Page 76 of Jaded

But still, I can’t help thinking that at least I’ve got his smile.

Shouldn’t matter, that tiny folded memory of his mirth, like a secret tucked into my deepest pocket, but it does. Just like knowing he’s out there, that he’ll be watching, cheering for us—for me—matters.

Goddammit.

The team starts up its pregame cheer, and I barely hear my own thoughts over the swell of pump-up music and shouting that explodes across the locker room. Barely register that I’ve climbed to my feet along with the rest of the team.

I’m busy. Thinking. Realizing.

I have a crush.

Goddammit.

I have a damnedcrush,and it makes me all fluttery and heady and happy. Light enough to fly, to take on the whole damn world. I’m grinning like a fool as we storm the door and power out of the locker room.

Charlie and Everton lead the race down the hall, and we follow, buoyed on a raging river of our own enthusiasm.

The cry of the crowd crescendos as we hurtle out from under the bleachers. A rippling rainbow of people packs the stands, voices blurring into a throbbing roar.

“Let’s hear it for your own DAY RIVER DINGOES!” The announcer bellows as we slam onto the ice with all the passion and aggression of a team used to taking the game by storm—and winning.

The crowd rewards our energy with more of its own, and we feed off it. Off each other.

I lose myself to it.

The passion.

The heat.

The game.

This is my purpose, my reason for living, breathing, for forcing myself through the dark days. This. Here.

This is my reason for being.

Blades on ice, sticks tapping, whistles shrieking, pucks slamming, bodies crashing against boards, voices shouting, and always, the crowd roaring in the background like a distant thrum of blood in my ears. A rush of adrenaline.

Synergy.

Not just between my tape and Dev’s or my eyes and Holland’s quick feet, but between us as people, because every one of us out here tonight, we share the same purpose, the same vision, the same dream.

I’m definitely listing towards the romantic, but we’re all one out here, on this ice, for a reason.

And this is why my introvert self loves team sports.

Here, I’m not alone. No “I” in “team,” amiright?

Because without me, no way Holls would have that perfect cross-ice pass, just nicked through the defenders from the blue line. And without Holls, Dev wouldn’t have the puck as he slides into the zone, and without Dev, my crashing the net would have meant nothing but a stick in the balls for me.

But we’re all out here, playing the same game, seeing the same vision. And when I crash the net, Dev fakes a shot, redirects, and Holls cuts in for the one-timer. And suddenly the buzzer’s blaring and their goalie’s looking behind him in confusion, and Holls and Dev smash against me and it’s all three of us together who scored that goal.

And the next.

And the one after that.

There I go again, trying to be Shakespeare. But itworks. Our energy, the crowd’s, the other team’s mounting frustration—it’s a self-feeding cycle, a self-fulfilling prophecy, and it goddamn works.

When the final buzzer rings three hours later, we’re grinning like fools, high on the heady cocktail of victory. Winners—for the first time in as long as some of these boys can remember.

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