Shea

Harrison's got it out for me tonight.

Crazy bitch.

Countless times, she's boarded me, tripped me, and cross-checked me. And you know what pisses me off the most, aside from the fact that she's doing these things? That she's getting away with it. The zebras are blind or bias if they can't call her out on these dirty plays. I don't know what the hell I did to deserve this, after the shit I had to deal with last night between my parents, but I'm losing my fucking temper.

The second period mirrors the first during the first ten minutes; West Kelowna controls the play and we're lucky to clear our zone, dump the puck, and get a line change. The fresh players exhaust themselves, then are rushing for a line change. There's something wrong with my team. We keep repeating this endless cycle as if we think something's going to change. I don't understand why we're playing so poorly. West Kelowna is walking all over us. 

With five minutes to go in the seconds period, just as Tucker is about to dump the puck in our zone and enhance the pressure on our players, the puck takes a funny bounce and goes in the opposite direction. This bounce helps us out and slides past the defensive line in the neutral zone, opening up a two-on-one for KJ and I. We skate down the ice at full-speed, passing the puck back and forth to confuse the goalie. When I think he's questioning what we're going to do, I slam the blade of my hockey stick against the ice and call for the puck. KJ does a slap-pass. It's hard and crisp and allows me to shoot a beautiful wrister at the net. I'm positive it's going to go in, which is why I'm almost heartbroken when Charette gloves the puck, drops it to the ice, and then sends it flying down the ice to Harrison. She's behind our defence, but not offside, so the pass sets her up for a breakaway.

Coach is screaming at me to get off of the ice to complete the line change. I race after Harrison with whatever speed I have left instead. My strides are sloppy, frantic, and pointless, but I keep going. I keep pushing myself. Even when she scores from the blue line with a wicked slapshot, I keep skating. Stopping only when I get to the blue line. I turn around, ready to take some heat from Coach. As I skate back to my team's bench, I glance up at the scoreboard. West Kelowna is at five. We're at nothing. And what makes matters worse is that Harrison now has a hat trick. It's disgusting to admit, but this has been one of her best games.

It pisses me off.

"Smith!" Coach yells when I get to the bench. Behind me, I hear Tucker and a bunch of other guys congratulating Harrison. "What the hell was that?"

Fed up with how this game is going, I slam my stick against the boards. The noise sends a rush of satisfaction through me, but it doesn't last long. Hockey sticks aren't a cheap investment, and it appears I've chipped the heel of the blade. I close my eyes and sigh, sitting down next to KJ.

I wish this game was over.

* * *

With a minute-and-a-half to go in the third period, there's a face-off in West Kelowna's end. My line comes out for our final shift, and Harrison's line follows close behind. As her line hops over the boards, their coach reminds them to keep the shutout alive. I doubt that's going to be difficult for them, but I'm silently hoping we can ruin at least one thing for them tonight.

For the first time tonight, I win the draw against Harrison. The puck slides back to Kirton, who pounds a slap-shot at the net. It hits the crossbar and rebounds to the left corner of the ice. I chase after the puck. I know we're losing this piece of shit game tonight, but taking away that shutout is my primary concern now.

I'm the first player to the puck and I can feel the aura of an oncoming hit, so I brace myself for it as I try to get the puck to the front of the net. It's just... the hit comes later than I originally expected. After I've got the puck back to my defensemen, I turn around and am upended by Harrison. I catch sight of the blatant look of shock on her face before I crumple to the ice in a heap of sore muscles and sweat.

Above me, I hear a body being smashed into the boards.

"What the fuck was that, Harrison?" KJ yells.

I roll over, wincing at the pain radiating through my right shoulder and my chest. My head throbs. I can't catch my breath. The wind has been knocked from my lungs. Pressing a gloved hand against my chest, I try to soothe the panic. I know I'm okay, that I'll be able to breathe soon. I just have to stay calm.

Dazed, I glance up at Harrison and KJ. My teammate has Harrison pinned against the boards; his forearm presses hard across her chest.

