04
I SHIFT UNCOMFORTABLY in the office chair and tug at my tie, my burgundy school uniform as itchy as ever. Sweat beads on my forehead from the heat blasting on full—I'm pretty sure my guidance counsellor would survive in the fiery depths of Hell considering how hot it always is in here.
Our Monday meetings have become so routine that whatever Mrs. Pickle is saying fades into the background noise of my head. Front and center: everything Dad's said to me since Friday. "You need to stay focused, El. You need to be better, El."
He pissed me off so much this weekend that I didn't even feel remotely bad about letting that Lucy girl get away with breaking and entering. Not that I would've felt bad anyway. It was the right thing to do, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I should've offered her food instead of hot chocolate. She was probably hungry.
When Mrs. Pickle clears her throat, I snap out of it, and she narrows her eyes beneath her circular glasses. They're like Harry Potter's, but they're slapped on a sixty-year-old woman with a red perm and no patience for my bullshit.
"Elliot," Mrs. Pickle says slowly, "I know you're only here to make your parents happy, but I need you to talk to me."
She's a school guidance counsellor now, but she used to be a full-fledged shrink. I don't know why she'd rather talk to kids like me over adults with real issues, but I've had weekly meetings with her ever since what happened last year. To "keep my mental health in check."
"What's left to talk about? All I need to do is score more goals, win more games, keep my GPA above 3.5, survive the season without having a mental breakdown, and get into the NHL. No sweat."
Mrs. Pickle lets out another unimpressed sigh. Her desk has neat stacks of sticky notes next to pens and photo frames of her husband, her teenage daughters, and Jesus. Saint Jacob's Catholic High is all about the Lord. Being sarcastic with her just makes her life more complicated, so I suck it up and uncross my arms.
"Sorry, I'm just dreading practice tonight," I confess. "My dad's being a dick to me again. Not intentionally, I don't think. I'm pretty sure he just doesn't realize how much pressure he puts on me. In his eyes I should think, breathe, eat, and sleep hockey, and anything else I feel is stupid."
"Nothing you feel is stupid, Elliot," Mrs. Pickle says. "Although, even for someone with your talent, professional hockey is an incredibly competitive and ambitious career path. I don't agree with your father's methods, but he is trying to prepare you for the real world in his own way."
"I know that. And that just adds to the pressure. I love hockey, of course I do. It's my life, but..." I pause, and my heart twists brutally.
Ever since I was a little kid, getting into the NHL has been my dream. I still remember the first time I saw Wayne Gretszy play—it was one of Dad's recordings of an old game. I must've been like three years old, and I was curled up in front of our old TV in the living room, drinking hot chocolate, when I watched him zip around the ice like not even air could touch him. It was like watching an entirely different species. From that point on, I knew exactly what I had to be: a really fucking good hockey player. Someone worthy of the NHL.
But it's like the closer I get to drafting season, the more faraway it seems. I never thought my confidence would start to crack like this.
"What is it?" Mrs. Pickle presses. "I'm told you're playing even better this year than you did the last. Didn't you win the game the other night?"
"Yeah, our team won. I scored three goals, but my coach and my dad still think it 'wasn't my best game.'"
"And that bothers you?"
"Yeah. A lot." I tug at a loose string on my tan slacks. "It's like even at my best, I'm never good enough."
"But you're breaking junior records all over the country. I saw the interview you did on TV last month, and you seemed very confident."
"Yeah, that's true," I say, but the sun was brighter last month.
"So why aren't you happy now?"
"Because what if what happened last year happens again?"
Her lips purse, followed by a long-winded sigh. "Elliot, I think you should go back to seeing your regular psychiatrist. She can help—"
"No." When she flinches, I clear my throat. "I mean, no thanks. Really. I don't want pills again."
Last season was terrible enough. I'd started out stronger than ever, like I was on top of the world and nothing could hold me down. Even Mason, the cockiest guy I've ever met, told me that I was getting too cocky. Apparently people didn't like me as much as I thought they did.
But then things got dark again. For the rest of the season, it rained and rained and rained. Months of blackness I can barely remember.
It happens sometimes, ever since I was a kid. It's easier to think of my mood swings like storms—some of them last months, others days or weeks, and sometimes it rains harder than others, but the sun always comes out again, even when it feels like it never will. That's how it was explained to me when I was a kid, and I guess it's always stuck. Things have been turning grey again lately, but I can't tell if the storm will pass or turn into a hurricane.
Last year was a fucking category five.
