Page 26 of Cut Off
The arena goes quiet for a split second, then erupts in a mixture of cheers from Blizzard fans and groans from ours. I want to melt through the ice and disappear.
Coach whistles for a line change, jabbing his finger at me in a clear “get your ass off the ice” signal. I skate to the bench with my head down, cheeks burning.
“Don’t argue. Just sit,” Coach says.
So I do, watching the Trout try to claw back from a two-goal deficit. My shoulder throbs, and an equipment manager hands me an ice pack without meeting my eyes.
If Eli’s watching me, I’ve confirmed everything he already believed.
I force myself to focus on the game. It’s safer and definitely less painful than reflecting on Eli’s cold, assessing eyes.
My gaze drifts to the press box, and I wonder if Zoe’s watching this shitshow. She said she was coming to film some footage for her podcast. Just what I need—my spectacular failure broadcast to her growing subscriber base.
Zoe. Jesus. Another complication I don’t need but can’t seem to avoid.
And when she told me not to fall for her, I laughed like it was the most ridiculous idea in the world, when in reality, I’m terrified by how easily it could happen. How it’s maybe already happening.
Which is why I pushed her away. Because the last thing Eli needs is his father crushing on the woman who’s supposed to care for him. The woman who moved in yesterday. The woman who’ll see me fuck up on and off the ice, trying to figure out how to be a dad while my career circles the drain.
I’m such an ass.
When I finally get back on the ice for the third period, I’m wrecked—physically and mentally. I manage not to actively sabotage the team, but I’m playing at maybe forty percent capacity. Every hit sends fresh pain through my shoulder. Every missed opportunity is another nail in my professional coffin.
By some miracle, we keep it close. With a minute left, we’re only down by one goal. Brooks wins a face-off in the offensive zone, and for a brief, shining moment, I think we might pull off a miracle.
But time expires with the puck close to the Blizzards’ goal, but not in it. Final score: 3-2. Another loss for the Boise Trout.
I brace myself for Coach’s inevitable explosion as we file into the locker room. I expect screaming, threats, maybe even getting cut from the roster on the spot. It would be no less than I deserve.
But when Coach finally approaches me, his face isn’t contorted with rage. It’s calm. Too calm. And there’s pity in his eyes.
“Keep your damn head in the game,” he says. “My office, first thing tomorrow.”
That’s it. No yelling. No cursing. Just the quiet pronouncement of my professional execution.
“Yes, sir.” My voice sounds hollow.
He walks away, and I’m left sitting in my sweaty gear, feeling like I’m drowning on dry land.
“Rough night.” Brooks drops onto the bench beside me. It’s not a question.
“Yeah.”
“You get the hearing scheduled?”
“Yeah. Next Monday.”
“Good. We’ll all be there.” Brooks claps my good shoulder. “Don’t beat yourself up too much. You’ve got a lot going on.”
Understatement of the century.
I shower and change in record time, wincing as I work my injured shoulder into a dress shirt. The team doctor wants me to get it checked out tomorrow, but I already know what he’ll find—nothing broken, just strained from playing like shit.
On my way down the hall, I check my phone.
It’s still blowing up about my secret child: ESPN, the local hacks, even one of those gossip accounts that specializes inpro athletes. I’d throw the damn thing in the river, but I don’t have time to deal with setting up a new phone and number right now.
Three missed calls from Zoe, and a text from Ms. Hernandez, confirming Friday’s visit.
