Page 105 of First Shift

In the morning, I stagger to the suite where our athletic trainers have set up our makeshift treatment room. Gordo begins the concussion screening, but it’s obvious I’m going to fail—I can’t even hold my balance or recall three basic words in a row. He shushes my excuses about tripping over my shoes in the dark, types something into his tablet, and officially scratches me from the lineup.

I don’t even go to the game. I can’t. The noise and the lights are too much. I lie on my hotel room bed and wait for someone to tell me what happens.

As the sun begins to set, I hear that Colgate has killed our chances of making the Frozen Four.

A tear slips down my face, wetting the pillow. I can already hear my dad’s voice calling me a loser.

“Holy shit. What the fuck? Cally? Cally!”

My brain came back online to the sound of Mikey’s panicked voice just in time to see him careen off the side of the bed, landing with a loud thud. “Fuck.”

He rose up onto his knees with a wince, his hands coming up, palms open and facing outward.

I shoved up into a seated position, scooting until I was pressed against the headboard, and pulled my legs in. I dropped my head into my hands, the heels of my palms pressing into my eye sockets, and fought to get my breathing under control.

“I’m sorry,” I heard him say through the ringing in my ears. “I didn’t mean … fuck. I’m so sorry,” he said, his voice thick with guilt he had no business feeling.

“Don’t,” I choked out. “Not your—” I dragged in a ragged breath. “It’s not your fault.” I dropped my hands from my face, glittering spots dancing in my field of vision.

No, it was Devin Fucking Nowak’s fault.

I’d had a lot of therapy in the intervening couple of years, and I thought I’d come to terms with what was essentially the worst day of my life.

But apparently, declarations of love that happened while I was being fucked—even if they weren’t my own—had the power to completely undo all the progress I’d made.

“It is my fault,” Mikey insisted, moving tentatively closer. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I know we weren’t supposed to … we promised not to … this wasn’t … FUCK.”

He carded his hands into his hair, curling his fingers against his scalp, and tugged, his face a picture of pure agony.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” I groaned.

His shoulders rounded in on themselves, his chin dropping toward his chest. He exhaled loudly, shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that I couldn’t make out, his lips barely moving. I watched as he pulled in another deep breath, then lifted his head back up to meet my gaze.

“It’s okay, Hunter,” he said quietly. “We agreed we wouldn’t catch feelings. I broke the rules.” He planted his hands on the edge of the bed and shoved to his feet, turning to gather up his clothes.

“Wait!” I surged up onto my knees and lunged for him, catching him by the wrist. “That’s not what I meant.”

His head shot back around, and he tried to yank free of my grip, his eyes shiny with tears.

“I’m so fucking sorry,” I said, lifting his hand to kiss each of his knuckles in rapid succession. I half expected him to pull away—he had every right to—but he never did. “I’ve never … it’s just …”

“It’s just what, Cal?” Mikey pressed, sliding out of my grip to stand with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

I fought the urge to close my eyes or drag my gaze away. I wasn’t great at eye contact at the best of times, and right now, it felt unbearable.

“It’s just … that’s not … I don’t get to have that,” I said, my voice cracking. “I’m not the guy people fall in love with. I’m just not.”

“That’s obviously not true. I love you, goddamnit.”

“You can’t,” I pleaded. “I’ll ruin you the way I ruin everything.”

“I don’t understand,” he said, tears beginning to fall. “Just help me understand. Please?”

How did I even begin to tell Mikey that I had a terrible, complicated relationship with those words that had nothing to do with him?

That I’d gotten the shit beat out of me so badly the one time I’d ever said them that when I woke up covered in cum my first thought was “at least he didn’t kill me.”

That I had PTSD as a result?