Memories of the night that changed everything force themselves into my head, and every muscle in my body turns to stone. The night I lost my friends. The night people saw me for who I really am. They ditched you for a reason. I clench my teeth hard to block out the noise.
"Elliot," Mrs. Pickle says, and I focus on her voice. "Where are you right now?"
"I'm okay." I stand and sling my side pack over my shoulder. "Uh, I know it's early, but can I go now please?"
With a sigh, Mrs. Pickle nods. I hurry out of her office into the brightly-lit hallway. My heart pounds as the panic attack turns on, so I dive at the water fountain and drink as much as I can.
God, get a grip.
Standing upright, I lean my back against the wall and shut my eyes before taking a deep breath. Okay, I'm good. I'm in public—I have to be good. The lunch bell rings, and the hall quickly floods with students.
"Hi, El," Amber and Macy say as they pass me, and I wave at them with a lazy smile, still catching my breath. Eric and Mason walk together ahead. They don't even glance at me as they pass, like I'm totally invisible.
I'm about to take off when Katie exits the History room. I've been wanting to tell someone about what happened on Friday—about the girl trying to steal from my shed—but Katie's probably having lunch with Luke, so I should catch her before he makes his appearance. These days, it's hard to get five minutes alone with Katie, even though we both work at FarmCo together.
"Hey, Katie, wait up!"
Katie twirls to me with a guilty smile on her pretty, gazelle-like face, probably because she ditched me this weekend. I'm over it now.
"Hey El," she says.
"What are you up to? Something crazy happened to me this weekend, we should—"
"Yo, Katie, over here!" Luke calls from down the hall, and Katie stops in her tracks. Figures.
Growing up is weird. When I look at Katie Starling in her Saint Jacob's uniform, I still see my childhood friend, the little girl who used to play road hockey with me. But now she's five-foot-eight and her eyes are a million miles away as she glances over my shoulder at Luke. Nibbling on her bottom lip, Katie meets my stare, her billowy blonde hair falling down her shoulders.
"Sorry, El, what were you saying?"
Before I can reply, Luke Kim is next to us, and he puts his hand on the small of Katie's back. Luke glares at me with dark eyes before focusing on her.
"Katie, come on, let's get to the caf before the line gets huge."
"Hold on, Luke," she whispers. "I'm just talking to El."
"Seriously? Why do you still hang out with this guy?"
"Standing right here," I say.
"He's my best friend," Katie says, but her voice quivers. She's uncertain, stepping on eggshells, terrified of Luke dumping her. The fact that she hasn't a hundred percent ditched me yet blows my mind, but she inches closer to it every time Luke tells her our friendship bugs him.
"Katie," Luke says, "don't be a dumbass, he's clearly trying to get with you when I'm not around."
"He is not, Luke. We've been friends since we were kids. Whatever happened with you guys last year has nothing to do with me."
Luke fires back, and Katie retorts, and just like that, I'm not here anymore. I'm a topic of conversation, no longer a living, breathing part of it. When I hang off to the side, no one notices—not even Katie. It sucks, but whatever. I walk away, because if there's one thing I'm good at, it's removing myself from where I'm not wanted.
* * *
The lights in the arena flash white-hot off the ice, and Coach shouts at us to pick up the pace. My heavily padded teammates coast around me, but my brain is all scrambled—when I lose track of the puck, my vision blurs. I never lose track of the puck. What the hell is wrong with me?
"Wexler!" Coach yells. "Wake up!"
Snapping out of it, ice shreds beneath my skates as I slip between my teammates and opponents. When I'm on the ice, the rest of the world fades outside of the barricades of the rink. It's the smell of hockey and my childhood and everything I've ever loved.
But this is a practice match, so I'm playing against members of my own team. Luke is on the other side. When I snatch the puck from Zane, Luke darts after me—he's not nearly as fast as I am, but he's way more aggressive. He checks me on a turn, clacking his stick against mine.
"Can't keep winning forever, Wexler," Luke says between breaths, only loud enough for me to hear. He slaps my stick with his. "I already have Katie, I might as well—"
"Shut up!"
Luke is the only one who's ever been able to distract me on the ice. He tries to shoulder check me, but I slip away in one fluid motion. Eat shit. I duck past him and head straight for the net, the puck glued to my stick. As soon as I break free, I know it's over. The adrenaline peaks. I shoot, I score, and my squad wins the match three to one.
The guys on my half pat me on the back. From across the ice, Luke death glares me.
"That was some good playing today," Coach Andrews tells us as we cool down and stretch. "Remember, we've got a few weeks to prepare for Brantford—they're playing on our turf, so be ready. See you on Thursday."
