not making fun.” Nat slides his hands into the pockets of his torn jeans. I stare at the ice; Devereaux loses the face off, and the puck tumbles into our zone.

I feel like I’m back in middle school, and one of the cool kids has started chatting under the pretext of being friendly, but is really searching out a new way to tease me.

“I can hear the music,” he says, and yep . . . Real funny, bro.

But we're not in middle school anymore, so one of us should act like an adult. “Now you’re really making fun of me. Look, it’s just silly—”

“It’s not silly,” he says, and when he sits down beside me, the smooth, serious lines of his face are almost convincingly earnest. “You think I’d make fun of music to a fellow metalhead?”

His eyes meet mine.

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