Street Girl

38 | elliot

38

THE BEGINNING OF APRIL smells both like fresh grass and dirt. With the window of the car down, I breathe deep, the cool breeze brushing my forehead. The afternoon sun beats against the hood of Ollie's sedan. He's been uncharacteristically nice to me since my last episode, even let me borrow this thing. Mom and Dad blackmailed him, but still, it's nice to not have him constantly ripping on me.

I'm trying to stay calm as Lucy and I drive to Eric's house. It's been a week since I freaked out, and now that I'm "recovered," I need to apologize to Luke and bring him this new hockey stick. I'm already burning like lava with embarrassment. I was able to get that video of me spazzing off the internet, but I'm pretty sure the whole city saw it. From "prodigy" to "psycho." What a fucking legacy.

Whatever. Part of my therapy over the past week has been learning how to deal, so I take deep, slow breaths. I'm calm. Everything's fine.

"You okay?" Lucy asks. The afternoon sun glows in her eyes, and she's half-hidden in a constant shadow. Just looking at her pretty face makes my chest swell.

"Yeah, I've got this." I touch her knee and rub in a small, circular motion. "Thanks, Luce. There's no way in hell I could get through this without you."

I've sort of gotten over the whole video thing, but one thing I'm still digesting is the fact that I'm off the team. Coach would take me back in a heartbeat—he begged me not to quit, even after everything I did—but I'm done. Dr. Balewa is right, I need to focus on me. And I can't do that if I'm freaking out about hockey. The thought of playing again gives me flashbacks to that awful night in the stadium. To that fucking video.

But I'm not giving up my dreams. I'm just putting them on hold so when I do play again, I can give it a hundred percent. That's what I keep telling myself. It gives me some sort of comfort when I try to sleep at night.

We pull outside of Eric's three-story house, and I take a deep breath and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. Lucy gives me a reassuring smile.

"You've got this, El. Give him hell."

"I'm here to apologize, remember?"

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, yeah." I take a deep breath. "Okay. Time to get this over with."

Grabbing the new hockey stick from the back seat, I walk the cobblestone path to Eric's front door. I ring the doorbell and clench my teeth, bracing myself. Obviously I haven't been to school yet, so literally the only people I've seen since it happened are the doctors, Lucy, and my family. I chew on my nail. Just as I'm about to say fuck this, I'm out, Eric whips open the door.

"Oh.... Wexler. Hey."

I swallow. Hard. "Hey, uh, is Luke around?"

"I dunno, man..."

I hold up the stick. "I'm just here to give him this. Really. I come in peace."

Eric's eyes flick away before he sighs and holds the door open. I step inside, and the familiar smell of his house brings back mad nostalgia. It's like lemon disinfectant. I haven't been here in ages—when we weren't at my place, we used to party here. I ignore the hollow feeling in my chest and follow Eric to the basement.

"Yo, Luke," Eric calls out. "Wexler's here."

Luke's in front of the widescreen playing Call of Duty, and he tears off his headset when he sees me. His eyes narrow, but soften slightly when they fall on the hockey stick.

"Hey, man," I mutter. Feeling like a little kid, I hold out the stick. Luke loops around the couch and approaches me like I'm some dangerous, deranged animal. I hold out it out more until he accepts.

"Thanks, I think." He sets the hockey stick against the back of the couch and crosses his arms. We're all quiet. The dark grey walls are covered in hockey posters, but since Luke's billeting here, his stuff is everywhere too. The stack of video games next to his PS4 is almost identical to mine. Funny, who knew we'd actually have shit in common.

"So, uh..." I shift on my heels. "I didn't like, hurt you, did I, Luke?"

"No. If you'd hurt me, I would've pressed charges." He pauses. "What the hell happened, Elliot?"

I look at my feet. "Guys, I don't know how to explain it, but I'm sorry. Snapping on you was fucked. I'm really fucking sorry."

Luke picks at the skin of his nails. "I shouldn't've called you a fuckhead. It was just—you were acting out of it, man. You weren't being yourself at all."

"Even before the freak out," Eric says, "your playing's been uneven as fuck for a while. What's going on with you?"

I rub the back of my neck. "I don't know how to explain it. I mean, I'm not gonna explain it. I just wanted to come by and say I'm sorry. That's all." I go to leave, but Luke stops me.

"Well when are you coming back?"

I meet his stare, unsure if he's being serious, but he is. "What? I'm not coming back, man. I'm off the team for the rest of the season."

"But playoffs are legit around the corner," Eric says. "What the fuck, El? You can't just quit."

"I thought you guys would be happy I'm quitting."

"Fuck no," Eric says. "Elliot, we need you in the playoffs. You're our best player."

Luke hesitantly nods. "Yeah. I don't like to admit this but you're what makes the Ice Sharks stand out. We need you, man."

A tiny bit of old pride rises above my constant state of shame. Luke has never made me feel needed, or even wanted. But their words are too little, too late. I will make it into the NHL someday, and I will play hockey for the rest of my life. But this year is just not my year.

"Sorry guys," I say, "but I can't. I need to get my head on straight before I can keep playing. Otherwise, I'll just be a burden to the team."

"El, come on, man," Luke says. "Don't. You can't."

I half-smile, a moment of regret tugging at me. But after everything, I really do need a break. In fact, I want one. "It's too late," I say. "Someday I'll play hockey again, but it won't be with you guys."

With that, I head upstairs and leave. I never in a million years thought those guys wanted me to stay on the team. I guess I'll always wonder if maybe they'd treated me different, we could've stayed friends, and maybe none of this would've happened.