Chapter 14

14

Joey

Carmichael dislocated his shoulder, a story about his father abusing him went viral, and we’ve been hounded by reporters for days now. Mom has texted me no less than eight times to tell me what a piece of shit Matt is and how it’s my fault because I’m selfish and went away to go to college instead of working a dead-end job the rest of my life and taking care of her child.

Saying I’m on edge is like saying the sky is blue. Fucking duh. At twenty-five, I shouldn’t be responsible for my brother who is also a legal adult. I shouldn’t have to flinch every time my phone pings because I know it’s someone wanting something from me. So I put it on silent and only have Coach, Char, and a few players as my emergency contacts that my phone will make noise for. I can’t handle anything else. Even with only a handful of messages, I’m damn near pushed into a panic attack when it goes off.

The urge to call Nick, to have him meet me somewhere, is so strong it physically hurts not to, but I can’t. I can’t keep using him. It’s not fair. What I said to him last time I talked to him was true, I don’t have the time or mental capacity for anything else. I’m barely keeping the balls in the air that I’m already juggling, and if I add any more, I’ll drop them all. Getting laid isn’t worth it.

It’s more than just getting laid and you know it.

The heartbroken look on Nick’s face still flickers in my mind and causes my chest to ache. I wish more than anything that I could give myself to him and know I would be there for him. But I can’t take on any more.

I feel like I’m in sinking sand, holding weighted plates that push me down farther. I barely have my head above the sand, one more push and I’ll be lost forever. My house of cards will fall and I’ll be left scrambling to collect them all before I lose them.

At our next practice, I’ve got my gear on and head out to the ice before everyone else. I need a few minutes to clear my head. Some guys run, some lift weights, some drink themselves stupid. I skate until I puke. The sound of my blades on the ice and the bite of the cold on my skin centers me. I skate around the rink, letting the familiarity take over and the muscle memory move me while my body warms up.

The smell of the ice centers me as I push myself to go faster, turning and twisting, and coming to a sharp stop before taking off again. I run through skating drills one after another, mindlessly, like a routine, until I’m sweaty and panting. Skating to the bench where I left my water bottle, I suck down a mouthful and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand as the team files out onto the ice.

“Warm up, let’s go,” I call to the boys who are just standing around on the ice, chitchatting like this is social hour. They start moving, skating along the edge of the rink in a big oval to get their muscles warmed up. Oiler rides his hockey stick and Albrooke shoves Johnson, setting off in some kind of race.

Carmichael steps into the bench box with a stern frown on his face, and I sigh. He’s going to be even worse now that he can’t be on the ice. No one can control him and he can’t seem to keep his mouth shut, so we all have the joy of hearing him berate everyone.

He flicks his gaze over me, taking in the sweat on my skin, and nods subtly. “At least someone on this team puts in effort.”

I turn my back to him, not wanting to get into a fight with him this early in practice. Putting my water bottle down, I join the guys on the ice. It doesn’t matter that I’m already warmed up, I’m not above them. Albrooke and Oiler are fucking around, racing each other now and laughing. Usually, I find their antics amusing and can laugh along with them, but not today. Today the unread texts on my phone and the weight my mother refuses to remove from my shoulders is heavy.

There’s a pain in my chest that I rub at while we line up to start suicides. With the team split in half, each of us on blue lines, Coach chirps his whistle and my line races for the center line, comes to a hard stop, and hustles back while the other line rushes for us. Over and over the whistle blows and we move. Most players hate these but there’s something about them that I like.

Maybe it’s because there’s no time to think about anything else. My muscles scream, sweat pours from my skin, and my lungs are begging for a break, but we keep going. When Coach finally blows the whistle to stop, we all collapse on the ice, gasping for air.

“Walk it off before your muscles seize,” Carmichael bites out, and I lift my hand to flip him off. A couple of the guys chuckle and I smile to myself.

But unfortunately, he’s right, so I force myself up.

“Come on, guys, on your feet.”

Coach blows the whistle again and they groan and grumble about having to move but they get up, grab a drink, and move on to the next thing. We’re still adjusting to the change in defense lines since Carmichael is out and we’ve only had a few practices.

On our next water break, Bryce slaps my shoulder. “You all right, man? You seem off.”

He’s a perceptive little shit and since he’s my roommate, he probably knows me better than anyone else.

“Yeah, just busy in my head today.” That was more honest than I meant to be, but oh well. Too late to take it back now.

“You wanna talk about it, after practice?” He chugs water and I shake my head. There’s nothing anyone can do and talking about it just makes me feel worse for burdening them.

“Nah, I’m all right. Thanks, though.”

We get back out onto the ice and Coach breaks us into groups. One defense versus two offense. I’m up first to protect the net, and the goal is for the offense to pass then shoot.

Albrooke and Oiler are up first and I miss the puck.

Riggs and Willis are next and I miss it again.

I’m frustrated at myself and gritting my teeth. I’m not a goalie, but seriously?

Johnson and Bryce come at me and I finally stop it, but I slap at the puck and end up sending it flying into the bench box. Oops.

After practice, we get showered and changed. Some of the guys have night classes, some have plans, but I head straight back to my room.

Waiting for the elevator, I overhear a voice I recognize.

Turning far enough to see Nick’s roommate laughing with a group of guys, my back stiffens. Will he recognize me? Say something?

I’m embarrassed by the possibility. I hate myself for it. For the weakness.

Heat flares up my neck and I grit my teeth. I can’t afford to get in trouble for fighting if he comes for me. Not this close to graduation.

The doors to the elevator open and I step on, jamming my finger at the fifth-floor button and hoping they don’t get on too.

I’m not that lucky. The group gets on and I’m forced back into the corner, listening to them discuss blowjobs and who would be better at giving, men or women. No one sounds disgusted but actually curious…

As the doors are closing, Nick slides in too. His eyes meet mine and his roommate slaps him on the back.

Nick looks around the group of guys and gets a knowing smirk on his lips.

“What are we talking about, guys? Sounded like a fun conversation.” He looks from one guy to the next, but they don’t say anything. Are these more football players? Are they embarrassed to ask because at least Neal knows Nick likes men?

“Who gives better BJs, men or women?” I repeat the question.

Nick’s smile widens. “Oh, interesting question. It really depends on the human sucking the dick. There aren’t many women who love cum and, let’s be honest, enthusiasm is what can make or break a blowie. Girls who are open to all kinds of things usually give great head, but men are just that much more comfortable, typically. If you like a rougher touch, men are my vote.”

The elevator is so quiet you could hear a pin drop as they stare at Nick, but it looks like Neal is trying to stifle a laugh. I can’t help but snort at the self-satisfied smile he has on his face. The doors open on the third floor and the group steps off, Neal finally letting his laugh out and dropping his head back on his shoulders.

Nick catches my gaze again and my smile falls. I want to reach for him, press my forehead to his, and wrap my arms around him, but I can’t be what he needs. I can barely deal with my life as it is and it’s not fair to drag him into my bullshit.

He steps off the elevator and the doors close with a finality I can feel in my bones. Tears burn the backs of my eyes and when the doors open again on my floor, I beeline for my room and drop onto my bed. Shoving my head under my pillow, I let the tears fall.

The need to be held, to be weak for just a few minutes, seeps onto my sheets, but there’s no one here to tell me it’s okay.