Page 125 of Off Limits: The Firsts

I close my eyes for a second and breathe it in. It’s by far my favorite time in any arena, when the nineteen thousand or so seats are vacant, and it’s just me and the ice and a game I’m lucky to be gifted at.

Nothing can beat the roar of the crowd as you’re dancing down the ice, weaving between defenders while trying to control the puck, but there’s something about the silence that is more profound. Almost as if the silence reflects the magnitude of it all.

So how come I’m feeling that less and less?

How come most days, this gift feels more like a curse?

Why have I come to rely on these early morning sessions with just me and the puck and the silence of an absent crowd to attempt to keep my head in the game?

“What is it?” Maysen asks.

I shake my head and eye his beer. “That shit better be cleared out of your system before game time.”

Grunt. Smack. Thud.

“Relax, Captain. The game is over twelve hours away and I’ve got an IV set up at noon. You know, I feel like I’m coming down with something”—he fake coughs—“so I already set it up with the doc to give me more fluids to replenish—er, flush my system.”

“How are you even any good?” I joke, knowing full well, I’d never pull a stunt like that.

“It’s in my genes.”

“You wish it were in your jeans.” I roll my eyes.

“Jealous?” he asks, when we both know my stats run circles around his.

“Drink the fuck up,” I mutter.

Grunt. Smack. Thud.

“Mind telling me what the hell is up your ass, Maddox?” he asks again, his skates cutting across the ice the only other sound between us.

“I do mind and it’s nothing,” I grumble, refusing to look his way, but swipe his beer from his hand as he skates past and help myself to the rest of it without asking. As much as it tastes good, it also isn’t what I want.

It seems I don’t know what I want these days.

“Nothing?” His chuckle resonates.

“Yeah, nothing. Why?”

He moves his jaw from side to side as his eyes question me with things I don’t quite understand. “Just trying to figure out what’s going on with you.”

His words cause me to pause. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“We just thought—”

“We?” I bark the word out. “So that’s what this is? The team designated you to come play the shrink with me?”

“Not like you couldn’t use one,” he mutters under his breath.

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Now he has my full attention.

“It’s . . . we’re concerned.”

“About yourselves? About the team? About me? What exactly are you concerned about?” I demand, the stick in my hand and the pucks lined up waiting to be shot now forgotten.

“You’re playing dangerously. Over the past two years, you’ve become the man we look to for leadership—to lead us—and now in the past four months, you’re like a one-man show out there. While that’s great for your stats and the scoreboard, it fucking sucks for team morale. You’re not better than us”—he pauses and emits a laugh of contrition—“well, maybe a little . . .” He chuckles. “We’re on your side, Cap, and when you’re on the ice, your play suggests you don’t know we’re even there. Sure, we’re winning, but at what cost? So again, what’s your fucking deal?”

His words are like a slap to my face. A slap I’ve anticipated but that doesn’t lessen its sting. “Good to know my team thinks so highly of me.”