Page 98 of Crease Collision

“You guys are playing on Friday night,” I say. “Will you fly home after the game?”

He nods. “The schedule says we should land about two-thirty a.m.”

I’d like to see him, but we’ll have a better weekend if we don’t stay up all night. “Still want to hang out Saturday?”

“I’m living for that, baby.”

More tingling.

I ignore it. “When you get back, go home and sleep. Then text me when you wake up on Saturday.”

“Sounds perfect. I don’t want to be too worn out to do you any good.”

The tingling moves up my neck.

“Know what you want to do?” I ask.

“Spend time with you. Unless you have something else in mind, we could stay home all day. Then I’ll spend the night so I can give you a proper send-off on Sunday morning.”

“That sounds perfect. I’ll be able to feel you all the way to California.”

He closes his eyes and moans. “Won’t it be great when we can be together every day this summer?”

“The best,” I say. “We can run our own lives for a change.”

After we beat Tampa on Thursday night, I talk the boys into grabbing a drink. Bad idea. I’m so confused about Ozzy, how I feel versus what might happen, that I throw my usual limit of one beer out the window. Everyone else follows my lead, and when we show up at Friday morning’s skate, none of us are ourselves.

My head is a dull, throbbing drum, so the bright lights feel like a personal attack.

After warm-up drills, Coach Holmer stands at center ice with his arms crossed over his chest and a smile on his face. It’s the look of a man who wasn’t born yesterday.

“Let’s see if we can bring some of last night’s energy into a scrimmage,” he says. “White versus Teal.”

A loud groan echoes around the rink. Looking pale, Jace raises his hand. “Coach, could we do some flow drills? Our passing was a little weak last night.”

Holmer’s presses his lips together before saying, “Good observation, Castillo. Watch your passing while we play.”

Jace’s defeated expression should be funny, but it’s not. I feel too shitty to laugh.

Five minutes later, I’m in goal for Team White. Theo and McKay are two of my teammates, a disaster in the making. The way McKay’s moving, you’d think his skates are made of lead, and Theo looks like he got run over on his way in. Theo wins the faceoff and sends the puck to McKay.

McKay’s stick is there, but he’s misjudged the angle. The puck slides past his blade and right into Noah’s path. Unfortunately, Noah’s on Team Teal, and he’s already halfway to our net. Worse, he only drank water last night.

I drop into a butterfly and make the save. Easy, but getting up isn’t. My joints are stiff, and my core’s a little weak.

Nico, also on Team Teal, gets his stick on the puck and weaves through three of our guys. It works, which shows his skill and says a lot about how bad our defense is. He sends a perfect pass to Jace, who looks like he’s about to barf. He misses the puck and watches it go past.

Coach blows his whistle, which sounds as disappointed as he looks.

“What the fuck, Castillo?” he shouts, though he’s smiling. “Looked like you were swatting at a fly, not a puck. Do better.”

For the next ten minutes, we play more like a junior squad than an HFNA team. Passes go to empty spots on the ice, and pucks bounce off sticks like they’re covered in grease.

Jace picks Theo’s pocket so smoothly he never feels a thing. I’ve stopped every shot, but it’s wearing me out. Hell, I’d be missing half of them if everyone else wasn’t lagging too.

Then it happens: a turnover at our blue line. Jace gets the puck and rushes toward me, passing to Nico at the last minute. Nico one-times it hard. I slide left and throw up my glove, but I’m too slow. The puck hits the back of the net before I can grab it.

Fuck me. My head’s pounding, and my whole body aches. I just let in a goal during a scrimmage against my teammates, most of them more hungover than I am. This is shameful.