Page 5 of Stick With Me
“Nah, can’t tonight.”
“What the fuck do you have going on? Please, for the love of God, don’t tell me you’re watching that dumbass show again.”
He’s referring toYou’re The One, and he’s right. It is a dumb show, but Hannah likes it, and I like watching it with her. It’s a weekly tradition we started back in college, and even though we watch it together over FaceTime now—with me in Chicago and her in Dallas, soon to be Palm Beach—it’s a date we try not to break. Really, it’s just a good excuse to see her face.
“Next time,” I tell Fox in placation. He accepts that I can’t be swayed and moves on to rally the other guys. “Volk, you’re coming out. Don’t even try to bitch out on me. I need at least one of my friends to rally. You’re both terrible wingmen, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers. You’re up tonight, bud.”
Ilya Volkov, our goaltender, scowls in our direction from where he sits on the bench across from us. I’m surprised the lines on his forehead aren’t permanent. A furrowed brow and tight jaw are his most used expressions. “Fine.”
“Logan, hit the showers and then come to my office.” Coach’s voice bellows through the chaos surrounding us.
I glance at Volk and Fox, who’re already looking at me with knowing smirks. I know what they’re thinking; we’ve all been waiting for Coach to call one of us into his office since announcing he’ll need a replacement for King. Our captain was supposed to represent the Saints at All-Star Weekend, but after a brutal hit last week left him with a broken collarbone, he’s out for the rest of the season.
I wish I had the same confidence they do, but instead, my thoughts are filled with worry.Maybe he wants to talk about my spot on the team? My upcoming contract renewal?
I grab my change of clothes and head to the showers, stepping over piles of wet pads and discarded uniforms along the way. There’s always a scent in the air post-game, a mix of man sweat and body wash. Not a pleasant combo, but after years of playing hockey, it’s one I’m used to.
As the warm water hits my back, the what-ifs circle my mind.
My contract is up after this season, and even though my agent keeps assuring me an offer is coming, I won’t believe it until my signature is on the dotted line. Four years with the team, and I still can’t shake the thoughts that I’m not good enough. My path to the league wasn’t the typical one—no youth leagues, no juniors, no NCAA stardom before getting drafted.
I didn’t even get drafted. I clawed my way onto Rumford’s Division 1 team and thought I was finally on track with everyone else. Turns out, the NHL didn’t agree. I was passed over, not once but twice, in the draft before aging out of eligibility at twenty. Ending up a free agent, I landed a deal with the Saints in my last year of college.
But even now, years later, those same doubts still creep in, whispering that I’m not good enough. That it’s only a matter of time before everyone else realizes it. Pressing my head against the cold tile, I watch the water swirl down the drain, wishing it could take all the shit in my head with it.
When I can’t avoid the inevitable any longer, I cut the water, dry off, change, and make my way down the hall. Reaching Coach’s open door, I knock, ready to get this over with.
“Come in. Shut the door,” he barks from where he sits behind his desk. I take one of the two chairs facing him, gripping my thighs in an attempt to steady my bouncing knees.
“All-Star Weekend is coming up. I hope you didn’t make vacation plans because you’re going,” Coach states, straight to the point.
“Me?” Probably not the best reaction, but that’s what leaves my mouth.
“Yes. You. Who else?” His tone is one of a father scolding his child.
Yep, wrong thing to say. I know it’s a rhetorical question, so I remain silent, although I can think of a handful of guys on the team deserving of the All-Star title. My thoughts must be written all over my face because his harsh tone continues as he tells me, “You’re worse than a rookie shaking in his skates, waiting to get sent back to the farm team. You’d think you’d have the same confidence off the ice as you do on it. Then again, I’m not sure I want another cocky little shit like Fox around here…” He shakes his head before continuing, “Never mind that. The point is, you’re going. Be proud that you’re getting the recognition you deserve.”
“Sorry, sir, I think I’m in shock. I’d be honored to represent the Saints, thank you,” I say, reaching out my hand to shake his.
“Okay, get out of here.” He gestures toward the door, so I pick up my pace and return to the locker room to grab my stuff.
Holy shit. I’m an All-Star.
I head back to my cubby on autopilot, the news still not fully sinking in. I grab my phone, knowing exactly who I want to share the news with, but I already have a message waiting from her.
Hannah :
Hey. Landed. I’m going to have to rain check tonight. My mother is insisting on a “family meeting.” I’m sure to discuss how my breakup will affect her
Unable to get Fox’s words out of my mind, I quickly change her contact name.
Me:
Oh boy. No worries, we’ll catch up tomorrow. You doing okay?
Hannah:
Hanging in there.