"I didn't mean for that to happen!" she shouts, giving him a shove. "The idiot turned around too soon. I didn't think he'd passed the puck yet. It would have been a fine hit had he not—"

KJ pulls Harrison forward and then shoves her back into the boards, hard. So hard that she gasps for her next breath. "Fuck you, Harrison. You've been getting away with this shit all night. It's about time someone put you in your place."

Harrison spits on the ice. "It was an accident, Jones."

KJ is about to say something else, maybe even throw a punch, when someone yanks him back.

"Leave her alone, Jones!" Wright shouts. "You heard what she said—it was an accident. Back off."

I roll my eyes and sit up. My chest and shoulder still ache, but I can breathe better now. I prop my back against the boards as I let my fatigued mind stop spinning. As I'm sitting here, a sharp, shooting pain goes through my shoulder. A small cry of pain escapes my mouth as dread fills my stomach. If Harrison's hit has injured me enough to be sidelined, I'm going to shove her down the stairs at school to make sure she shares the same fate. This isn't good. I need to play hockey. It's my only ticket out of here. If I can find someone to look after my sister while I'm gone, that is.

"Smith!"

I look up. Coach is kneeling before me, an unfamiliar look of concern in his eyes. The look of concern shouldn't surprise me—I'm the best player on this team—but it does. I'm so used to Coach yelling at me or complimenting me that this whole situation seems strange.

"Yeah?" I ask.

"You okay, kid?"

I nod. "My right shoulder hurts a bit, but I'm okay."

He squeezes my good shoulder and helps me to my feet. "Then let's get you to the dressing room. The game's over, anyway."

Once I'm standing, Coach gives me a couple of seconds to get used to the height. I'm a little dizzy still, but not as dizzy as I was before. As we head over to the bench, I ignore everything that's going on around me. I don't care what the refs decide to do with Harrison's crazy ass. I don't care if Wright kicked KJ's ass or vice versa. For the first time in my life, I want to get off of the ice and tend to my sore shoulder. I've also got a headache looming around the edges of my mind.

Just as I'm about to step onto the bench, I feel a hand rest on my shoulder. Out of morbid curiosity, I stop and turn around to acknowledge the stranger.

Harrison stands before me. The first thing I notice is that her helmet is off and her hair is no longer tied in a ponytail. Instead, the dark-brown that fades into a white-blonde is bracketing her round face. The next thing I notice is how flushed her cheeks are. Finally, I notice her blue-violet eyes. They're big, round, and full of regret. She's actually kind of... cute. But I'll never admit that out loud.

"What the hell do you want, Harrison?" I mean for my voice to come out as angry, but I sound more like a wounded, defeated dog.

"I'm sorry about the hit, Shea. I tried to stop once you passed the puck, but I was going too fast. I really am sorry."

I stare at her. I must have hit my head harder than I thought. Harrison apologizing to me? This must be a hallucination. But hallucination or not, a single apology doesn't change our past. It doesn't change the fact that we hate each other. It doesn't change the fact that she slammed me into the boards when I wasn't in possession of the puck. She also rejected my apology, so why should I accept hers?

Because I'm tired, all I do is shake my head and turn back to the bench.

"Number sixteen!" I hear the ref shout. "Two minutes for boarding."

I sigh. Two minutes for boarding? That's all she gets? It's such bullshit. But I guess that's the special treatment girls get when they're playing with the boys.

* * *

In the dressing room, the medic tells me I have strained my shoulder. "There's not much you can do with a strained shoulder, aside from rest it. I would, however, recommend you go to KGH and have some tests done regarding a potential concussion. I can't force you, though. Your choice."

I contemplate my options. Chelsea should be asleep by now. Mom also got back from her vacation yesterday, but Dad is still in Seattle, so that means there won't be any fighting going on. As much as I want to avoid the hospital, I think it's a good idea I go. I trust the team's medic, but I want an in-depth look at the damage that's been done to my shoulder—even if it's just strained. It feels worse, as if it's been dislocated.

I wince in pain as I shake my head. "I'll get someone to drive me to emergency. I trust you, man, I swear. I just want to make sure there has been no other damage done. I'll get tested for a concussion, too—I was a little dizzy when I got up." As much as I want to push these injuries to the side and continue to play hockey, I don't want my future career to be put in jeopardy because of my stupid decision. I need to go to the hospital whether or not I like it.

