“Fuck!” My body flails in bed as reality yanks me from my nightmare.
I’m burning up. Sweat drenches me head to toe, soaking into the sheets beneath me. My ragged breaths are fast, mirroring the beats of my heart. I push my hand through my damp hair, pushing the saturated curls off of my forehead.
I’m sick of these nightmares, the same ones that have haunted me my whole life, but more so when the anniversary of my mom’s death approaches. If my dad wasn’t already rotting away in prison, I would return the favor of what he did to my mom.
When I was younger, after practice one day, the boys and I had decided to grab a bite to eat. The longer I could stay out of my house, the better. The inevitable would always come— my dad’s so-called punishments—as it did almost every time I went home after practice or a game. I took his lashings as I always did so that my mom wouldn’t have to. If he got all of his anger out on me, there would be none left for her.
She was never supposed to be the one who died from his wrath.
But I was at dinner with my team later than I should have been, and she was the one who paid for it.
When I had gotten inside, I felt it all around me. The wrongness in the air. I knew instantly that something was wrong. I began searching the house, and I found my parents in their bedroom upstairs. He was on top of her, pinning her to the ground with his hands around her neck.
When he saw me, he fucking smiled. I punched him, kicked him, jabbed at his eyes. I tried to hurt him in any way I could.
It distracted him enough to at least give her a few moments to catch her breath. He started punching me in my stomach, ribs, and sides. I thought I could take it, that if I could hang on a bit more, he would get tired, and then I might get the upper hand.
But when he kicked my leg inward, right below my knee, it snapped so easily under his strength. And I couldn’t stand anymore. I couldn’t get to him to stop him. No matter how hard I screamed, no matter how much I tried to get up, I couldn’t save her.
I’d failed her.
When I was twelve, my dad murdered my mom in front of me.
I wish it had been me that night instead of her.
Glancing at my phone, I’m thankful I at least woke up at a decent hour—seven fifteen a.m. I don’t have to be at the rink until about ten a.m.
My eyes immediately scan the message from Brett that he sent four minutes ago.
Brett: You up yet? I want to run to the mall before practice. That little one by the rink.
If I don’t go, I would probably just sit here on social media for the next hour.
Me: Just woke up. I’ll be out in a few.
A second later, his response comes through.
Brett: Cool.
Locking my phone, I throw it next to me on my solid black comforter and head for my bathroom, itching to be under the water and clean the sweat off my skin. Sweat usually doesn’t bother me a whole lot; however, waking up in sweat from my nightmares feels an awful lot different from when I sweat at practice because I’m exhausted on the ice.
This feels heavy, dirty. I turn the water on as hot as it’ll go and pull the valve to start the shower. I kick my boxers off and step into the scalding water.
A sigh much louder than intended slips past my lips. I’m sick of dealing with this every fucking night. My shoulders and neck can’t get any stiffer. I want to be able to close my eyes at night, just relax, and get a good night’s sleep. But I haven’t had one in years.
I lather my sponge with soap that has hints of green apple, amber, and musk. As I run the sponge over every inch on my body, my heart begins to calm, and my breathing slows back to normal.
Shutting the water off, I shake my head, trying to get most of the water out before I step out of the shower.
I wrap a soft white towel around my waist, catching right below my hip bones, and walk to my closet. I snatch a pair of SAXX boxers, black joggers, my go-to Nighthawks hoodie, and socks. I slip on the boxers and joggers. Then, I slide my arms through my black-and-white Nighthawks hoodie and shiver as my body cools off after the shower.
My phone dings, and I shake my comforter until it falls out.
Brett: Hurry up, dude.
I slip my phone in my pocket and rush to finish getting myself and everything ready.
Popping the cap on my deodorant, I swipe some on quickly before grabbing my practice bag, putting on my tennis shoes, and heading to the living room.
As I open my bedroom door, he greets me, “What’s up? You ready?”
“Yeah,” I say, feeling numb from the overexertion of emotion from my nightmares.
“You ready for tomorrow?” He smiles as we walk out of our front door.
Competitiveness floods my body when I think about tomorrow night’s game. “We are going to win, no doubt at all.”
Tomorrow, we are traveling to Minneapolis, Minnesota, to play the Mystics. They beat us last season. But that was a crazy time for Kos. He had just found Laura again and discovered he had a son. It wasn’t only his fault that we lost. But it hurt us a lot that his head was out of the game. So, this time, we aren’t getting off that ice without a win.
