“Mickey!”
Oh god, kill me now. Haven’t I been tortured enough today?
I stop in the middle of the Hall of Champions and take a deep, deep breath before turning to face my father. He closes the glass door to Coach’s office and heads toward me, passing the mural of himself and his name on the walls under every honor.
“Hey, bud,” he says softly once he catches up to me. He drapes an arm over my shoulders and we head out. “How’re you doing?”
“Fine.” I can’t see him with my hood up, but I’m sure he’s giving me those fake concerned eyes, the ones he uses to mask his disappointment.
“You sure? That was a rough game.”
“It’s one game. Not the end of our season.” Doesn’t matter that I embarrassed myself in front of Sabres scouts. ESPNU. My family. Nova. Doesn’t matter that the Eagles are probably in their locker room right now screaming about how they beat the NHL’s top prospects. Doesn’t matter that Cauler hates me again, if he ever actually stopped.
I keep seeing my shot go right into that glove. They probably replayed it twenty times in the postgame report.
“You say that,” Dad says as we push through a side exit. “But you look like it’s bothering you.”
I scoff. Is he serious right now? “How would you be able to tell, Dad? This is just my face.”
His arm loosens on my shoulders and I slip out of his grasp, quickening my steps. His longer legs keep pace with me easily.
“Mickey. Hey. Tell me what’s going on.”
I keep walking.
“Mickey,” Dad says again, more firmly this time. His hand closes around my wrist, jerking me to a stop. I yank my arm away from him. I am so sick of being pulled around like this. I turn my back on him and shove my hands into my hair, still wet and gritty with sweat.
I shouldn’t be this tired, this sweaty, this sore. I didn’t do shit in that game. I handed Ralph Lu a save he’ll remember for the rest of his life.
Oh god. What am I supposed to do with myself if everyone decides I suck at hockey?
A hand settles on my shoulder and pushes. I let it guide me without much thought to who it is or where they’re taking me. I’m pushed down onto a bench outside the arena, on the hill overlooking campus and the lake.
The trees are almost bare. The bells start ringing out the alma mater from the top of Main Building, announcing the start of the dinner hours. A group of girls march down the hill with their arms locked together, dressed in Royals purple and black, singing one of their class songs. The colors of the sunset reflect off the lake.
My eyes sting. The air feels so heavy all of a sudden.
“Talk to me,” Dad says. “What’s going on?”
“Please stop pretending you care.” It’s a fight to keep my voice even. I squeeze my hands together to stop them from shaking and tuck my chin to my chest, hiding deeper in my hood so he can’t see my eyes well up.
“What are you talking about? Of course I care.”
“You only care ’cause it’s affecting my game.” My breath stutters. “Just tell me how bad I screwed up today and be done with it. Please. I cannot handle whatever the hell you’re doing right now.”
“You’re fine, bud. Every team has bad games. Every player makes bad plays.”
“In front of Sabres scouts. In front of you and Mom.”
“Mickey. Look at me.” I don’t. He takes me by the shoulder again and forces me to turn toward him. I scramble to wipe the tears from my face before he sees them. “It was one shot amongst years of great hockey. You don’t need to be this torn up about it.”
I finally look at him. And maybe I do see hints of myself in him. In his inability to show how he really feels. He’s burning with disappointment and embarrassment inside. I know it. But he’s looking at me like he means every word.
My next breath comes in this uncontrollable shudder, and suddenly I am violently sobbing on a bench out in the open next to my father. I drop my face into my hands and hold my breath, trying to make it stop, but that only makes the next sob louder and more aggressive. Dad sits next to me patiently and quietly while I have a complete breakdown, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this low in my life. By the time I get my breathing under control and the tears to slow, the sun is almost set and my head aches.
“Bailey and I have been talking about you,” Dad says while I wipe my nose on my sleeves and pull my feet up onto the bench to make myself as small as possible. “She’s worried. Remember the medicine your mother used to take?”