She said it, the internet said it, the Hartland counselor said it when I went to ask about medicine. The doctor who actually prescribed the medicine said it. Hell, I even said it to Dorian.
But as much as I logically know it to be true, that it’s all in my genetics, my brain won’t stop telling me that I’m being ungrateful. Dad didn’t abandon me as a kid, he set me up for success. I didn’t have this life pushed on me, it’s just what I’m good at. I don’t hate hockey, I just don’t have the energy to like it.
Because I’m depressed.
I close my eyes and breathe slow and deep, tapping the bottle against my forehead.
Dammit.
TWENTY
As soon as Dorian makes it back to campus after Thanksgiving, he motions to my neck and says, “Hope you’ve got a story spun for that one.”
Jesus. It’s almost gone by now, how did he notice it? It’s bad enough I’m still getting messages in the group chat like:
Delilah: Hey hickey
I mean mickey
As soon as the lake freezes
we’re gonna play some pond hickey
I mean hockey
You in?
I literally hate my life.
“The boys already decided it was Nova,” I say.
“Right. Because you’d really do that to Barbie. Happy for you, though. And honestly impressed. I hear Cauler’s hella picky.”
I actually splutter at him.
Dorian just laughs. “Now that’s a textbook case of opposites attract, huh? Just be careful, dude. League finds out their top prospects are banging each other, shit’ll go down.”
My face is straight-up on fire. “Oh my god. Dorian. What the hell.”
“What’re the chances? They’d be all over it.”
“I started taking antidepressants,” I say just to change the subject, and we spend the rest of the morning cleaning our room and talking about medications and side effects and benefits. Honestly, we get so into it it’s like we’re bonding over talking about girls or something.
I pull the collar of my hoodie up over my mouth when I step into the tape room that afternoon. I don’t need the rest of the boys who went home for Thanksgiving noticing. My stomach does this weird little flip when I see Cauler. He usually sits up front with Zero. Today, he’s in the back where I always sit with Dorian and Barbie.
As soon as I sit down next to him, he hands over a stick of gum. I take it from him and glance over to watch him push his own into his mouth. He quirks an eyebrow at me.
This asshole.
As soon as the gum touches my tongue, it’s like I’m kissing him all over again. I glare at him. He did this on purpose.
Cauler just laughs as I sink lower in my seat and chew furiously.
Barbie sits on my other side, leg bouncing against mine. He’s texting Nova. Not that I’m being nosy or anything. He chews on his thumbnail as he reads her messages and takes his time typing up his own. Things must be getting serious. His leg keeps bouncing even when he puts his phone in his pocket. I wanna push his knee down to stop him, but Dorian presses his leg against him on the other side and that seems to help a little.
My stomach bottoms out when Coach starts the tape and I see the blue-and-gold jerseys of the Canisius Golden Griffins on the screen. Anxiety surges out of my chest all the way to my fingertips. I sink low in my chair and chew on the strings of my hoodie, squeezing myself tight around the middle. We lost this game, and I know I made my fair share of mistakes. Nothing like the Eagles game, but enough that I was grouchy the rest of the night. I hate watching any kind of tape, even from games we won. Dad recorded everything when I was growing up, from games to practice to shooting on a net in our driveway. Showed me the tape to walk me through every mistake I made until it was all I could focus on. I could put up five points in a game and still only remember the one turnover, the lost face-off in the defensive zone.
It’s not like he meant it to be like that. Right? He was just trying to teach me.
But I still don’t like watching tape.
Whenever my line shows up on the ice, I try to focus on Cauler and Zero, the blueliners, Colie, anyone but myself to keep Dad’s criticism out of my head. Being on the ice with Cauler is one thing. Being in the moment, everything happening so fast, mind working out my next steps. It doesn’t really give me a chance to fully appreciate Cauler’s skill. Watching it happen on a screen honestly scares me. Even with the puck across the ice, he’s always moving, always putting himself in the best possible position, always working. He’s a full-on two-hundred-foot player. Makes a way better center than I ever could. And when the puck’s on his stick, well … it’s obvious why he’s such a threat to my draft rank.
I lean forward and hold my breath when a clean saucer pass from Barbie at the outside hash marks in our zone hits my stick just outside the blue line. I redirect it to Cauler at the opposite blue line with a quick flick of my wrist, and Cauler carries it to the face-off dot before putting it top corner with a hard snapper to tie the game. The play is quick and exciting and enough to get a rise out of the boys even though we all know it doesn’t matter. Colie shakes Cauler from where he sits next to him on the other side, shouting, “Top cheddar! Oh, what a beaut!”
“I don’t know why you’re all so excited when you know how this ends,” Coach snaps, silencing everyone’s joy. “We can make all the pretty plays we want, but if we can’t follow them up with wins, what’s the point?”
The energy in the room deflates enough that no one even reacts when I whiff on a one-timer at the top of the left circle. I can see my mistake with startling clarity this time around. On the ice, I thought I had no time. My defender was stepping in, the goalie sliding through the crease, another guy closing in from behind. My lane was closing, and I thought taking time to line up the shot would’ve been a missed opportunity. But seeing it like this, I can see the defender down low stumble, catching himself on the goalie’s pads, tying them both up. I could’ve waited, deked at the last second to get out of the double, taken a better shot. I had plenty of time.
The worst part is I got over it faster than I have ever gotten over a mistake before. I know I suck at slap shots. I’ve come to terms with it.
And now it’s being shoved in my face.
I sink lower in my seat.
“This is a problem we’ve been having all season,” Coach says, pausing the tape. “We play too fast. There’s times when it works, sure. Like that play with Barboza, James, and Caulfield. But the times it doesn’t are catastrophic. We need to slow it down, think. We hit the blue line like a wall, all at once. Spread it out, take your time. We only got a few months to get our game settled. Our record’s on our side for now, but we keep making mistakes like this, it’s not gonna last. We need to play smarter.
“James,” Coach calls me out. I snap my eyes to him. “You’re better than that. You…”
I tune out the rest of his words and keep my chin tucked in the locker room as we lace up. I don’t hear anything else until I stand to follow my team out to the ice and Coach calls me aside. Cauler narrows his eyes at us as he passes. It almost looks like concern.
“I want you working on your slappers with Coach Stempniak,” Coach says.
My whole body tenses as I look up at them.
“I don’t ever take slapshots, Coach,” I say after a beat of silence. “That was a fluke.”
“It’s a skill you should have.”