TYLER
The timing of this fucking EnduraFuel hockey weekend leaves much to be desired.
The first day is okay, but not stellar. There are drills and mini-games, and I come out in the upper tier—though not first, where I arguably should be. After the action wraps up, I meet my dad and we attend the afterparty where we mingle with league officials, meet the other guys, and woo brand sponsors. As nice as the professional paychecks are, the real money is in endorsements.
The second day, everything falls apart. Caleb Jones happens to also be in attendance, and he’s playing on our opposing team for the three-on-three game. It could not be more ironic to have the two of us literally facing off during a match. I’m in my head, and it shows during practice. Shot by shot slip by me, the vast majority of which shouldn’t.
Resetting my position between the posts, I draw in a breath and try again. The next drill isn’t any better. Nausea roils in my stomach throughout the practice, and near the end, I’m dangerously close to needing the garbage can to throw up in. This weekend is huge, and I’m fucking choking.
When it wraps up, Mark practically yanks me off the ice by my jersey for an emergency pep talk in my hotel room.
“What’s going on, Tyler?” He paces the floor in front of me, still dressed in his black training polo and gray slacks.
“I don’t know.” I rake a hand through my hair, still damp from the showers. The next game isn’t until later tonight, and there are more social events scheduled first. That’s why I need to get my shit together so I can go rub elbows and pretend everything is fine.
“This is about Brown, isn’t it?”
“I mean, yes?” Clasping my fingers together, I stretch out my shoulders, but it doesn’t help alleviate the tension all over my body. “I have some personal shit to deal with, too. It’s just not great timing for all of this.”
Since I got here, I’ve been kicking myself for brushing off Seraphina all week. It isn’t that I meant to; I’ve been so stressed out that I can’t focus on a single fucking thing. I spent all week running myself ragged and making everything worse in every imaginable way. It’s the definition of self-defeating. I should be able to juggle all of this, and I’m failing miserably.
Mark rolls his lips into a line, his expression sympathetic but stern. “It’s never great timing. You’ll have to get used to that. Hockey doesn’t wait for life, and life doesn’t wait for hockey.”
He launches into what’s meant to be an inspirational speech but somehow manages to be discouraging. It’s clear he concurs with my father about me needing a better balance between hockey and the rest of my life. They think that’s ultimately to blame for what’s happening right now.
In other words, this is still my fault.
Familiar anxiety sets in, and my adrenaline surges.
“Can I take five alone, Mark?”
He nods. “Take all the time you need.”
As soon as the door clicks shut behind him, I pick up my phone and call Seraphina. She answers on the third ring with a note of surprise to her voice, probably because I haven’t been great about texting.
“Hey,” she says. “How’s the showcase?”
“Not fucking good.” I catch myself. Part of me wants to open up to her about everything that’s going on, but another part of me is afraid I’ll work myself up even more by talking about it.
Why did I call her? Selfishly, it’s because I want her near. I need her here right now. The phone isn’t the same.
Fuck. I feel so needy—like I’m taking more than I can give her in return.
“I’m sorry, Hades. What happened?”
“Just a bit of a rough start, that’s all. I needed to hear your voice. How are you doing?”
There’s a pause. “I’m okay. Actually, I was hoping we could talk about something…” she trails off. “But if now isn’t a good time, I understand. I’d been planning to wait until you got home.”
“Gotta be honest with you, I’m not in a great headspace right now, and Mark is standing outside waiting for me. Can it wait?” I’ll be more use to her once I get home. Once this weekend is done with, my head won’t be spinning like it is right now. I just need to survive the next two days.
“Um, yeah. It can.”
When we end the call, I feel even worse than when I started.
The rest of the weekend is a grind. Not an abject failure like I feared, but hardly a success. I was mid at best. Caleb crushed it.
At my request several weeks ago, Mark booked an additional night in LA for me to stay with my family. It ends up being a waste. Too grouchy to visit, I snap at everyone throughout family dinner and put myself to bed earlier than most toddlers. Then I lie awake for several hours beating myself up mentally for all the things I should have done differently on the ice.
