Page 2 of Taking Sides

Every second on the bench feels like an eternity. This can’t be how we go out this season. It just can’t.

When I finally get back out on the ice, I can feel the defeat of my teammates. It’s cloaked in panic that has us rushing shots and making risky passes. Houston doesn’t let up. If anything, they’re stronger without Aven. I inadvertently gave them the upper hand by letting that prick bait me.

On the next possession, Houston scores, and there’s a collective groan. With less than a minute left, there’s no way we’re coming back from a three-goal deficit.

As I take a seat on the bench, my teammates pat my back and helmet, but I can still hear Victor’s stupid voice in my head. “Ticktock, Shepard.”

ONE

I see it in her expression the exact second she loses interest in me.

Her eyes dart around the room as she takes a sip from her cup like she’s either searching for someone to save her or making an exit plan. I might be doing the same if we weren’t currently sitting in my living room.

To be fair to her, she’s been trying to engage me in conversation for fifteen minutes, and I haven’t managed much more than a few words in response.

“So you’re a hockey player?” She knows I am, but she still phrases it like a question. She’s working her ass off to make this less awkward, and it only makes me stress more.

“Yeah.” I dip my head in a nod and resist running my sweaty palms over my thighs.

“That’s cool,” she says, sounding like she means it. “I grew up in Seattle. Both my brothers played.”

It’s an opening. One of many she’s given me. I know what I should do.

Ask her more about her family.

Tell her I like her shoes.

Talk about hockey.

Talk about anything.

Instead, all I manage is to offer her a wobbly smile. My throat is tight, and my pulse is pounding loudly in my ears. A dozen scenarios run through my mind. All of them end with my voice cracking and her laughing at me.

Then I’m transported back in time, standing in the lunchroom and asking Kara Barton to the seventh-grade dance. Her dark brown hair is long and shiny and she’s wearing a white-and-blue headband that perfectly matches her cheerleading uniform. She’s the most popular girl in school.

We have Spanish class together fifth period. I’ve been helping her conjugate verbs and sound out words all semester. Usually, she’s friendly and smiley when we talk, but right now, she looks at me like we’ve never spoken before.

I fumble through the question and then silence falls over the table. Her friends openly gawk at me. I’m the shortest guy in our class and still carrying baby weight—or at least that’s what my mom calls it. Not to mention sporting a mouthful of braces that haven’t yet fixed my overbite and acne that seems immune to every face wash and prescription I’ve tried.

Before Kara can answer, her friends start laughing. Mean, loud cackles that make my face flush and my legs shaky. Still, I wait for her response.

When it comes, it guts me. Mostly because I’m not prepared for it. Sure, I knew she might say no, but it never occurred to me that she’d be mean. I thought we were friends.

Kara looks me straight in the eyes and snarls, “Gross. Get lost, volcano face.”

Her friends erupt even louder now, and a few try out the nickname.

“Yeah, volcano face. Get lost.”

“ Oh my god, volcano face. It’s perfect.”

The nickname stuck all through middle school.

I’m not thirteen anymore. My face is clear. My teeth are fixed. I leaned out and grew well above average height. No one would recognize me.

It’s irrational to keep reliving that experience, but every time I get in a conversation with a woman, and it stalls out . . . I can’t seem to stop myself from going back there.

I blink out of the memories, and that’s when I see it. All hope dims from the expression of the woman next to me. Christina is a friend of a friend. Another setup. Another failure.