Page 11 of The Beautiful Collision
Suicides. The skate designed to make you puke, pass out, or reconsider your life choices at the best of times. But on four hours of sleep and a stale granola bar, this should be fucking poetry. I head for the goal line, aware the guys are all watching me out of the corner of their eyes as they drill.
I start. And, for the first few strides, it’s like dragging anchors through quicksand. By the blue line, my thighs scream. Goal to blue and back. Goal to red and back. Around there, my lungs decide oxygen’s overrated. Goal to far blue, then back to the start to do it all over again.
I continue to hear practice sounds as if they’re from another dimension. Tape-to-tape passes. Coaches calling plays. Hockey continuing while I’m stuck in purgatory. Sweat pours down my spine, ready to freeze the second Coach blows the whistle for me to stop or I collapse on the ice, whichever comes first.
Sprint seven. The far blue line wavers in my vision. My edges go to shit—not skating anymore, just negotiating with physics, each stride a union dispute between will and flesh—and, for the first time, I glance at Coach. He’s watching me, no mercy, so I gut it out and keep going.
It’s sprint nine when he finally takes pity on me, and as he blows the whistle, I collapse on the ice with the grace of Bambi on benzos. I should get up, but part of me—the exhausted, beaten,donepart—wants to stay. Melt into the surface. Become part of the playing surface.
Maybe they’d even make me a little plaque.
Here lies Maine Hamilton: Who Died After Being Too Proud to Ask for Help.
“Get up.” Coach’s voice is quiet. It’s worse than yelling, because being disappointed means he’s downgraded his expectations.
I push up on noodle arms, and when I meet Coach’s eyes, something in my face shifts his from fury to concern or pity or both. “Sorry, Coach.”
“Hit the showers.” He sighs. “And Hamilton?”
I wait.
“If you need help, ask for it.”
I nod and head for the tunnel, twenty gazes on me. I keep my chin up—take your beating standing even when you’re hemorrhaging internally, that’s my motto—but I’m not sure my legs and my body have ever felt this broken. Exhausted from working dozens of extra hours while trying to moonlight as an elite athlete.
In the locker room, I collapse on the bench and start to strip out of my armor. The boys filter in slowly, keeping their distance. They undress in funeral silence—no chirps, no tunes, not even Rook’s awful singing—because everyone knows I’m drowning in shit. I should crack a joke to break the ice, but I’ve got nothing left.
“Rough night?” Mike says as he sits down next to me.
“Something like that.” I yank laces like they owe me money.
“It wasn’t booze.” It’s a statement, not a question. “What’s going on?”
I hesitate. Mike’s seen me play through hangovers that would kill civilians, scoring hat tricks while sweating Bud Light, so he knows this is different. He’s basically my brother—one of the few guys I’d ever let see behind the mask even a little—and the truth sits between us, heavy as my gear.
Last semester, I told him my roommate moved out and I needed cash. He’d offered, I’d refused, and we’d left it at that. But now, months later, it’s clear he knows there’s a problem I’m dealing with, but I’m not sure if he knows exactly what or how bad it is. I could lie, but I’m so fucking tired of drowning alone.
“I’m fucked, Mikey.” The admission scrapes my throat raw. “Need a roommate yesterday or I’m…”
I can’t finish. Can’t sayhomeless. Can’t mention shifts until three before practice at eight-thirty or that I’m one sick day from living in a Honda that won’t start below freezing. Because those details would shatter the illusion completely and transform Maine Hamilton from entertainer to charity case.
“How bad?” There’s no judgment, no interrogation, because Mike has been to rock bottom and back himself in the last few years.
“Like, close to sleeping-in-my-car bad.” I finally get the skates off and toss them with disgust. “Gene’s ready to evict my ass, and I just…”
I can’t admit the comedian’s out of material and options, and I’m glad he keeps quiet, for just a bit, thinking. There’s no offer of charity I won’t take, or pity loans that’d worsen this, just quiet backup from someone who gets that sometimes you need a hand without the full autopsy.
“I’ll ask around.” Mike squeezes my shoulder and heads for the shower.
The others follow, until it’s just me. I know I should shower, wash off desperation and bar funk I was too tired to rinse off lastnight, but instead I sit, head in hands, staring at the floor like the tiles have answers to questions I’m too scared to ask.
My phone buzzes—either Derek wanting another shift, or Gene inventing more fees, or Mom needing money or sunshine blown up Chloe’s ass while I self-destruct in real time—but I don’t check it. My tank is empty, so fresh hell can take a number.
Instead I sit, listening as the guys talk shit and shower nearby. I wonder how long I can fake it before the mask cracks my skull? How long until my legs refuse the con? How many grins before my face saysscrew thisand goes on strike?
And the answer to all three questions settles heavily.
Fuck all.
