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His frown deepens. “I’m good, Mom. Don’t worry about me.”
I tug a skate on my left foot and start lacing it up. “You’ve been hitting the sauce pretty hard lately. What’s up with you?”
He scoffs. “I figured you didn’t care what I did as long as I stayed away from your sister.”
It’s no secret that I’ve never been Sam’s biggest fan. He can be an arrogant asshole at the best of times. Our tenuous friendship took even more of a hit when he hurt Oakley. But regardless of his history with my sister, we were teammates in high school and then again this year in college. And I can tell he’s struggling even if he won’t admit it. I don’t like watching anyone struggle. Even someone that I have a strained relationship with.
“Look …” I try again. “If something is wrong, you can always talk to me.”
He glares at me. “Nothing’s wrong, Burnham. I know everyone around here thinks you walk on water, but I don’t need your help. Hell, you’re not even my captain anymore. And even if you were, you’d be the last person I talked to.”
I nod once while lacing up my other skate. “Fair enough.” I stand, the skates adding another few inches to my six foot three inch height. “Take care of yourself, man.”
He tugs Beats headphones over his ears and leaves without another word. Sam can deny it all he wants, but he’s spiraling. We all see it.
I walk down the hallway and stow a puck and my stick on the side before I step onto the ice. The blades slice through the frozen surface as I glide around the rink to warm up my muscles. My speed creates a breeze that ruffles through my thick locks. And I can feel all the tension inside my body melt away as my mind clears. This place is where I feel the most at home. It’s where I feel the surest of myself. No matter what is going on in my life, when I’m here, it all fades away.
I don’t know how long I’m on the ice when I hear another pair of skates gliding onto the ice. When I turn, I see Chase approaching me.
“What are you doing here?” he asks.
I turn until I’m skating backward. “Just needed to clear my head.”
He shoots by me and keeps going. “Want to talk about it?”
“Now, when have I ever wanted to talk about it?”
His laughter follows him to the other end of the rink while I wonder if I’m more transparent than I realized.
“Why are you here?” I volley the question back to him.
“I like the ice when it’s quiet,” he answers and then pauses as he makes a quick lap to the other side. “I thought you’d still be riding high from the Hawks announcement.”
“I am,” I say.
“But?” he asks, a silent question mark at the end of that one word.
“But nothing,” I say after a moment.
I don’t want to vocalize my fears about going to the next level, not even to Chase. He’d understand in a way others wouldn’t, but saying it out loud would make it seem like a bigger problem than it is. Especially since I was lucky to be called up at all. Most of my teammates would kill to be in my position.
“Since you’re here … let’s play,” I suggest instead.
He nods in agreement, and we gather our sticks and a few pucks before facing off. Before I know it, we’re locked in a one-on-one match, like when we were kids. I juke my friend a few times, and he checks me into the wall once or twice. I score on him, and he returns the favor. Both of us are competitive bastards, but I find myself enjoying the impromptu pickup game in a way I haven’t relished the sport in a while. My life has been consumed with practices and games for years. I’ve been chasing the dream for so long, the chance to get to the next level, that somewhere along the way, I forgot why I’d started playing in the first place. But today, I remember why.
Chase and I spend the next two hours playing like we used to—for the fun of it. We don’t go easy on each other, but then we never have. I beat him by a goal, but he made me earn it. By the time we’re finished, I’m tired and happy.
“We should do that more often,” I say when we’re sitting side by side on the bench. I squirt water into my mouth from a bottle and then drench my already-sweaty head with the liquid. “I forgot what it’s like to just play for fun.”
“This place is empty every Sunday,” Chase reminds me, running a hand through his sweaty brow. “Coach wouldn’t care if we met up here to play. But you won’t be around much longer.”
I nod absently, glancing around the empty arena, where I spent the last three years competing. “It’s weird that it’s all coming to an end.”
“Or it’s just beginning. Depends on how you look at it. Are you going to take your finals?” he asks.
I look over at him. “Why wouldn’t I?”
He shrugs. “It’s not like it matters at this point. I’d have a hard time caring if I was headed to Chicago at the end of the summer and classes no longer counted.”
