Page 78 of The Play Maker

Our boys are lined up. Logan at left wing, Cole on the right, Ryan holding down defense, and Nathan crouched in net.

And me?

I’m sitting behind the fucking line like a fucking mascot.

Suspended. Benched. Irrelevant.

Logan steals the puck, slices down the left, jukes a defenseman. I lean forward, my jaw tight as I track his moves. If he passes right now, they’ve got a clean shot. But he doesn’t. He cuts in, tries for the corner, and the goalie blocks it with his chest.

I know every inch of this rink. I’ve played on it more times than I can count. I know the way the puck bounces off the boards in that back corner, the dead zone where the sound dies for a beat when you pass through it, the exact amount of pressure to apply on a wrist shot from the left circle.

And I know—Iknow—I could have made that play.

Ryan missed the opening. I’d seen it a full second before he did, but he hesitated. Passed instead of taking the shot. And just like that, a perfect scoring opportunity vanished.

It feels like I’m watching my life slip out of my hands in real time.

My fists clench, thumb twitching against my palm.

I don’t belong on the bench.

I belong out there.

Fixing that. Driving the play.

But instead, I’m stuck here. Powerless.

My leg bounces restlessly. I run a hand over my face, and close my eyes. Just for a second. I try to block out the cheers. The whistles. The crash of skates against the boards, but none of it works.

They need me.

But I let them down.

I letmyselfdown.

I exhale through my nose, drag my hand down my face.

Screw it.

I pull my phone out of my hoodie pocket, notifications lighting up my screen, but I swipe past all of it and tap on Maisie’s name.

Her profile picture pops up, then our thread. I scroll, rereading our last few messages like I don’t already have them memorized.

I wanna text her. Just see what she’s doing. Hear her voice in my head when she types something sarcastic.

Mostly, I just wanna feel like I’m not completely fucking drowning. And for whatever reason, being near her quiets the noise.

But my thumbs hover. Frozen.

Because last time she saw me spiraling like this she looked at me like I was about to shatter. Like I was fragile.

And I don’t want her thinking that. Not again.

I let out a sigh, and exit out of her profile, pulling up my text thread with Cherry instead.

Me:

You busy?