Page 121 of Burn Bright
It’s been three days. Three fucking days and my brain has made about a million revolutions around her. She returned to her pull-out couch. I stayed on mine.
It’s better this way, I remind myself. She has a history of using sex transactionally, and I don’t want to risk her sliding into that loop with me. Separation is good.
My brain hasn’t picked up that message yet, but we’ll get there.
I comb some wet strands of hair out of my face. The showers at MVU’s gym have shit water pressure, but that’s about myonly complaint today at tryouts. A true shock to my system considering I had a laundry list of complaints on my old team.
Former captain called me a “nepo baby” after every game—which sidenote: not an insult when it’s a fact—but he always made sure to sling it like a slight. The coach made me do more suicide drills on the ice than I care to admit.
Usually alone.
Usually after practice.
He’d have the assistant coach stay behind to blow the whistle. And fuck if I don’t hate that shrill sound in a near empty rink with no teammates around me. It ruined any peace I felt while skating.
So this morning, I fully expected some extra laps or an underhanded dig from at least one of the guys on the MVU team. But the left wing gave me a slap on the shoulder like I already belonged. The goalie invited me out for a beer. (I don’t think he knows I’m nineteen.) The center complimented my pivots. It felt like the fucking Twilight Zone. I half-expected Eliot to pop out of the stands and tell me they were all actors he hired.
Turns out, it was real.
Coach Haddock even shook my hand at the end of practice, and it startled me for a long moment. With hockey, I had forgotten what it feels like to be treated like a functioning human being and not a sack of shit.
Only problem…I can’t like the team here.
I can’t start to love hockey again.
I won’t be in New York for the full season. Trying out was always more for Coach Haddock than myself, and he seemed grateful that every phone call and encouragement at least got me out on the ice tonight.
As I kick the apartment door shut, all I can think about is calling Harriet. She’s the first person I want to talk to about tryouts, but it’s Monday night and she keeps her phone off whileshe’s volunteering at the hospital. So I make my way farther into the quiet apartment, but I don’t fool myself into believing it’s empty.
Most of my brothers have participated in the shared calendar, so I know that Beckett is dancing inGiselletonight, Tom’s band practice finished hours ago, and now that Eliot landed the role of Christopher Wren inThe Mousetrap, he spends post-rehearsals in his room running lines.
Charlie hasn’t updated his portion of the calendar so he could be drowning in the Pacific Ocean, for all I know. I toss my gym bag and hockey stick on the couch, and my phone pings in my pocket. My stomach knots as soon as I see the text.
Dr. Wheeler
Ben. Are you around for your session? It was supposed to start 10 minutes ago.
Shit. Fuck. I completely forgot. I scrape my hand through my hair and glance around the apartment. I’ve been pretty strategic in doing my tele-therapy sessions on campus in a quiet study room. Last thing I want is for one of my brothers to overhear.
I could bail on Dr. Wheeler tonight, but if word gets back to my parents that I’m skipping sessions, it’ll give my dad more reason to encourage me to find a new therapist. And that’s a drum I don’t want to beat again.
Fuck it. I’ll just take the call here. Notin the bathroom—the lock hasn’t been fixed, and I’m not making that mistake a second time. I slip into the coat closet, shut the door, and take my puffer jacket off the hook to bunch up at the gap between the floor and the door. I’m not sure how soundproofed it is in here, but that’ll have to do.
Sinking onto the hardwood, I’m wedged between the wall and an umbrella. I shift a heavy bag off to the side, and I unzipit to see a bowling ball. What the fuck? I don’t even know which one of my brothers bowls.
Zipping it back up with one hand, I send a quick text with my other.
Ben Cobalt
Available now. Not for video chat though. Can you call?
Less than ten seconds later, my phone rings, and I answer it.
“Ben.” Dr. Wheeler’s voice is friendly and casual. “Is everything all right? You’re usually not late to a session.”
I rest my head back against the wall. “Sorry, I had hockey tryouts. I forgot to reschedule.”
Dr. Wheeler blows out a breath of surprise. “Hockey tryouts? You mentioned you didn’t want to play…”
