Page 7 of Puck Me Back to Life

I immediately continue. “Not because you stopped.”

That gets his attention. “Then why?”

Because this keeps happening.

Because I spend weeks being transparent.

Because I tell people exactly who I am.

Exactly what I enjoy.

Exactly what they're agreeing to.

And somehow, they still look surprised when I turn out to be exactly who I said I was.

I don't say any of that.

Instead, I shrug. “I thought we had potential.”

Riley smiles sadly. “Yeah. So did I.”

An hour later, he's gone. The house feels significantly larger without him. Like the walls expanded with relief when he left.

I clean up automatically. Fold blankets. Straighten furniture. Put things back where they belong. Control has always comforted me.

Everything has a place or a purpose. Unlike people. People are messy. They leave. They lie.

I learned that lesson young.

The shower runs hot enough to fog the bathroom mirror. I stand beneath the water longer than necessary. The fucking disappointment lingers.

Not because Riley left. No, Riley isn't special. He's nice and cute but not special. He didn't really excite me. I shouldn't have been surprised that he left when he did. I think I knew we weren't a match.

This has been a pattern lately. Guys are attracted to me all the time.

The size.

The confidence.

The hockey career.

Those things draw people in. Then they discover who I actually am and suddenly they're backing toward the exit. I've gotten used to it. Mostly.

The water beats against the back of my neck. I close my eyes, hoping the hot water eases the tension in my shoulders.

Maybe I'm the problem. The thought isn't exactly new.

Maybe I'm too fucked up to crave people in a normal way. I don't crave soft kisses and missionary sex. I want my partner to give up all fear for me. To trust me with every piece of them so I can mold them into something else.

Maybe that's too much to ask.

I've always been the problem. My father certainly thought so. The old man spent eighteen years making sure I understood that. I was too loud, or angry. I was a stallion that couldn't be tamed with tender love or care.

I turn off the shower before those memories can get any louder. Tomorrow is opening day.

I don't have the energy to unpack childhood trauma tonight.

My alarm goes off at 5:30, but I'm already awake. Years of hockey have conditioned my body into submission. No matter how late I stay up, practice still arrives on schedule.