Page 5 of Played
I fly down the left side of the rink, narrowing my gaze on Ciaran and Erik, who skate down the middle and right side of the ice. Out of the corner of my eye, I keep an eye on Banks, who’s trying to defend me. But that shit ain’t gonna happen. He’s good—wouldn’t be on second line if he wasn’t—but there’s no way he’s keeping me from receiving the pass from Erik.
Just as Erik slaps the puck, sending it sailing toward me, I drag my skates, and Banks sails by me while I slide my hockey stick forward, halting the progress of the puck. Grim satisfaction curls inside my chest, and I—
A whistle pierces the air.
“Young! Goddammit, offsides!” Coach yells, the call rebounding off the boards.
Fuck.
Grinding my teeth together, I halt the play, slicing to a stop on the ice.
Rookie fucking mistake. Especially for me.
I avoid the stares of Erik, Ciaran, and Mont, our new goalie. I don’t need to look at them, and I don’t need to glance down to see that both my skates crossed the blue line before the puck did. Yeah, offsideis common as hell in hockey, but it’s not a mistake I make. This is just a scrimmage before the first game of the season. But call me a perfectionist, arrogant, or whatever the fuck, I don’t do it.
Except, of course, if it’s today.
“Where the hell is your head, Young?” Coach Searles growls, and my automatic reaction is to snap a response, but I’m not crazy. Not only do I respect him too much for that kind of behavior, but he’ll bench a player in a minute and doesn’t give a fuck if he’s first or fourth line or how many jerseys his name sells. He doesn’t play that disrespect shit. “What’re the rest of you standing around for? Face off!”
I skate to my position on the ice. Erik moves to the face-off spot in the neutral zone and gets in position, stick down, the center from the opposing team across from him. I don’t pay attention to shit else but the puck. I don’t glance around me to make sure the rest of my team are in their positions; I don’t need to. We—Erik, Ciaran, and Ken and Ares, our two first-line defensemen—have played together long enough that we’re more than a well-oiled machine. We’re one body, one mind.
When I’m not fucking up, that is.
The whistle blows, and Erik slaps the puck before the other center even swings. Ciaran stops the pass and soars down the ice toward the other team’s goal. At the last second, he shoots the puck toward me so fast it’s a blur. But there’s a reason I’m a left-winger: I’m fast as fuck. And accurate too. As soon as it unerringly connects with my stick, I slam it toward the net. The black disc bowls past the narrow space between the goalie’s stick and his skate.
“Fuck yes!” Ciaran yells, pumping his gloved fist in the air.
Coach’s whistle blows, calling an official end to the play. When I pivot around on the blades of my skates, he gives me a sharp nod. But just by the narrowing of his eyes, I know scoring doesn’t get me off scot-free. He’ll see me later.
Forcing myself to focus, I head back to the center of the rink and continue the scrimmage. This time with my head on straight.
An hour and a half later, I knock on Coach’s office door, and after he yells “Come in,” I twist the knob and enter. Gary Searle has been my coach for the last seven years, since I left the Edmonton Oilers for the Pirates. He’s a legend, and not just because he’s the only Black coach in the NHL. When he played with the Calgary Flames, he was a beast, right up there with Grant Fuhr and Jarome Iginla. And as a coach? He exceeds his athleticism and skill on the ice. And as a man? He’s even better. When I lost Kendra, he grieved along with me. It’s an honor to play for him, and I want to retire a Pirate.
But if I don’t get my head out of my ass, that could be a pipe dream.
Sighing, I sink into the armchair across from Coach’s desk and meet his steady dark gaze. In his midfifties, he still possesses the build that made him one of the most formidable centers in the league. I’ve seen him on the ice; don’t let the salt and pepper in his hair and beard fool you. He’ll still outskate and outscore a lot of these players out here.
“What’s going on, Young?” he asks, getting right to the point. “You played like shit out there today. And it’s not the first time this week.”
Another quality I love about him. He doesn’t sugarcoat shit.
As I scrub a hand over my short curls, then down my face, my scruffy beard abrades my palm, the slight scratchy sound echoing in the office in lieu of my reply.
“You’re going to have to talk to me, Solomon. I need to know if you’re in a good headspace. The first game of the season is in four days, and right now, you’re not playing like you’re ready for it. Give me something.”
“I’m sorry, Coach. I know I haven’t been my best out there lately.”
“Yeah, I just said that. I’m asking why.”
He might be digging in my ass, but concern laces through the stern tone. And it’s that note that makes me spill the truth. At least part of it.
“I’ve been sleeping like shit the past few nights.” Understatement. The truth’s closer to me barely sleeping at all.
Dreams.
Part of me longs to go to lose myself in them, since it’s where I find Kendra. But a bigger part of me doesn’t want to encounter them. The pain of waking up and finding her side of our bed—the bed I shared with her for seven beautiful years—empty is like carving my chest out with a rusty-ass spoon. It’s a fucked-upGroundhog Daythat I would do anything to avoid. Even suffer insomnia.
“Are you still seeing the therapist?” Coach asks.
