FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
THE LIGHT REFLECTS off the ice and radiates in my eyes like toxic waste, and I can't focus on anything. My teammates' bodies blur around me. The cheering of the crowd is a cluster of static in my brain, but I try to keep it together as I take my position.
Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can't believe I told Lucy I love her. She's right, it's too soon, I should've waited longer. Of course I meant it—I do love her, but now I look like such a pathetic loser and oh God, what if she dumps me because of this? I'd deserve it. I'm so pathetic.
The buzzer goes off and rattles in my skull.
"Wexler, move!" someone shouts, so I skate forward. Someone tackles me and hurls me onto the ice. I get back up, but I still can't see straight. I clench my teeth and push forward. Somehow, I end up with the puck—but when I shoot, I miss. I never miss. My skin pricks with anger and I bite down hard on my mouth guard. I dive for the puck again, but when I shoot, it bounces off the walls and a guy on the other team gets it.
"Fuck!" I shout. The ref blows his whistle, and Luke whizzes by me.
"Nice going, fuckhead," he says, and for a moment, everything is black.
I don't know how long I'm out for. But when I'm awake again, Luke's hockey stick is in splinters over the ice. Red droplets leak down my gloved hands and onto the white. My arm is cut open, but no pain throbs through me. Just nothingness. Everyone around me gapes with wide eyes, like I'm some kind of circus freak. The silence in the arena is deafening—it drills into my eardrums—so I leave my stick on the ice and get the fuck out of there.
* * *
I can't process what I just did to my career. Lucy. My team. Luke. I don't know. It's all a blur. The only thing I'm certain of is: I need to forget it ever happened.
After I ditched the arena, I couldn't be bothered to change out of anything more than my skates. Now I'm trekking through my neighbourhood in my full hockey gear. I don't think I've ever been so drenched in sweat, but I don't give a shit. I need out of my skin.
I knock on my dealer's door. From booze to pot to narcotics, Aaron Deegan carries it all. And he doesn't ask questions, so when I tell him I need a 26er of rum, he just gives it to me.
From Aaron's house, I float to my old elementary school, St. Marks. A thin layer of fog sweeps across the field, and rain clouds muddle the sky. There's not even a crack of light, just a big, dull layer of grey. Thunder rumbles in the distance. I sit on the cold, wet bench take a swig of rum. It burns. Burning is good.
I've lived in this area my whole life—you'd think I'd find comfort in something, like a good memory attached to the monkey bars or the jungle gym with the slide shaped like a snake, something, anything, but everything's tainted. Even this playground is ruined by memories of Katie. I can't think. I can't breathe. I need to stop, so I drink more and more and more.
