Page 119 of The Puckable Playbook

Len

It’s fine.Everything’s fine. He didn’t mean not to appreciate me. He’s excited. He’s overwhelmed. He—

He’s acting like a fucking jock.

I wear a path into the sidewalk outside the arena. Minutes tick by like time doesn’t exist. Sometimes it’s fast, sometimes it’s slow. How much time has passed out here waiting for him to come back is as elusive to me as trying to hold on to a cloud.

I should want to go out with him to celebrate, right? That’s what a hockey girlfriend does. Or any girlfriend supporting their man. Itisexciting. Iamexcited.

Actually, that’s a lie. My enthusiasm died somewhere between seeing Trish throw herself at him to the women outside his bus screaming his name.

I can’t compete with hockey. I never could.

The world tilts. I root myself in place, my hands splaying out as if trying to grasp something to keep me steady.

I can’t compete with hockey.

Growing up under my father’s roof taught me that. My mom couldn’t either. That’s why she left. Though, that’s an assumption. She’s never been around to ask, but I’m sure that’s why. It became blatantly clear about the time I started to want my own life outside of hockey.

I’ve done nothing but try to get Zaiah here, to this point. With the video and the emails and the article I wrote. Now I feel like a complete ass. Heartache grips me. All I did was make sure hockey was his priority by helping give him everything he wanted.

I start biting my nails, a habit I thought I’d kicked that apparently rears its head in stressful situations. In the past, I’d bite my nails all the way down until my teeth gnashed against skin and bled. Only the first coppery taste would make me stop, then I’d move on to the next finger.

I force my hands to my side, gripping my leggings so I don’t put my nails in my mouth. I should be happy for him. I am happy for him.

My stomach squeezes. Going round and round with this isn’t helping. I wanted a simple thank you. Even an acknowledgment. The way he looked at me on the bus… I thought he was going to say something, but he didn’t.

Am I being selfish? It’s his time. He played the game. All I did was put people in seats.

The doors behind me open, and I spin to find Coach stepping out of the building, a cigarette hanging lazily from one hand. He blocks the calm wind to light it while taking a big drag, leaving nothing but a puff of smoke in its wake.

He sees me, and I don’t need to be a nosy reporter to read him. Surprise hits first, then under the glow of the sidewalk lamps, his cheeks redden. “This is our little secret, okay? The way the boys would tease me.”

I walk forward. Over the last week, ever since I knew everything was a go with the paper, Coach and I have spoken numerous times on the phone. I even went to his office a few times to coordinate things. Of course, he helped me with Zaiah’s footage, too. He’s a good man. “Your business is your business.” I shrug.

He stares down at the cigarette. “I quit a few years ago, but every once in a while, I have to have one. Tonight was amazing and stressful at the same time. It was about the end of the first period when I was already picturing the pack I had in my desk. Don’t ever get addicted to anything, Miss Robertson. It’s terrible.”

I squeeze my leggings again, the urge to bite my nails rearing up. Fear slices through me and it isn’t because I’m hooked on gnawing on my fingers. It’s that maybe I’m addicted to Zaiah.

Maybe I’m obsessed with helping him. With making him happy. I’ve set my own wants and needs aside to focus on other people before…twice. One I grew up with, and one I finally told off tonight. In every relationship I’m in, I end up being the afterthought.

Graduation is coming soon. I should be focused on my own future instead of his. Truthfully, I let people disappoint me time and time again. He’s not the only one who’s had a win since we’ve been together, yet when I got a response from the editor, he barely said congratulations. We didn’t celebrate. I didn’t say,Hey, let’s go out to Bubbles with the drunk dudes who want to hang out with me.

I swallow the sudden dryness in my throat and give Coach a half-hearted grin. “I’ll keep that in mind. Great game tonight.”

He leans against the side of the building, smoking the cigarette like he’s a teen and his parents are about to come outside and catch him. “You did more for them than I could. They needed butts in seats.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Another trail of gray smoke clouds from his lips. “Someone to play for, or even show off in front of. Athletes aren’t complicated. They play for themselves, but they also feed off energy. The amount of electricity in that rink tonight couldn’t have been duplicated by my before-game speeches or any of their family members telling them to go out there and get ’em. Or Zaiah’s family acting like crazy fans. Those all help at first, but then the novelty wears off.”

“But won’t a screaming crowd eventually become white noise, too?”

“Ahh,” he says, pausing to take another drag. “But it’s always different. Different opponent, different audience, different noise, different signs in the crowd, and it gets more addictive the higher you go.”

I scruff my shoe against the sidewalk. “You think Zaiah can make it?”

“Oh yeah. He’s got the goods. Did you see the way he played tonight when he had an audience? When he had the cheers? You did that.”

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