Page 65 of Facing Off
How am I looking at him? My skin feels tight, eyebrows have drawn together, and my hand raised again at some point. Is it reaching out for him? “Are…you okay?”
“I am!”
His answer is immediate and way too cheery. The overly cocky, pleasant tone is a splinter in my skin. I hate it. I want to dig past it. “I don’t think you are. What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing.”
“Adrian,” I say, shocking myself by using his first name twice now.
Pink blooms in the hollows of his cheeks. Hughes is looking at me with wild eyes, round circles of pale topaz. “It’s nothing,” he rushes to answer. “Just, you know, about letting my team down. Failing anyone who needs me. Being selfish. Because Icanandhavebeen selfish. Even Oslo, I wish I was there but I don’t deserve it?—”
He halts.
Hughes rips off his helmet and threads shaky fingers through his damp hair. “W-Why does it have to be you?”
“M-Me?” I stammer back at him.
“This isn’t the first time it’s happened.”
I take my own helmet off. “What are you talking about?”
“How do you do it, Sonya?”
“Do what?”
“Get me to say things to you that I’ve never told anyone else.”
27
ADRIAN
(Six monthsago)
I’m slumped on a park bench in the middle of the city.
Tonight the Wings surrenderedfourgoals in the final seven minutes of the last period. We’ve been choking all season, but this game was by far the worst we’ve ever fucking played. A complete disaster and more fuel for news outlets to say the Wings have collapsed and are never going to bounce back to the powerhouse team they used to be.
When a group of teenagers walks by, I pull my baseball cap down further. I can’t be recognized right now. Mostly because I don’t exactly recognizemyselfat the moment.
Normally, I can shake off losses no matter what and go back to being the motivator my team needs me to be, rebuilding Wings morale with pep talks and persuasive strategy sessions. Getting them to believe in themselves again. To laugh. Come back stronger.
But tonight?
I can’t muster any kind of positive words. I’m tired and annoyed, and all the mistakes we made on the ice replay in my head, draining me further. From hitting the post withthe puck, to missing those three passes. And that fucking interference call…
Someone stops in front of my park bench. The one I’d told myself I’d sit on for ten minutes, but haven’t been able to leave for the last hour.
My body goes rigid with dread, because I can’t handle talking to a hockey fan in the mental state I’m in. They’ll want pictures or autographs or want to debate about the game, and I just can’t… I can’t handle it right now…
But it’s not a fan.
Wide combat pants tuck into lace up ankle boots. All dark lines and hard edges, right down to the flick of her smoky eyeliner. The shirt she’s wearing is long-sleeved and fitted, covering everything except two keyholes where brown skin peeks out near her clavicles. In her hands is a takeout bag.
“Gross, it’s you,” she says with no inflection in her voice.
I haven’t seen her in so long.
But normally the sight of her is instant warmth, carbonated bubbles floating inside me. Today? My muscles stiffen. “Sonya?”
