Page 113 of Tight End

Son of a bitch.

I skate toward him, but the wall of players blocks me.

New York takes the shot. The puck sails through the air. Tate, our goalie, makes a diving catch, blocking the puck. Butone of the New York centers is waiting to take a quick wrist shot that beats Tate glove-side.

And New York scores with just two seconds left on the clock.

The buzzer blares out.

I drop to my knee on the ice with a deep sigh, pressing my gloved hand to the sides of my helmet. They don’t do shit to block out the roaring boos from the crowd.

“Go back to New York. Fuck up their record,” an Oakland fan yells.

“Nah, you guys keep him. Let him keep sucking ass out here!”

I get up from the ice without bothering to look at the assholes harassing me. I deserve it. Shoulders slumping, I skate toward the edge of the ice, trying in vain to block out the annoying as fuck voices swarming my ears.

My nerves stretch a little bit more when I pass the Renegades celebrating their win. And judging by the huge shit eating grin on Van Buren’s face, it wasn’t just a win against Oakland that they’re celebrating. It’s beatingme. I was a fucking star on that team. I owned the ice at Madison Square Garden. The guys were rightfully pissed when I decided to leave. I’d taken them to the championships our last season together and the hope was that we’d make it to the Stanley Cup finals this season.

Then I signed with Oakland.

And if it wasn’t bad enough that I was leaving New York, going to our biggest rival was like forcing them all to eat shit pie and ask for seconds.

The worst betrayal ever.

New York fans hate me, my old teammates hate me, and I can’t seem to get my fucking head on straight. Tonight, I took achance to claw myself out of the rut I created, but goddamn, was it a stupid one. And it cost us the game.

I can just predict the news headlines.

Except they’ll all be wrong.

Because nobody knows the real reason behind my half-assed playing.

I’ve tried for weeks to get out of my head but the past is back to haunt me.

Just like I always knew it would be.

I just had no idea how far or hard I’d fall when it came knocking.

Coach Enver turns toward me, his bright red face pinched with anger. “My office. Ten minutes.”

I nod, not even bothering to make eye contact with the guys because I don’t want to be faced with the truth.

They all resent me for signing. I have no love for Oakland and they all think I followed the money.

That’s only part true.

Masterson corners me before I can even make it into the locker room.

“Listen, hotshot,” Masterson hisses, backing me against the cinderblock wall. “We don’t give a fuck that you were a god back in New York. Out here, we don’t hang our teammates out to dry because we wanna take the spotlight. That’s not how we work as a team. And if you don’t like that, fuck off. Because from what I can see, you’re all hype, man. Nothing special about you, except maybe your ex. But even he doesn’t wanna be bothered with you now.”

Tate shows up and pulls Masterson away from me. “Come on, enough.”

But he doesn’t look at me.

I fucked him tonight. I fucked them all.

I pull off my helmet and scrape a hand down the front ofmy face. Masterson stalks through the doors and Tate just shakes his head at me.

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