Page 3 of Arrogant Puck

Mom’s head snaps up. “It was a—”

“No, this is my fucking fault!” I slam my fist against the brick wall hard enough to break skin. “I egged him on. I made the plan. I—”

“Slater.” Dad’s voice cuts through my spiral, low and dangerous. “Stop.”

But I can’t stop. The words keep coming, each one a knife twisting deeper into my chest. “He’s seventeen fucking years old. We were going to win this game and go to a fucking party. We were supposed to go to college together, play hockey, make it fucking pro and win the Stanley! He should here right now, celebrating his fucking win, but instead…”

A security guard appears in the doorway, probably drawn by my breaking voice. I want to put my fist through his face just for looking at me wrong.

“Sir, I’m going to need you to keep it down—”

“Fuck you!” The words come out sharp and hot.

The guard takes a step back.

“Slater,” Mom whispers, but I’m already moving, pacing again, my hands shaking with the need to hit something, to break something, to make the world hurt as much as I do.

When the doctor finally appears, his mouth is moving but I can’t hear a goddamn word he’s saying. Something about trauma, about complications, about doing everything they could.

All I hear is the flatline tone in his voice.

I push past him, shoving through the double doors marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” ignoring the shouts behind me. My feet carry me down sterile hallways that all look the same until I find the room—302, the number burned into my retinas.

Archer lies in the center of the bed, so still he looks like a wax figure. They’ve cleaned the blood away, bandaged his head, but nothing can hide the stillness of his body. The way death sits in his bones, unmoving. Machines beep around him but they’re just for show now. I can tell by the way the nurses give my sympathetic eyes.

The sight makes something twist in my chest, and my legs give out. I reach for his hand. It’s cold. Completely, utterly cold.

The breath leaves my lungs in a rush, like someone’s punched me in the gut. His fingers don’t respond to my touch, don’t curl around mine. They just lie there, heavy and dead.

“No.” The word comes out as a whisper. “No, no, no—Archer, come on.”

I lean forward, pressing my forehead against his arm. Sobs tear through my chest, violent and ugly. My entire body shakes the bed he’s on, and I start gasping for air, wondering why the hell this is happening.

“I’m sorry,” I choke out against his hospital gown. “I’m so fucking sorry, Archer. This should be me lying here, not you. Not you. I love you.”

I break, sobbing against him, knowing that I won’t ever see him again. This is the last time I’ll be able to see his face, touch him. The fact is too much to bear as I continue to cry.

My parents walk into the room, following suit. They fall at his side, sobbing, apologizing, pleading for forgiveness.

“Please come back,” I beg, keeping my forehead on his arm. “I’ll do better, I swear. I’ll be better. Remember when we fought over that stupid hockey card when we were seven? I’m sorry. I’m sorry for every time I was a shitty brother, every time I got us in trouble, every time—”

Tears blur my vision as I cling onto him.

I can’t believe Archer’s gone. Has been gone since the moment that puck cracked his skull open on the ice.

And I’m alone in a way I’ve never been before, holding the cold hand of the only person who ever understood the darkness that lives inside me.

The only person who shared it.

Now he’s gone

One Week Later

The black suit feels like a straitjacket. I stand beside Archer’s casket, my hand pressed flat against the polished wood, sunglasses hiding the evidence of what I’ve become in the past week. My pupils are blown wide from the oxy I stole from Mom’s purse this morning—the same pills she’s been popping like candy since we got home from the hospital.

The funeral home reeks of lilies and bullshit sympathy. People keep approaching the casket, whispering their hollow condolences, but I don’t move. Haven’t moved for the past hour. This is as close as I can get to Archer now, and I’m not giving up this spot for anyone.

The puck hitting his skull plays on repeat behind my eyelids. The crack. The blood. The way his body went limp. Over and over until the oxy kicks in enough to blur the edges, make it hurt a little less.

---