Page 35 of Lovesick
One minute.
Number twenty-two doesn’t even bother to pass. He full-on propels the puck recklessly, and in doing so, Foster blocks the shot with minimal effort.
There’s a din of noise all around me. Nausea rumbles through my belly, my vision darkens around the edges, and it feels like someone has been consistently punching my diaphragm in with studded gloves. The adrenaline is keeping me alert, but there’s far too much of it.
Knox, thank God, is the first to the discarded puck, and since the entirety of the opposing team has migrated to our side, he Hail Marys that sucker over to their goal in one single, overpowered slap shot. Everyone watches raptly as the disc sails across the ice, maintaining a steady momentum.
With ten seconds left on the clock, the Wildebeests are too far away to rescue their distracted goalie. He didn’t expect such a fast turnover. Not only that, but he underestimated us greatly. The puck zooms into the nylon—right past the goalie’s five-hole—and the game ends with a buzzer, a light flash, and an announcement over the speakers.
We did it. We won. The future is looking fucking fantastic, my friends.
11
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
CREW
Convincing Coach Lawson to let his daughter exploit the hockey team—even though it’s for the greater good—seems like a terrible endeavor that will either result in him laughing in my face or his daughter screaming in mine. And I don’t know who is more terrifying.
I slowly creak open the door to his office, peeking around the corner like I’ll be shot on command. I shouldn’t be this nervous. Coach and I are…cool. Yeah, we’re cool. Except I’m keeping a gigantic secret from him that would cause a world war if he were to ever find out. Not only that, but I’d lose his trust, his respect,everything. I feel so bad lying to him, but technically, I didn’t know who Merit was when I slept with her. So I can’t really be to blame here, right?
No, Crew. You’re still very much to blame.
Coach glances up from his stack of paperwork, his lips stretched into a welcoming smile. “Crew, what brings you by on a Sunday?”
This is a trap. I don’t know how, but it is.
Anxiety is fast-acting as it buffs down my confidence, reducing it to a sad, pathetic pile of sawdust. Even thoughCoach is wearing glasses—and should therefore look a lot less intimidating—his eyes are still as unnerving as always. I’m looking into stygian waters devoid of light, harboring some of the deadliest ambush predators known to mankind, concealed under the guise of floating, algae-covered driftwood.
The words dissolve on my tongue. “Oh, I?—”
“You played your ass off last night, son. You whipped those guys into shape, and the work paid off. I have a great feeling about this season,” Coach interrupts, that burred voice of his rich with pride.
“Thank you, sir.”
“You keep playing like that every week, and the Mustangs have a real shot of winning the Frozen Four.”
The Frozen Four. Right. Collegiate hockey’s version of the Stanley Cup. That should be the end goal, right? That should be what I’m focused on.
But it’s not.
Okay, just come out and say it, Crew. But don’t act like you’re really into this idea. Just remember, this is in the team’s best interest—not yours.
With perspiration leaking out of every orifice and my lukewarm lunch slinging back up my esophagus, I pray to whoever’s listening that Coach Lawson won’t shiv me in his office for suggesting something that his owndaughtercouldn’t even sell to him. I know I acted like I was top dog and ran things around here, but Coach has the final say.
“Listen, Coach. Um…” I place my hand down on his desk so I can lean on it, but the accumulation of sweat has me sliding. “It was brought to my attention that MU is focusing their efforts on raising money for inner-city schools to have access to hockey programs—which I think is a great idea—and I just thought that maybe the Mustangs could help out. You know, give back to the community and all.”
That sounded…convincing. I think. I mean, if he rejects the proposal at this point, maybe he doesn’t have the kids’ best interests at heart.
I know what it’s like to be one of those kids—to have a passion for something that isn’t affordable. I wouldn’t be where I am today without hockey. It’s an outlet for me to process negative emotions without having to scribble on an intake form. And you can bet your ass that there are millions of children in the world looking for that kind of escape—most of whom are constrained by their finances.
Coach sighs, removing his glasses as a tangible sadness slashes across his face. “You’re not the first person to bring this up.”
Yikes. Keep calm, Crew. It doesn’t mean he’s onto you.
Awkward silence smothers the distilled air, and my nerves triple in the sweet time it takes for him to ponder my proposition. My telltale heart is practically yelling, “THIS GUY IS A FILTHY LIAR! HE’S IN CAHOOTS WITH YOUR DAUGHTER!”
I worry my bottom lip until I tear some of the dried skin, the taste of iron flowering over my tongue. I don’t want to let Merit down. I know this is really important to her.