Our medic nods with approval. "Good thinking." He packs up his first-aid kit, but not until he's given me a couple of painkillers. "They'll take the edge off."

"Thanks," I mutter. I toss them back with no water, and then I turn to KJ. "Could you drop me off at the hospital?" It's a lot to ask him, considering he lives on the Westside and would have to drive me into Kelowna, but he nods without hesitation.

"You don't need to ask, Shea," he replies, clapping me on the back just beneath my good shoulder.

"Thanks, man," I mutter. I lean back against the padded wall and close my eyes, waiting for KJ to get changed and pack up his hockey gear. While the boys were finishing the game, the medic and our assistant coach helped me get my gear off; I'm ready to go whenever KJ is.

There's not a lot of talking going on in the dressing room while the guys undress, and that's because we ended up losing the game. As soon as KJ's done and has said goodbye to the team, we exit the room. I feel bad for making him carry my hockey bag, but he insisted.

"Bro," he says once we step outside the building. "Are you going to make to my truck? Do you want me to come and pick you up, maybe? I'm all the way over in the dirt parking lot."

A wave of dizziness overwhelms me and I lean against the wall of the arena, closing my eyes and gulping down the fresh air. "I think that might be the best idea," I reply. Although the painkillers are helping me, my shoulder feels like it's on fire. I need KJ to get me to the hospital as soon as possible. Thank God I have my wallet—it has my care card in it. I had been planning on doing some grocery shopping after the game, but that's going to wait until tomorrow.

"Okay," KJ replies. He lugs my hockey bag over his shoulder. "I'll be right back."

After KJ has left, I decide it's best for me to stay standing—no matter how badly I want to sit down. With the pain from my shoulder and the dizziness from my suspected concussion, I want to puke. Or pass out. Maybe both. At least when I'm standing, I have something to focus on: keeping my balance.

As I'm trying to decide which one sounds better, puking or passing out, I hear a group exit the arena. They sound abundant and content, so I'm guessing that group doesn't comprise my teammates. Closing my eyes, I try not to fall asleep standing up and make it seem like I'm minding my business. Which is a total lie considering I can hear Tucker, Wright, Charette, and Harrison talking about tonight's game from across the courtyard. If I had the energy to roll my eyes, I would.

"Hey," I hear Harrison say, "can you guys give me a minute? I think I forgot something in the dressing room."

When I no longer hear voices echoing through the area, I open my eyes and glance around. At first, it seems like everyone has left. But when I catch movement in the corner of my eye and see Harrison, I realize what she's done. She lied to her teammates so she could come over here and talk to me. It's a little surprising and maybe I'd take the bait if I didn't feel like shit, but right now I'm not in the mood to talk to her. Or anyone, really.

"Shea?" she asks, her voice timid.

I grunt in response.

She stops where she is, about two feet away from me, and stuffs her hands in her pockets. She's left her hockey bag in the middle of the courtyard. "I'm, um, sorry about the hit. I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear."

I screw my eyebrows together, squeezing my eyes shut. She's not talking very loud, but it feels like she's yelling in my ear. I have a concussion. That's the only explanation I can come up with. "Just fuck off, Brenna. I'm not in the mood."

My words come out harsher than I intended. I'm too irritated to apologize.

"Oh," she replies. Her voice is so soft and innocent I have to open my eyes to make sure I'm not dreaming. "Okay," she continues. She takes a step back. "I am sorry, Shea. I didn't mean to hurt you.

Another wave of dizziness hits me and I grip the wall for support, swaying a little. "You already said that," I say.

This time, she steps forward, reaching out to steady me. "Are you sure you're okay?" she asks. Her grip tightens on my bicep before she slides her arm under my good shoulder to support me.

I'll never admit this to anyone, but I'm glad she's here to help me stay upright. Without her, I'd think I was on the verge of keeling over. Because I feel like shit, I give her a little more of my body weight to handle. If she's strong enough to slam me into the boards, injure my shoulder, and give me a concussion, then she's strong enough to bear some of my weight.

"Is someone taking you to the hospital?" she asks.