I smile with the energy of tomorrow already dancing across my skin. Hockey is the only place where I feel right, like me.
“I feel good. I bet Kos is fucking thrilled to be going back,” he says.
“That’s for sure. He’s out for revenge.”
After a quick stop into Dick’s Sporting Goods for a new pair of joggers for Brett, we head to practice, which goes by faster than I would like.
Coach calls us in, and we hustle over to him for his end-of-practice speech.
“Our plane is leaving at eight o’clock. All of your asses had better be in your seats by seven forty, or when we get back, I will make you skate suicides until you puke. Am I clear?” he asks.
“Yes, sir,” we answer collectively.
“Get out of here. Tomorrow, we will whoop the Mystics’ ass.”
“Kos,” I call out so he knows I’m free to take the puck as we fly down the ice.
No defenders are between us and the goalie as Kos, Brett, and I skate into our zone. Brett and I swing wide as Kos brings the puck down the center. Brett drives toward the goal, and Kos passes the puck to me. As Brett wraps around the goal, Kos slaps his stick on the ice on the opposite side of the net as Brett.
I can see the play before it happens. As Brett crosses the threshold of the side of the net, Kos confuses the goalie, calling for the puck. The goalie favors Kos’s side, and I slap the puck into Brett’s stick. At lightning speed, he wraps it right around the corner of the pole and right into the net.
The buzzer sounds, and the arena erupts in cheers as we tie the game one to one. We fly into Brett, chanting words of praise and happiness. The energy is contagious.
It’s the third period with fifty-two seconds left as we skate up to the center for the next face-off. We need to score now and hold them until the final buzzer.
Kos faces off with their center, and the puck is kicked out in the madness, right into Reed’s stick. Everyone falls into place as he passes the puck to Kos, and he again races toward our zone. As Kos passes it to Brett, it’s intercepted by one of the Mystics, and we immediately go on defense. Their player passes it to one of their wings right outside of our zone.
The crowd shouts, “Twenty seconds!”
Their wing pulls back and slaps the puck hard. But instead of the puck flying, the blade slides across the ice, snapping off of his stick.
Brett takes off for the puck as the Mystics’ wing flies to their bench to change out. I trail him and spot a Mystic charging Brett. I dig into the ice with everything I have. I need to get to this player before he gets to Brett.
Almost there. Almost there.
I plow into the Mystics’ player and knock him on the ice right as Brett grabs the puck and takes off to the goal.
He dribbles, pulls back, and fires. The puck slams into the net, and the shouting and cheering from the crowd is deafening. The buzzer fills the speakers, and the time runs out. We all race toward Brett and then to our goalie, Matt. We can never win a game without him, so we always celebrate with him the second it’s over.
“Woo!” we all scream and chant as we jump into each other.
This is the feeling I chase every time I hit the ice. This is the only feeling that is good in my life. Pure, absolute joy.
After the game, we all head into the locker room to shower and change. Walking out, I pull my phone out and ignore all of the social media notifications. Sometimes, I wish I had someone to call after the game to talk about it with.
My thumb seems to find her number with ease. The pink-haired Little Dove that has crossed my mind daily since we met. I could call and see what she’s up to, how she’s been. But I’m interrupted.
“Cam, wait up,” Kos hollers to me as I walk out of the arena with a smile on my face.
I lock my phone and slip it into the pocket of my Nighthawks hoodie. I turn on my heel and wait for him to catch up as the crowd parts around us. The Minnesota fans don’t seem to want an autograph from us tonight.
As he reaches me and we fall into step together, he says, “Hey, I know it’s super last minute, but I thought you might want to join Laura, Jack, and me. We’re driving up to Duluth to visit her mom and fly back afterward. Do you want to come with us? I thought you might enjoy the change of pace on our day off.”
I had plans, important ones. Get on the plane tonight, go home, and try to sleep. But I suppose I can make a change for ol’ Kos. “Well, now, I have to call and cancel the party I was going to throw tonight. But, yeah, I’m in.”
He scoffs, “Shut the fuck up. I know damn well you avoid the masses after games unless it’s going to End Zone with us. You definitely aren’t planning a party. If you were, Reed would have been advertising that anywhere and everywhere, and Charlotte would have told Laura. And I haven’t heard a word from anyone.”
A smile tugs at my lips. “Well, I guess I have no excuse then.”
“You’re in? We’re leaving right now. Laura got the rental car before the game,” Kos says.
I nod. “Yeah, let’s go.”
