17. ARAN

CHAPTER 17

ARAN

I 'm so damn pissed, I'm about to lose my cool.

I don't even need to look up at the board to know we're losing miserably. An early goal put the Falcons of Northern State on the board. We tied it in second period, but I let in two more like a stinking sieve. And one of them was a weak wraparound I should've been able to stop with my eyes closed.

Worse, as if my wall crumbling caused an earthquake, the rest of the team has been a mess. Webber missed an easy pass. Amadi got sent to the sin bin for high sticking. And we're ending the second period in a PK that is testing me.

As I follow the play, I breathe in deep and try to calm my tits. Bodies scrimmage before me, and I bite harder onto the mouth guard. This game should've been a cakewalk. The Falcons are good but not as good as we are. We're the Frozen Four contenders, not them.

Even if I have to stop the puck with my face, I will.

I block a shot at my five-hole with my right knee. From the corner of my eye, Falcon number 4, a forward, approaches with the intent of picking up the garbage. I stack my pads. The guy crashes into me from the side, and I eat the net. Something digs into my side hard enough I feel it even through the pads. It tears a grunt out of me.

The weight comes off. As I sit up, Webber turns out to be the reason. "Get the hell off our goalie, asshole!"

"What goalie?" Falcon number 4 laughs and shoves Webber with enough force to down a tree. "All you have is a monkey that couldn't even catch a banana."

And then I lose it.

One second, I'm down and the next, my mitts are off and my fist connects with the dipshit's face. Then he's on his ass.

Bodies slam into mine, and I don't see. I don't reason. The shouting around me is a buzz. I struggle against hands, sticks, my own pads.

"Calm down!" someone yells in my ear. "Stay calm, man."

"Ref, number four said racist shit against our goalie!"

"Shouldn't that get him suspended?"

I shake my head. Hard. My mouth guard rattles against the cage of my mask. My knuckles are already bruising.

Someone jostles me, and I scope out the situation more clearly now. Bracken slashes one hand across the air as he talks with the ref and a linesman. The benches cleared, but thankfully this didn't turn into a fender bender.

Amadi gets in my grill. "You okay, man?"

"Yeah," I rasp out.

I pull up my mask without removing it all the way and spray water in my mouth and on my face. As if I have a built-in radar for her like I have for pucks, I spot Strawberry in one shot. Her hands are on her mouth as she watches me. Or the melee near my goal. I hate that this is the first game she's come to watch. And I hate that she came with that little sucker who was almost my tutor. Forgot his name the second he couldn't get mine right.

I tighten my jaw so hard I jam the mouth guard back in so I don't break the chiclets.

Because I'm the Bolts' captain, the ref delivers the verdict to me. A minor for me—that the Falcon captain has chosen Webber to serve in the bin, because of freaking course; take our best defenseman, why don't you—and a major and misconduct for Falcon number 4.

Doesn't matter. We're still on a PK.

The game devolves into dirtier play during the last seconds of the period. I manage to catch all the shots out of spite alone. But when the whistle blows and I join everyone filing off the ice, I can't even keep my head up.

"What the heck is wrong you bunch of toddlers?" Coach Green screams once we're in the locker room. "Especially you, captain!"

I toss my helmet on the floor and run my hands down my face. "I'm sorry. I know I'm screwing up the game."

Coach chokes a little. Silence takes over the locker room.

Saying that felt like a hand reached into my mouth and ripped out a lung or something. But it's true. My head hasn't been in the game from the beginning.

All it took was a turn around the ice before the game and seeing Strawberry sitting all cozy next to some guy. We haven't talked much since I taught her how to skate, outside of tutoring sessions. I didn't even know she was coming tonight. I'd have appreciated a heads-up. That way I wouldn't have kept glancing at her to see if her attention was on the game or on her date.

I'm a clown today, and I know it.

Before Coach or anyone else can say anything, I get up and wade across the room, past Assistant Coach Thomas and over to the bathroom. Stopping before the first shower stall, I turn the knob to the coldest setting and stick my head under the spray. My whole body locks under the assault. I stay put because this punishment is exactly what I need to clear my head.

"Dude," Archie says from behind me. "What's going on with you?"

I wish I knew.

No, I know why I've been dialed all the way up to an eight. And I have no right to feel that way. I pull away from the shower and turn it off. My heavy breathing echoes around the room.

"Talk to me, Rodriguez."

I shake my head, spraying water around like a dog.

"Is it serious, at least?" he asks, frustration evident in his voice. "Because if you're injured or something, I'll get Coach to pull you."

"No, you won't."

"Then say something, you knucklehead! This isn't like you at all. We're worried."

"I won't let it affect the third period."

He frowns. "So there is something."

Yeah, there is. And it's big. The size of this whole place. And it crept up on me when I didn't realize it. And I don't know what to do because this really isn't like me at all. I don't let anything interfere with games. Least of all girls. Especially not girls I'm not even dating. And yet…

Was Coach right when he banned me from dating for the rest of the season? Except, shit, I don't remember getting twisted into a pretzel over the Kelseys in my life. Was he wrong, and now his mandate has turned into a self-fulfilling prophecy?

Archie's expression shifts into worry. "You look ill. Maybe we should let Edwards in?—"

"Don't you dare." I take a step forward, looming over him. "I will finish the game. Make sure the guys score."

He hits my chest. "In case you haven't noticed, douchebag, we've been having your back all night."

I'm letting the team down. Some captain, huh?

I have enough shame to ease off. Just a smidge.