The next morning, my dad gives me another fatherly talk about how there’s more to life than hockey on his way to drop me off at LAX at the crack of dawn. Despondent, I watch his Lamborghini roar away from the curb. All I want is to be back home, not 3,000 miles across the country from Seraphina. Who, by the way, hasn’t so much as texted me since our call.
I navigate the airport like I’m sleepwalking. Check my luggage and my gear. Clear security. Hit Starbucks. Find the gate. Doomscroll on my phone. That last one is a huge mistake, because all the media coverage from this weekend talks about how mediocre my performance was.
When I board, I have an entire first-class row to myself, which is the sole silver lining to this otherwise shitty day. Across the aisle from me, the other row is occupied by a couple, and they’re all over each other. I overhear them telling the flight attendant they’re headed to Europe for their honeymoon. Seeing the way they are together reminds me of Seraphina all over again.
As we taxi the runway, I close my eyes and lean back in my seat, playing my favorite way to drive myself crazy: the game of What If. This is counterproductive at best, damaging at worst, and I do it all the time.
What if New York picks Caleb over me? What if they pick me over him? What if I get stuck down on the farm team forever? I go from best case to worst case and back again inside my head. In every hypothetical I run myself through, there’s a common denominator staring me right in the face.
Tink.
When I picture the rest of my life five years down the line, I can’t help but insert her in it. My brain does it automatically. She’s everywhere.
What if I make it to the league? Wake up next to Seraphina before hitting the arena for practice. Come home after and see her again if I’m lucky. Call it a night after a local game and come home to her, or Facetime her from the road.
What if I end up down on the farm team? Pretty much the same, only with a lot less money and fame. Seraphina’s still there.
The longer I play What If, the more one thing becomes painfully clear: I can live with it if my career doesn’t go where I want it to. But I can’t live with not having her.
It’s completely illogical considering we haven’t talked about a future. She’s not even my girlfriend, if we’re being strict about labels. Somewhere along the line, my mind realized that she’s it for me, and now it refuses to accept otherwise.
Then it hits me that a good portion of what’s been stressing me out has nothing to do with hockey at all. I’ve been committing some world-class projection. Because my worst fear isn’t what I thought it was.
It has nothing to do with hockey at all.
It’s losing her.
And like an asshole, I’ve been blowing her off all week for things that not only aren’t her fault, but they also have nothing to do with her. Fuck. What did she want to talk to me about on Saturday? I was too caught up in feeling sorry for myself, and I should’ve told Mark to wait. The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is apologize.
Over the intercom, the flight attendant announces we’ve reached cruising altitude. This means I can put down my tray and pull out my laptop to watch game tape, like I always do.
Instead, I scroll through my photos. I start with the first selfie she ever sent me when I was on the road. Then I keep swiping into the rest. Seraphina naked in my bed, the covers strategically hiding her body. A random mirror selfie I snagged of us brushing our teeth one morning. Another selfie she took of us kissing. A shot of her clutching a cup of coffee outside, her cheeks rosy from the cold. One of her pretending to bite my face the night we went out for dinner at Rouge. Even now, that one makes me laugh.
We look so fucking happy.
Scrolling back, I set the first photo she ever sent me as my wallpaper and lock my phone. Then I hit the side button to keep the backlight on, tracing every single line and detail of her face. Big brown eyes I could get lost in. Plump lips with a perfect Cupid’s bow at the top. A cute little nose that scrunches up when she laughs. She’s so fucking beautiful it hurts.
She’s even more beautiful beneath the surface. Quick-witted and smart. Silly and bold. Caring and patient, even when I don’t deserve it.
As I stare at the picture in my hand, everything clicks. It’s like putting on glasses and seeing things clearly for the first time.
I’m not just falling for her; I’m already there. Have been for a while.
I love her.
That final realization hits hardest of all, and it runs through my head on repeat for the rest of the flight.
