Page 69 of The Beautiful Collision
The memory of Maya’s body pressed against mine last night won’t leave me alone. The way she looked at me with those dark eyes full of trust and something deeper, something that made me want to confess how completely fucking gone I am for her. But instead, I kept my mouth shut and kicked the can again.
“Let’s go, boys!” Coach Pearson’s voice booms through the locker room. “This is our house! Our ice! Let’s show them what Pine Barren hockey feels like!”
The team erupts in their usual pre-game roar, and I join in because that’s what I do. I’m the loud one. The performer. The guy who gets everyone pumped up. But the sound that comes out of my throat feels hollow, like an echo in an empty room.
We file out toward the tunnel, every step feeling like walking toward my own execution. Because I know she’s out there, sitting in the stands with Sophie, expecting to see the Maine Show—the star left-wing, the clutch player, the guy who thrives under pressure.
What she’s about to see is the truth.
I’m a desperate, hopelessly in love fool with no way out of a self-made prison.
The roar hits us the second we step onto the ice. Thousands on their feet, screaming our names, waving signs, believing in us and believing in me. It should give me a rush and help clear my head, but it just makes the weight on my shoulders feel even heavier.
I go through the warm-up motions—stretches, passes, shots—but my body feels disconnected from my brain. Every movement is just slightly off, like I’m operating myself with anXbox controller with input lag. I fire a practice shot that goes wide by three feet, and Rook gives me a look from his crease.
“The fuck was that?” he calls out, with that usual joking tone.
“Just giving you false confidence,” I shoot back, but the words taste like ash.
That’s when I make the mistake of looking up at the stands.
She’s there, leaning forward, eyes locked on me. Third row behind our bench, wearing… shit… she’s wearing one of my old Pine Barren Hockey hoodies, because of course she doesn’t have any of her own team gear. The realization, on top of her words last night, is like a punch to the gut.
She came, and she’s decked herself out, possessively, in something that’smine.
And I couldn’t even manage a few simple words in return.
I need you too.
They’re right there, lodged in my throat like a hockey puck, choking me.
The warm-up ends, and we head back to the bench for final instructions. Coach is saying something about their defensive scheme, about keeping our heads up in the neutral zone, but his voice sounds like it’s coming through water. All I can focus on is the weight of Maya’s gaze, the expectation in it.
Christ, what have I done?
I take the ice.
The puck drops.
And everything goes to shit.
Schmidt wins the faceoff and passes my way, but the puck bounces off like my stick is made of fucking rubber. It’s a simple receive, something I’ve done ten thousand times, but my hands aren’t working right. They’re too tight, too tense, operating on a half-second delay.
The opposing defender scoops up the loose puck and they’re off on a rush, even as I’m backchecking, trying to make up for theturnover. But by the time I catch up to the play, they’ve already gotten a shot off. Rook makes the save, but the rebound goes right to their forward.
Goal.
Thirty seconds in, and I’ve already gift-wrapped them a goal.
The crowd’s roar turns to groans, that particular sound of disappointment that feels like fingernails on my soul. I skate to the bench for the line change, and Coach doesn’t even look at me, the guy who’s usually supportive of everyone just looking disappointed. And that’s worse than getting screamed at.
“Shake it off,” Mike mutters as he hops over the boards for his shift. “Fluke.”
But it’s not a fluke.
It’s just the beginning.
The next shift, I’m in perfect position for a one-timer from the point. The pass is perfect, right on my tape. This is my shot, the one I’ve scored on fifty times. I wind up, visualizing the top corner, and completely screw it up. Not just miss—I don’t even contact the puck.