"Is this about what number 4 said?"

"No," I answer. "But I don't want to talk about it."

"Okay, great. So it isn't about the game. That means it could be about a million other things no one can possibly guess at." Archie pulls at his red hair. "One day you'll have a breakdown if you keep bottling shit up like this, Aran, and it won't just affect your game. I'm your best friend. You can talk to me."

"Maybe later." Maybe never. But I add, "Definitely not when we have a game to salvage."

He throws his hands in the air and walks away. Wish I could walk away from myself too.

I wipe my face with the sleeve of my jersey and join the rest of the team. Coach keeps laying down a play for the opening minutes, but when his eyes catch me, they promise murder.

I lower mine to the C on my chest I no longer deserve.

"Keep playing like this, and I'll be starting next game," Edwards says while we head back out after intermission.

"Shut up, man. Everyone has off days," Archie spits out at him.

Yeah, everyone does. But not me. That's why they call me "the Iceberg." I'm supposed to be an impenetrable, unmovable block of ice. Today, I'm lava. Just oozing all over the place and destroying everything in my path.

"Rodriguez." I immediately hold back for Coach to catch up to me. "Is everything okay at home?"

I do a double take. That wasn't what I expected at all.

"Yes, Coach."

"Then what the hell is your problem today?"

That's more like it.

"I'm focused now."

"Better late than never, I guess," he says, his words dripping with sarcasm. "I'm sure the scouts will completely forget how you allowed three goals and got into a fight in the first two periods."

I wince. "Scouts?"

He gives me a textbook sarcastic expression. "We're regionals contenders. What did you expect? Of course there are scouts watching. You more than anyone should be busting your ass out there to show them not drafting you will cost them."

"I—" But I clamp my mouth shut. I have nothing to say. No excuses. I've sucked, and I know it.

Turning my head back to him by my mask's grill, Coach says, "Tell me you're going to play like a brand-new man in the third period so I don't have to pull you in front of those scouts."

"I will, sir." I clench my jaw and my fists. "I won't let the team down."

"Good. Go out there and break their wings."

Brutal mental image, but it does the trick.

I skate back out to the same side I had during first period. I know I'm closer to her now, but I force myself to keep my eyes on the ice.

Even though number 4 gets checked so hard toward the end of the game that he gets taken away by the medics, even though I make a save during PK that gets the whole arena roaring, we still lose three to two.

I'm so angry at myself that I march into the locker room, change out of my skates and into boots, grab my shit, and head right out to my car, all smelly and wet like a rat. But I can't be around anyone right now. If Edwards so much as runs his stinking yap in front of me, I'll probably break his face and get suspended from school altogether.

Plugging in my phone, I find the angriest hard rock band I listen to and drive away. It's dark out, but the night is clear, not a snowflake in sight. On a Friday night like this, while every St. Cloud student hits the bars or whatever house party they can find, I drive as far away as I can. Away from Coach's disappointment, from Archie's eagerness to talk, from my teammates' exhaustion. Away from Strawberry.

The second I make it to my secret spot, I'll put in a request to cancel the rest of my tutoring sessions. I already know enough to not flunk my essays. I'll say hockey has me too busy and that they should assign someone else to her so she doesn't lose income. And yeah, she's my neighbor now, but not seeing her on purpose will help. It has to.

It better. I can't keep playing like tonight. Coach was right all along. My professional hockey career is on the line.

My heart slams against my rib cage as if I'm still in the middle of the game, even though I'm pulling down the back road that leads to my favorite spot by the lake. Here, it's pitch black, the only illumination coming from the stars in the sky. Normally, I relish in the dark and the quiet, but tonight I'm just determined to be abnormal, huh?

The music cuts off, and I flinch. I ignore the ringtone for a moment because 99 percent of the people who could be calling me right now have to know I'm in my worst mood.

But I glance at the screen on my dashboard. Turns out I'm getting called by the 1 percent.

Pulling over, I turn on my hazard lights and pick up.

"Hey, Aran."

"Why are you calling me?"

"Geez." I can practically hear her roll her eyes. "Is this how you should be greeting your favorite little sister?"

"Yes, because you never call me." It could be because tonight has been a fiasco already, but hearing Olivia's voice puts me on high alert. "Something's up."

It's not even a question. But she evades it.

"How was tonight's game?"

"Don't even try me, Olivia. I know you don't give a shit about hockey. What is happening?"

"Well…"

"You better start talking right this second."

"Fine." She clears her throat. "So, Brooke is taking me to the hospital."

" What ?"

"Deep breaths, big guy. It's just preventive care. I, uh, may have accidentally sipped from a peanut butter smoothie."

"You did freaking what accidentally ? I will murder that kid?—"

There's a little gasp, and then my sister's voice sounds annoyed. "Brooklyn didn't shove the straw in my mouth, you know."

"He should've been watching!"

"It's not his job!" Olivia takes a deep breath. "Anyway, come to the hospital, because I'll need an adult. But don't tell Mom and Dad."

"The hell I won't." I grit my teeth, turn off the hazard lights, and make a U-turn in the dark. "I'll take care of the paperwork. But then I'm taking you straight home to our parents, who will ground you until you graduate."

"But—"

"Brooklyn?" I bark.

The boy responds with "yes, sir?"

"You better make sure my sister gets to the hospital alive, because I don't give a shit if your father's rich. I will get you."

"Um, yes, sir."

I tap the screen to end the call. As I drive away from my spot, my insides turn icier and icier.