"KJ," I mutter. My eyes are feeling heavy and the more weight I lean on Harrison, the more I want to fall asleep. "He's picking me up here."

"Okay," she replies.

Seconds later, KJ has pulled up beside us. He shifts into park and gets out of his truck, jogging over to me. He takes a moment to realize who's helping me.

"The fuck are you doing here, Harrison?" he spits.

"Helping Shea," she replies. I don't like how calm her demeanour is, but I'm not in a position to bitch at her. "I know you both hate me—I hate you guys, too. But with injuries like these, it's better to put our differences aside and work together. I feel terrible for what I did."

KJ snorts and jerks his head toward his truck. The two of them help me over there. I'm still putting most of my weight on Harrison, but KJ is right there, ready to take over in case she sprints at the last second. It wouldn't surprise me if she did.

Once I'm sitting in the truck, my head feeling like it's been stuffed with cotton balls, I close my eyes and even out my breathing. The pain in my shoulder is painful. Whatever painkillers the medic gave me are weak. Or my shoulder has gotten worse within the past ten minutes. I'm also dizzy, ready to puke all over the old mats of KJ's truck.

"You're taking him to the hospital, right?" Harrison asks KJ.

"Of course I am," he replies. "The dude can barely stand up on his own."

"Yeah, I noticed that." Harrison pauses. "Well, okay, I hope the injuries aren't too severe. Again, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt him."

"Whatever," KJ mutters. He closes my door and I don't hear the rest of what he has to say to Brenna Harrison.

By the time KJ gets into the truck, I'm almost asleep. This isn't a good sign for when I'll return to playing hockey, but the important thing is to not jump into conclusions; I need to wait until I've heard something from the doc before I worry about hockey.

For most of the ride, I fall in and out of sleep. The streetlights of Kelowna irritate me, but there's nothing I can do about that, so I suck it up. At one point, I send a message to my mom—as if she'd care, though. Lately, she's been spending most of her time reminiscing about how she missed out on her college years because she got pregnant at such a young age. I text Dad, too, even though he's in Seattle.

When KJ and I arrive at the hospital, he parks out front and pays for his parking spot before coming to get me. The walk into the hospital isn't fun; I'm stumbling and mumbling that I'm going to be sick at any second. KJ tells me to aim for the flowerbed if I puke. I keep my stomach under control.

Checking in takes about five minutes; I give the lady at the front desk my care card and answer any question she asks me so she can get a faint summary of what happened. The pen scratching against the clipboard is annoying as hell and I want to snap, but I don't. After that's done, she tells us to go wait in the seating area. KJ guides me over there and after we've sat down, he tells me to get some rest.

I lean my head against KJ's shoulder. "Thanks, man," I mutter.

"Any time, bro," he replies. "I'll wake you up when they call your name. Tonight's going to be a long night."

I barely hear him, though; within seconds, I fall into a restless sleep.

* * *

"Moderate concussion and strained shoulder," the doc says. After five hours of waiting, I'm on the verge of being discharged. It pisses me off. If I'm in the emergency ward, then why the fuck does it take hours to receive treatment? Ever since I woke up, I've been in agony. The nurses at the front desk told KJ they weren't allowed to hand out painkillers. I didn't receive any until my shoulder was reviewed and the CT scan on my head was complete. "I would suggest ten days away from any extensive activities—and yes, that includes hockey. For your shoulder, I'd recommend some stretching exercises. If you rest it, the flexibility should return by the time your concussion has healed." He glances down at his clipboard. "If you'd like, we can teach you how to put your shoulder in a sling. I would suggest it, as having a sling makes the mind conscious of the injuries. You'd be allowed to take it off during stretches, showering, and when you're sleeping."

I mutter a curse as I tug at my hair. Goddamn it. Ten days, give or take, is too long to be away from hockey. But I know there's nothing I can do aside from show up and cheer my team on while I heal. Playing without giving my body time to heal will only worsen my injuries.

