31. BROOKLYN

CHAPTER 31

brOOKLYN

W e must've crushed the other team's spirits so badly last night, that tonight is an easy win. Almost embarrassing, even. A whopping seven goals to one they managed to score during a power play. Yet, it tastes funky. Liv wasn't at the game and something's clearly off with her. The last thing I want to do right now is celebrate.

"Tatum," Coach calls me from the door of the locker room.

This time, I drop everything and follow him out into the hallway. I'm in my socks and sans jersey, the pads still cinched tight around my elbows, chest, and shoulders. A mix of sweat and water drips down my face and I try to wipe it with my hand. "What's up, Coach?"

"I'm going to have to replace you as team captain."

"What?" I shout, my body stiffening like a plank. "What did I do wrong? The team's been playing well. Even the seniors have stopped talking smack."

"Nothing's wrong. Actually, I just have major news for you." He makes a dramatic pause I don't appreciate, and while my expression darkens, his slowly splits into a smile. "You're being called up to the pros, son."

The words the pros seem to echo around us. They keep bouncing against the walls and hitting my head with violence, and even then I don't process them. I can't reason at all.

What does react is my body. My stomach takes off like a cart being pulled at several times the force of gravity around rollercoaster loops.

In contrast, my heart plummets to the floor. And it keeps going until it disappears all the way down the center of the earth. The pro team is in a different state—shit, it's clear across the country on the west coast. That's as far as it can possibly get from Olivia without having to use a passport.

I stagger. Coach takes it as normal shock. He pats my shoulder—actually, my pads. "I know. It's a big deal. It's not everyday that college kids get called straight up to the pros without going through the farm team. Especially when it isn't even the playoffs."

My eyes close. I sat with Dane at O'Malley's just last week, watching the team that drafted me struggle. "They've had a lot of injuries this year," I say with a faraway voice.

"That's right." He expels a long breath. "It's going to suck for our team to lose you. Hell, it may cost us the season. But it's your chance, Tatum."

"Right." I swallow hard and shake my head. "Um, do I have a choice in this?"

Coach Green does a double take. "A what? What other alternative do you have?"

"Staying?"

He gives me a look like I'm shitting him. "Sure, you can choose to stay in your Division I team and maybe carry it to Frozen Four for two years in a row. Then you could either get dropped by your pro team, or go to the farm team. And then there, you certainly have the choice of working your ass off, or slacking off and getting dropped like Liam Richards."

"Whoa, what?" My head's reeling from the barrage of words coming out of Coach's pie hole, but especially that last part.

"So, sure. You have the choice of squandering away the opportunities that come to you. Be my guest."

I lift a shaky hand and run it through my wet hair. "I still want to think about it."

"Fine, but I do have to tell your father because you're still a minor."

"Okay." Before he leaves, I add. "And Coach? Can we please not tell the team yet? I don't want to cut their momentum."

He jams his hands in the pocket of his official sweats. "Fine by me. But you can only hide it as long as it takes for your pro team to make the announcement." He says this, one hundred percent sure that I'm moving up to the NHL, no ifs or buts.

I watch his retreating back for a moment, my lungs working even harder than if I was in the middle of a shift.

I don't know how I manage to take myself back to the locker room to keep getting undressed. Most of the guys have already hit the showers, except for a couple of seniors who give me nasty looks. They probably heard. Now the whole team's going to find out.

I lean back. How should I tell Liv?

Actually, the more important question is, how can I tell Liv I'm in love with her and also ask her to get into a long distance relationship with me?

A few minutes later, I use the cover of the shower spray to hide the fact I'm crying like a freaking baby. The guys would give me so much shit if they knew, but no one's paying attention to me. They're chatting about the goals we scored, the saves Jamie made, the sick deke Dane made in the third, the party they're going to crash from the engineering kids. I have to brace myself against the wall so I don't crumble.

Who knew that getting everything I've been working for could feel so crushing?

Unlike yesterday, I take so long to shower that Dane's already toweling off when he asks, "You okay, blondie?"

"Yep." I say in a snappy way. "I'm all good. You can go ahead of me."

"Okay…"

I basically turn into a prune. That's as long as it takes me to wait for everybody to leave. I plop on the bench, still wearing only a towel. My elbows fall to my knees and I lean forward to rub my face, my hair, and my face again. My heart must've returned from wherever the hell it went when Coach dropped the news, and now it thumps painfully in my chest.

After getting dressed, I drag my ass out of the locker room, my head still spinning around. I need to talk with someone, think about this aloud. Maybe I should hash this out with Dane and Jamie. That's what friends are for, right? But they're working up to the same goal of going pro, and I think that wouldn't make them objective enough.

"—Review the tape?" A familiar voice drifts closer, and I lift my head to find Coach Young and Assistant Coach McDonald walking into the facilities. I must've taken so long getting showered and dressed that the Strikes have already returned from their away game. We make eye contact and the two women tip their heads in acknowledgment before returning to their conversation.

I clear my throat and on impulse, I ask, "Coach Young, can I speak with you?"

The two women freeze.

