Faking It with the Forward: Wittmore U Hockey

I wait until after dark to show up at the teal house. Before I walk up the path, I draw my hood up over my head, hopefully cloaking my face. After Pete was carried off the ice by the EMTs, Coach Bryant sent us to the weight room for the rest of practice. I’d tried to text and call Twyler after I left the arena, but she never responded. Anything past three of each just feels like stalking.

I knock on the door and wait, determined not to walk away without talking to her about what happened. I know she blames herself for Pete’s injury. He’s been over-wrapping that ankle since the beginning of the season despite her telling him to take it easy. It’s not her fault he’s a stubborn bastard who refuses to listen.

The door opens, but I deflate when Nadia is the one that answers.

“Hey,” I say, peering around her into the small house. “Is Twy here?”

“She is.” Her hip props against the door jamb. “But she doesn’t want any visitors.”

“I just want to check on her after what happened today.” And find out what her advisor said, because before Pete went down, she’d been happy, like she had good news. “Can you tell her I’m here?”

“She’s pretty rattled.” Her arm stretches out and she grips the opposite side of the door. A clear indicator she’s not willingly letting me pass. “I think she just needs some time to process everything.”

I don’t blame her. The first time I heard someone’s leg snap was at hockey camp in the fourth grade. I can still hear the howl of pain when that kid went down, grabbing his leg and crying for his mother. Pete took it a lot better than that ten-year-old, but I saw the look in his eye. Fear. Not just about the pain, but for his future.

“I just want to make sure she’s okay.”

“Reese, honey, and I mean this in the nicest way possible…go the fuck home. She’ll call you when she’s ready.”

My eyebrows raise, because even though I knew Twyler was upset, I didn’t think she’d shut me out. “Okay,” I say, not feeling okay at all. I thrust a hand in my hair. “Will you tell her I came by?”

Nadia looks sympathetic as she starts to close the door in my face, because I don’t know where else to go. Right before the door shuts, I hear a voice and my heart skips a beat. “It’s okay, you can let him in.”

Nadia frowns, but jerks the door back open. She looks between us. “I’ll be in my room.”

I don’t move until Nadia’s closed behind her bedroom door, then I cross the threshold and yank down my hood. She’s got her arms wrapped around her waist and she steps back, just out of my reach. Ouch. Okay.

I take a deep breath. “I didn’t get to see you after practice.”

“After Pete went to the ER, Coach Green called me into his office.”

“Oh, shit.” This was her biggest fear, telling Green about the two of us, but she’s eerily calm. “Okay, how did that go?”

“I explained everything that had been going on. Pete’s need for tighter and tighter wrapping. My warnings about mobility. I’d documented it in his file.” Her eyes are cast down and hands are shoved in the pockets of her hoodie. “I admitted that I’d been distracted by personal stuff for the past few weeks,” she finally looks up. “I didn’t tell him about you.”

“Oh.” I’m confused. “Why didn’t you tell him? That was the plan.”

“Because I proved him right. I wasn’t able to juggle my relationship with you and my obligations to the team. My advisor told me today that it was okay for us to date. There are no rules, but she also reminded me how important this position is to me. How it was imperative that I act professional if I want a good review and recommendation once I graduate.”

“No one is going to question your dedication to your internship, Twy.”

Her chin lifts. “Would you seriously consider staying together if I took focus away from your game? If it risked you getting drafted next year?”

“Maybe, but that isn’t a problem for me.” Fuck, I’ve been killing it in the preseason.

“But what if it was? Isn’t that why you broke up with Shanna? Your goals didn’t align?”

Shanna? “What are you saying?”

“Our goals don’t align, Reese. This program means everything to me. When I was in my darkest place being able to devote my time and energy to the sports training program is what got me through. When my dad died, it helped me find a place to belong. When Ethan pulled the rug out from under me, it’s where I found balance and strength.” She inhales. “I know you understand this. You give everything to your sport. To your dreams. You made hard decisions because you refuse to compromise.” She taps her chest. “This is my sport—just without the million-dollar paycheck and adoring crowds.”

I swallow. “What are you saying?”

“I’m being forced to choose,” her voice wobbles, “and it’s not you.”

She may as well have taken out a gun and fired a bullet in my heart. “You’re serious about this.”

“I’ve been clear from the beginning that my internship is my priority. It’s my future, Reese.”

Bam. Another round fired. “And you don’t see me as part of your future?”

A tear builds in her eye, but she brushes it away before it falls. “I’m sorry, I don’t.”

“What the fuck, Cain?” Kirby shouts. “That was a perfect pass!”

“You call that perfect?” I skate around the goal, eyes trained on Kirby. When I get close, I bump my shoulder into his—hard. “It was way outside. You need to work on your fucking accuracy.”

“It was right in the crease!” He shoves me back. “You go blind all of a sudden? Jerking off too much? Maybe it’s time you found a girl to fuck instead of your ha—”

Crack!

