Page 114 of Puck Your Feelings
Becker steps onto the ice last, lacking his usual bounce. No dramatic entrance, no stupid joke, no declaration that "Becker has entered the building, ladies and gentlemen!" He just... skates. Quietly joins the group forming around Coach.
Our eyes meet across the ice for exactly 0.6 seconds before we both look away like we've been burned.
But that's all it takes—just enough time for me to see that he doesn't look angry anymore. Just tired. Deflated. Like someone let all the air out of the human bouncy castle that is Riley Becker.
And I'm the one who did the deflating.
"Alright, listen up," Coach barks, mercifully interrupting my spiral of self-loathing. "Defensive zone coverages today."
Of-fucking-course.
I risk another glance at Becker, who's suddenly very interested in adjusting his gloves. We've been paired on defense for weeks now, developing a chemistry that made us the team's most effective shutdown pair. Guess that's out the window now, along with everything else.
"First line against second," Coach continues, oblivious to the emotional minefield he's tap-dancing through. "Let's go!"
I take my position, hyperaware of Becker five feet to my left, his usual pre-drill chatter conspicuously absent. Normally he'd be making some ridiculous observation about how Groover's helmet makes him look like a confused turtle, or asking if anyone else thinks the rink smells like desperation and old hot dogs.
Today, nothing.
The whistle blows, and immediately everything goes sideways. Groover carries the puck into our zone, and I move to cut him off—except Becker has the same idea. We collide like absolute rookies, sprawling onto the ice while Groover casually skates around us and scores.
"What the hell was that?" Coach yells as we pick ourselves up.
I open my mouth to answer but close it again when I realize I don't have an explanation that doesn't involve "I broke Becker's heart and now we can't function as humans, let alone defensemen."
The next attempt isn't any better. I hang back, giving Becker space to make the play. He hesitates, clearly expecting me to step up. By the time either of us reacts, Ace has threaded a perfect pass to Petrov, who buries it top shelf.
"Jesus Christ," Wall mutters from the goal crease. "Are you two having a contest to see who can fuck up more spectacularly? Because it's a tie."
"Shut up, Wall," I snap, with none of the usual camaraderie.
The drill continues, and so does our synchronized disaster performance. I miss an easy pass from Becker that hits me right on the tape. He fails to cover his man on a cross-ice play that I would've expected a peewee player to handle. When I finally do get the puck, I send a clearing attempt directly into the stands like I'm aiming for the one empty seat in the arena.
It's like we've both forgotten how to play hockey overnight. No, that's not right—it's like we've forgotten how to play hockeytogether. The easy rhythm we'd developed, the unspoken understanding of where the other would be, the trust—all of it vanished the moment I told him I didn't want him anymore.
The biggest lie I've ever told.
Coach's whistle screeches across the ice, mercifully ending the torture session. "Everyone take five," he barks. "Except you two." He jabs a finger at Becker and me. "Over here. Now."
We skate to the bench, careful to maintain at least three feet of distance between us at all times, like we're repelling magnets. Coach's face has achieved that particular shade of red that means someone's about to get their ass handed to them. Today, that someone is us.
"What the hell am I watching out there?" he demands, voice low enough that the rest of the team can't hear, but intense enough that I fight the urge to take a step back. "You two look like you've never seen a hockey stick before."
I stare at the ice, suddenly fascinated by a small nick in the surface.
"Season starts in three weeks," Coach continues. "Three weeks! And my top defensive pair is suddenly playing like they're allergic to each other. Do better!"
I open my mouth, ready to offer some half-assed excuse about still adjusting to each other's style, or maybe blame it on bad sushi from last night's dinner.
But Becker beats me to it.
"Yes, Coach," he says simply, voice flat in a way I've never heard before. No joke, no deflection, no Becker-patented verbal gymnastics to lighten the mood. Just quiet acceptance of the criticism.
Then he turns and skates away, leaving me alone with Coach and the crushing weight of my own guilt.
Coach stares after him, clearly thrown by the lack of Becker's usual pushback. Then he turns to me with narrowed eyes. "Fix it," he says.
He walks away before I can respond, which is probably for the best since I have no idea what I would say.