In the locker room, I peel off my sweaty hockey gear and change into a T-shirt. Luke, Eric, and Mason stand in a trio at the end of the row, and I can't help but tune into their conversation, even though eavesdropping on them always either hurts me or pisses me off. Or both.
"Here's what I'm thinking," Luke says, arms open in that strong, confident posture he always has. "We go back to Eric's, Katie brings two of her friends, and we break into Mrs. Jones' liquor cabinet. Cool?"
They all fist bump. Luke catches me watching, and I look away. I feel them approach me as I wipe my forehead with a towel.
"Good practice, Wexler," Luke says.
"Thanks." I dig into my locker for my hoodie.
"Might wanna get that head checked though," Eric says, and they all laugh. Jaw tight, I face them.
"What are you talking about?"
"You're all spaced out," Mason says. "You high or something? You're lucky we're not getting drug tested."
"I'm not high." I'm actually not. I'd never get stoned before practice, I'm not that dumb.
"If you say so." Luke grips my shoulder a little too hard, and the guys chuckle as they leave.
Hockey hasn't been the same since we had our falling out. I wish I could say I hate them, but honestly all I want is for them to be invited so we can hang out again like we used to. Luke might not be the better hockey player, but people just like him more. It was easy for him to replace me. Guys get drafted onto the team from all over the world, but Eric actually lives in Godfrey like I do, so when Luke moved here from Toronto, Eric's family became his billets.
"Wexler, a word?" It's Coach. He has one hand in the pocket of his windbreaker, the other clicking and unclicking a pen over and over. Brian Cartier used to play for the Montreal Canadiens, but he sustained an ankle injury that makes it so he can barely skate in a straight line. He's more than capable of coaching us, though—our team, the Godfrey Ice Sharks, wouldn't be one of the top teams in the Ontario Hockey League without him.
"What's up, Coach?" I sling my hockey bag over my shoulder.
"You feeling all right? Your head hasn't been in the game lately."
"But... my squad won."
"You know that's not what I'm talking about."
"I'm okay, Coach, really. I've been seeing my school's guidance counsellor."
He smiles tightly. "I know you were nervous about being appointed co-captain, but you're our star player, Wexler. The NHL already has their eye on you. Trust me, being in the spotlight is what you want."
"The guys don't respect me as a captain. They don't respect me, period." I was made captain because of my abilities on the ice, but my leadership skills are shit and Coach Andrews knows it.
"You're not always going to get along with everyone on your team," Coach says. "I'll say this again: I have fifteen years of coaching juniors under my belt, and I've never seen a player as fast as you. You have a real future ahead of you, Elliot. It's yours if you want it, but you have to keep your stick on the ice. Chances are none of these guys will end up on the same team as you in the future. But you need to be a hundred percent. Not ninety, not ninety-nine. A hundred."
I nod, but pressure builds in the temples of my brain.
Coach slaps me gently on the shoulder. "You need to talk to me about anything—and I mean anything—I'm here, okay?"
"Thanks, Coach. I will."
Hands stuffed in my pockets, I exit the locker room and pass through the lobby of Johnson Arena. It still smells like ketchup and hot chocolate from the family skate earlier. This place has been a second home to me for as long as I can remember. After grabbing a blue Gatorade from the vending machine, I leave into the cold night.
Star player. I guess that is me, but being the star player obviously doesn't make me any friends. I could try to hang out with some of the other guys on our team, but most of them go to different schools, and playing hockey is so much easier than socializing.
The moon is enormous and yellow, magnified by the atmosphere. My breath fogs up the night. The east end is built up a hill, so I can see downtown's buildings reaching into the sky like they want to break free from the earth and fly away like alien spaceships. Sometimes I'd like that, too. The guys' words ring in my head over and over and over. Things'll be different once I get into the NHL, but I have to actually survive this season to get there. It's easy for Coach to tell me to keep my stick on the ice, but it sucks being ejected from a friend group like I was never even a part of it.
A gust of wind makes me shiver. Past all those city lights is the west end, where the girl from Friday night—Lucy—said she normally stays. I wonder what she's up to right now, or if she has friends like Luke or Katie, or if she has good people in her life. Wherever she is, I hope life gets better for her.
By the time I get home, I'm sweating under my winter jacket. I can't wait to shower and sleep and forget all about today. As I'm walking up the driveway, something in the snow beneath a hedge catches my eye, and I pick it up. It's a tiny red box shaped like a heart, thorny vines grooved into its wooden surface. I smooth my finger along the rough edges and flip it over.
Carved into the bottom is the name Lucy.