I see red, and twenty-one years of well-honed restraint goes down the drain in a split second. No, fuck that. It isn’t a split second. It’s four miserable days since Twyler dumped my ass and I’ve been spiraling ever since.

“Cain!” Coach Bryant shouts over the sound of the team dragging me and Kirby off one another. “Off the goddamn ice.”

“But Coach—”

“Don’t make me tell you twice, son.” He gives me a hard look, like he’s daring me to cross a line. I jerk my head in a nod and skate off the ice, throwing my stick over the board and yanking off my gloves. I’ve just tossed my helmet down the tunnel when I notice a familiar face sitting up in the stands.

Son of a bitch.

I drop down on a bench and unlace my skates, taking deep breaths in an attempt to calm down. When I can’t avoid it any longer, I climb up the stairs, and meet him.

“Hey, Dad,” I rub the back of my sweaty neck, “how long have you been here?”

“Long enough.”

Jesus. It’s one thing to make an ass out of myself in front of the guys and Coach Bryant. But my dad? Shit. “Was this a planned visit?” I ask, nodding down at Coach. “Or did he call you?”

“I was on my way down for the alumni event. Ben suggested I stop by and watch practice.” His eyes track the play down on the ice. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

What I don’t tell him is that I’m hungover. For the third straight day. And that I skipped two classes and everything is falling apart. “It’s been a bad week.”

“I heard about Pete.” He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. “Green says his ankle should be okay with surgery and PT.”

“He’s still out for the season.”

“It happens,” he shrugs. “He’s young and will bounce back.”

I grunt, not convinced. Dad was young. He didn’t bounce back. But Pete’s not the problem anyway. I felt nothing but relief that Coach Green said he’ll make a full recovery and will probably be back on the ice by next season. No, Pete was the catalyst, not the problem.

Down by the bench I see Twyler’s dark ponytail bob as she carries in a heavy cooler of water. Jonathan runs up behind her and takes the extra weight. I drag my eyes away and stare at my hands.

“Oh, boy,” Dad says, following my gaze, “it’s true.”

“What’s true?”

He nods down at Twyler. “This spiral is about a woman.”

Did Coach tell him that? I swallow the lump that builds in my throat every time I think about her.

“She’s cute.”

Gorgeous. I shake my head. “Well, she’s not mine, that’s for sure.”

“What the hell did you do?”

“Me?” I bark out an incredulous laugh. “I didn’t do anything. Hell, no. It was her decision.” He gives me an expectant look. “She had to choose between her internship and our relationship.” I nod down to her. “You can see which one she chose.”

I’m not happy about it. Fuck, I’ve been drowning my sorrows for days, but Twyler called it. I’d never give up hockey. Not for anyone. And I shouldn’t ask her to do the same thing.

And she wasn’t wrong about Shanna either. She’d given me an ultimatum and I walked because our goals weren’t the same. Who am I to do the same to Twyler?

Next to me my father hums, watching Axel argue with Emerson in front of the goal. Axel’s pointing to the area outside the crease, where Kirby’s been applying pressure all practice, hammering the goal with opportunities to score, including the one I missed. He and I approach playing differently, and it’s been hard for us to find a good groove. It’s also hard for the defenders to block.

“You see that?” he asks, pointing down to the ice where Emerson’s been hovering in front of the net all practice.

“Yeah, they’ve been fighting since the season started.”

“Refusing to compromise is usually about fear. It feels safe to stay in one place, but it can leave you vulnerable to your opponent. Being inflexible and resistant to compromise will limit his options.” He lifts his chin. “That kid needs to make a choice, choose a path, get out of the goal, put some pressure on the forward. Change up the dynamics or he’ll never get what he wants.”

As if my dad’s some kind of hockey whisperer, Emerson finally gets the guts to go after Kirby, leaving Axel alone to defend the net. The result is an impressive deke, and he clears the puck down to the opposite end where Reid is waiting.

Dad stands, clapping his hands, shouting out to Emerson for the good play.

“Don’t limit your options, Son. Not on the ice or with anything that’s important to you.” He glances over at me. “That was a lesson I didn’t learn until it was way too late.”

It’s not unusual for my father to use hockey as an allegory to real life. This is the man who took me aside before my first date, handed me a box of condoms, and explained that wearing one is like a goalie protecting the crease. It’s the last line of defense between an unwanted pregnancy or STI.

This talk about compromise has me thinking about when my mom left. I wasn’t privy to the inner workings of their relationship, but I know one thing: my father didn’t fight for her. He let her make her decision and she never looked back. Although I don’t regret my decision to break up with Shanna, neither of us was willing to make a compromise for the other.

Down below, the players maneuver on the ice, and I realize that the same principle that applies to the game – being willing to adapt and make choices that benefit the team—applies to me and Twyler.

If we’re going to make this, or any relationship work, one of us is going to have to step outside of our comfort zone.