An arm falls across my shoulders, and Cauler kneels in front of me. “Terzo, you legend. You need the trainer?”
I shake my head. Bad idea. I’m about to puke all over Cauler’s knees and then he’ll never look at my ass again. I reach for his arm and let him help me up. He keeps his arm around my waist as the refs follow us to the benches.
“You looked like a Chihuahua taking on a mastiff,” Cauler says. “Like an angry little puppy. Adorable.”
I can’t hold back my grin, even if it hurts. It stays as I step off the ice and stagger down the tunnel toward the training room, slapping my hands against the hands of fans reaching down to me.
The adrenaline starts to fade as soon as I get to the trainer’s and she starts dabbing at the blood on my face, the cheering muffled by layers of concrete and distance.
I just benched myself. Because a guy was being an asshole to Cauler. Not even because he crosschecked me. Because of Cauler.
Cauler, my rival. Cauler, who I probably just handed the top pick.
* * *
I’VE GOT STITCHES above my eyebrow and a wicked bruise on my jaw, but neither of them hurts as much as my head after dealing with Coach’s close-proximity meltdown after the game. That man can yell.
I get a message from Nova once I’m back in my dorm.
Nova: That was almost sexy
Mickey: You saying you liked watching me get my ass beat?
Nova: Mickey
You’ve seen the fanfic i read
I can’t help but snort at that. Nova strictly reads hurt fic involving her favorite fictional guys. If there’s any hint of comfort in it, she’s not about it. Sometimes I worry about her.
I’m trying to figure out what to send back when the group chat with my sisters pops up.
Nicolette: Dude that was BAD. ASS.
I smile and lie back on my bed, holding the phone over my face.
Mickey: Wouldve been better if i won
Bailey: If you could’ve won your first fight ever against a
guy 20x your size you’re in the wrong sport
Madison: Wait what? Fight?
What did I miss?
Nicolette: Have you not checked twitter tonight?
Lil bro’s a brawler
Mickey: My face hurts
Delilah: don’t challenge guys a foot taller than you dumbass
Mickey: 11 inches at most.
Mikayla: An important distinction
Madison: Explains why dad’s complaining about you not answering your phone
Mickey: Oops phones dead
Bailey: You’re literally using it
Right now
Mickey: Oops no service
Bailey: Just call him
He’s probably worried
Mickey: Yeah about my draft stock
Bailey: You know it’s starting to get real old how you whine about him only caring about the draft
Seriously, I would throw myself in front of a Zamboni right now if it didn’t feel like I already got hit by one.
Mickey: What’s annoying is its true
Bailey: No it’s literally not
Mickey: Right.
Sure.
K.
Mikayla: HEY LET’S TALK BABY NAMES
Spence suggested Keith.
KEITH.
Can you imagine a newborn named Keith?
That’s the name of a grown man working in a cubicle
And don’t get me started on his girl names
I WANT GENDER NEUTRAL
I let my phone fall to the floor next to my bed. I don’t know why Bailey always feels the need to defend Dad’s honor like that. She makes me out to be the bad guy in that relationship and I don’t get it.
Maybe because he defended her and Sid and Karim?
Maybe because she’s right.
Deep down, I know she is. But I’m not ready to let go of seven years of abandonment issues.
I heave a sigh and reach above me for my planner. Yes, an actual real planner where I write in my homework and due dates. I gotta do something to salvage my midterm grade. I’ve got readings to do for biology and college writing, and a journal entry to write for Italian.
My phone vibrates on the floor.
I roll off my bed and toss the planner aside, sit down at my desk and open my laptop. But I don’t log into my Hartland account and I don’t start any readings. Instead, I go to Twitter to read what random strangers have to say about me.
I’m expecting to see things about how I finally showed some team spirit in the form of violent rage and how that’s a liability and how maybe I need help off the ice for starters. How I pick fights I have no chance of winning.
But the first thing I see is a tweet saying, Mickey James III could be named John Doe and he’d still be a #1 pick. He could be 4’11” and still be a #1 pick. It links to an article talking about why my height shouldn’t scare teams away.
My phone keeps going off.
Another tweet says that getting in that fight was exactly what I needed to solidify my hold on the number one spot.
There’s hundreds of people talking about how guys will know I won’t take their shit now, even if I didn’t win. I could’ve scored six goals in that game and getting beat in a fight still would’ve been the most badass thing I’ve ever done.
I poke at the bruise on my jaw and barely feel it. I’m imagining all this, right? I got a concussion and now my brain is seeing what it wants to see. There’s even more of it when I refresh the page.
I smile. Small and painful, but still, a smile.
Someone pounds on my floor from below and I almost fall out of my chair, heart jumping into my throat. A girl’s muffled yelling tells me to answer my goddamn phone. I practically tiptoe over to it so I don’t bother her even more and go to mute the group chat. And yeah, there’s dozens of messages from my sisters. But also five from Cauler.
Jaysen: People are saying you clinched your draft spot today Don’t get too comfortable Terzo
Still got 7 months to battle it out All i gotta do is get a gordie howe hat trick tomorrow and it’s back on Kinda jealous of clarkson though
I fall onto my bed and send back:
Mickey: He wasn’t too happy about it so it’s not
as great as it seemed apparently
Jaysen: I’m more jealous of the way it ended
I squint at my phone. I don’t get it. It ended with him kicking my ass. Isn’t that what we were already talking about?
Mickey: You’ve had plenty of chances
He reads it immediately, like he hadn’t even closed out of the chat, and starts typing. I can feel my heart beating hard, watching those three dots. It’s weird. Like when I had a girlfriend for five seconds junior year, the nerves I’d get waiting for her to text me.
We’re talking about fighting each other, but he messaged me first. It feels nice.
I am literally a disaster bisexual.
The dots disappear, but no message comes through. He starts typing again before my heart has a chance to drop, then stops before I can get my hopes back up. He does it two more times before I lock the screen and hold my phone to my chest, staring up at the ceiling. When it finally vibrates, I grit my teeth and force myself not to open it right away. I don’t want him to think I was sitting here waiting for his response.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath.
Self-control. Don’t open it. Don’t be suspiciously eager to read his messages. Repress all emotions.
I can’t. I don’t even last a minute.
Jaysen: You wouldn’t say that if we were on the same page here.
My thumbs hover over the screen, but I don’t type anything. Not yet.
He liked seeing me get led off the ice for the rest of the game? Seeing me get suspended, knowing he’s got an entire game tomorrow where he can show off and people can’t credit me for his success?
But that wouldn’t make him jealous of Clarkson. Maybe it was the way he laid me out on the ice like I was the most pathetic thing he’d ever come in contact with.
Maybe it was just the way he laid me out on the ice.
Oh.
My hands shake as I type.
Mickey: I think we might be
Jaysen: Prove it
I tap my phone against my forehead. Am I really gonna do this right now? It could ruin everything.
But I deserve a life outside of hockey, right? Not even just deserve—I need a life outside hockey.
I take a deep breath and force it out through my teeth.
Mickey: Meet me at the rink
* * *