I hoist the strap of my bag higher on my shoulder, waiting. This is abnormal. I've had to exchange words with Elaine Young maybe twice this entire semester, and one was to apologize when I almost ran into her in the hallway. But that makes her the perfect person for this. She knows squat about me and is fully objective. Plus, from what I hear she's more level headed than my coach.

"Uhh, sure. But don't you have your own coach?"

I clear my throat. "I… I need a woman's perspective."

Now that causes the two women to exchange amused looks, and her assistant coach ducks her face—probably thinking that I can't see the smile on her face. But I can. Because I'm sky-scraper tall compared to her.

"Never mind." I sigh. Moments like this is when I wish I had a mother I could talk to.

"No, no. It's all right. Follow me to my office."

Coach Young motions with her hand and I walk behind her past the Bolts and Strikes locker rooms, the storage room, the gym, and down to the corridor that leads to the staff offices. There, for the first time, I veer right toward the Strikes' staff offices, instead of left to the Bolts'. Sections are divided by clear glass panels, and if anyone sees me walking into Coach Young's office they'll have questions.

But I need help, so I take the seat across her desk and wait until she settles in her chair. "What can I do for you, Mr. Tatum?"

"Please, just Brooklyn. I don't want to sound like my dad." I mumble as I fiddle with the zipper tab of my hoodie. "Well, Coach Green just told me I'm getting called to the pros."

Her dark eyebrows rise. "Wow, congratulations. But why don't you look anywhere near as excited as you should?"

"Because there's this girl."

"Ah." She leans back and her chair squeaks. "That's definitely not something you could talk about with your coach."

"Right. He'd probably break a stick on my head if I tried."

"That would get him fired, but he'd probably blow your eardrums out until he loses his voice. "

I wince. "Yeah, so. The issue is that this girl… she's everything. We've been friends since we were literally five years old. And I've been gearing up to ask her out at the benefit."

"Hmm." She presses her lips.

"And now I probably shouldn't. But I still want to. Except I can't say no to this offer, and like—I can't take her with me. She still has three semesters to go." I take a deep breath and slouch forward. "What do I do?"

"Talk to her?"

We stare at each other in silence. My eyes narrow until one starts to twitch. "Sorry, what?"

"Talk to her." She shrugs. "You can't pretend like nothing's happening. Your team will put out an announcement with the call-up and she may find out that way if you don't say anything. That'd be much worse."

I scratch my head. "But what if it goes wrong? What if I lose her?"

"Why would you lose someone who sounds like a lifelong friend of yours because you're moving away?"

"I—well…"

I almost say because I lost her once, except I didn't really. Liv and I found our way to each other, and eventually we picked right where we left off. Just like putting on a beloved pair of jeans you thought you'd lost.

The only thing that's different this time is that I want her. But it'd be selfish to use that as a talking point to change her life and mold it to mine. Even if I chose to stay, if I tossed away my hockey career, I'd be using her as an excuse to alter the course of my life and Liv wouldn't want that, either. Even if she doesn't feel the same way for me, she'd never want me to give up.

So no matter what I do, I'm going to lose her. But I should face it head on, like Coach Young advises. It's better to stay Liv's friend forever, than to try to mess with that .

"Okay," I say, my voice barely a thread. "I'll tell her everything."

I'll tell Liv that I'm going to the pros and that I love her, but that I don't expect anything from her other than what we are. I can be honest with her—I have to—even if it destroys me.

"Good luck, kid."

Nodding, I pick my bag up and after murmuring my thanks, I step out of her office. A few staff members watch me go, questions on their faces, but I'm glad that no one intercepts me until I get to my car.

I swallow hard, blinking fast in the dark even though there's no point in holding back tears. There's no one here to see them. There won't be anyone after I leave and I'm all alone on the other side of the country.

My phone starts buzzing in my pants and I try to ignore it. When it doesn't stop, I pull it out to check who has the worst timing in history.

"Dad," I say in a garbled voice when I pick up.

"Your Coach just called me with the news." Shit. I bang on the steering wheel. Of freaking course this is when Dad decides to show up. "Congratulations, son. I'll get to work on the paperwork on Mon?—"

"I'm your son now?"

"Excuse me?"

"Now," I repeat in a flat voice. "When I'm moving to the opposite coast. That's when I'm your son."

"I—I'm not following."

Everything I've had bottled up for years and years finally spills out of my mouth. "You never called when I won a game. Or when I lost one. You forgot to call me on my birthday this year, by the way. But now I'm your son ." I put some ugly emphasis on those two words .

"Brooklyn, what are you talking about?" He sounds flabbergasted.

"You've ignored me for years. Why the hell do you care what I do now? Or am I finally successful enough for you to notice me?" I don't give a shit that I'm weeping at this point. I'm so mad and hurt and sad. I don't care about anything anymore.

He repeats my name and adds, "Come home. Let's talk about this."

"No, I don't want to talk with anyone right now. I want to be alone, just like I'm going to be starting in January."

I hang up and turn the device off before he can even think of calling me again. Not that he would. I'm used to being without him, or my mother. But I never got used to being without my best friend.

What the hell am I going to do now?