"What about work?" KJ asks. He's leaning against the wall, next to a poster about the effects of high cholesterol. There are dark half-moons under his eyes. I can't blame him for looking exhausted. It's almost 2:30 A.M. "Shea's a barista at his family's café." KJ exchanges an understanding glance with me, and I have to look away. Maybe I confide too much in him, but it's nice to know someone understands the tough situation I'm trapped in. Losing out on both work and hockey would be detrimental to me.

The doctor—I've already forgotten his name—adjusts his glasses and nods. "Work should be fine, so long as you're working at the till and not collecting heavy loads of dishes."

"Great," KJ replies. "Is he good to go now?"

Although I told KJ he could leave after he dropped me off, he insisted he stick around. His support makes me feel shitty. Switching schools has been difficult combined with the increase of fighting between my parents, and I've been taking out my frustrations on him. I press my lips into a flat line, aware I haven't been treating him well.

The doc nods, his balding head shining beneath the lighting. "Unless he wants the sling, he's free to go."

I decide to go with the sling. You can never be too careful. I want my shoulder back to the way it was before Harrison hit me.

The process takes fifteen minutes, but I appreciate their patience. With my sore shoulder, it's difficult to adjust the sling. I get the hang of it, though. In no time, KJ and I are heading outside to his truck. It been raining, so the asphalt is slick and reflective. Fog has settled around the streetlights and the echo of sirens reverberates between the buildings. I glance at Pandosy, watching as an ambulance rushes past. The pulsing lights annoy me, and I have to look away. I find the location of KGH strange. Instead of being closer to a hub area of Kelowna, it's between, surrounded by older houses and the lake.

I pull my sweater tight around my body, my muscles and shoulders aching from tonight's game. God, that girl can hit. Just another thing to add to my list of things I'm jealous of. I need to get home and pop two Advils before bed. The sling comforts me and eases the stress regarding tomorrow's project session with Harrison tomorrow. I don't know if I can handle her for three hours. But I have to try. My grades are an important factor within my applications. Straight As are the key to a good application.

Thinking about Harrison isn't something I want to do, so I focus on the empty street ahead of us. Because the parking lot was flooded with vehicles when we arrived, KJ parked a block away. Walking down the sidewalk past midnight is peaceful. Save for the odd car that swooshes by, the city feels empty, giving me a moment to clear my head. However, as soon I feel semi-content, an item on my to-do list pops up.

"I'm sorry," I say, gripping the sheet of paper in my jacket pocket. It's an outline of what stretches my shoulder can handle and how to tend to a concussion.

"What?" KJ asks.

"I'm sorry," I repeat, glancing at him. "I've been acting like a dick."

KJ is silent for several seconds, a humble frown on his face as he stares ahead. I press my lips together, wondering if he's going to take this opportunity to yell at me. God knows he wanted to in the hallway at school.

"Hey," KJ says, bumping his shoulder against mine. "I know what it's like to have your parents divorce. It's shit, and although it shouldn't be a burden for us, it is. You're stressed, Shea, I understand, but don't forget I'm here for support. I'm not the enemy."

"Just because I'm stressed doesn't mean I can take my frustration out on you."

"No," he shrugs. "It doesn't. But I appreciate you admitting to your mistakes. Thanks."

I shake my head. He shouldn't be thanking me. "No, thank you. Seriously, KJ. I owe you one." I trail off into silence, contemplating if I should ask him about his ex. There's no point in having a girlfriend during high school or when hockey is on the table, but my opinion doesn't account for everyone else's. "Any news on Ella?"

KJ's shoulder slouch, making me picture him as an old man with peppery grey hair instead of black hair. It's pathetic, how much he swoons over Ella Taylor. How much life it takes out of him when we discuss their issues. "No," he mumbles. "She's ghosted me. And every time I try to corner her in the hallway, she sprints in the opposite direction. I don't know what to do."

Sighing, I clap him on the back. "Wish I could be more help. I'm not one to discuss dating issues with, though."

"No," he laughs, "you're not."

I chuckle along with him. One day, when my life feels stable, maybe I'll consider diving into the dating pool. Until then, I balance my focus between Chels, education, and hockey.

"Love sucks," he mutters, "but it's also remarkable."

I can understand where he's coming from. The love I have for my sister is unconditional, but it's also a paradox. If I didn't love her so much, if I didn't feel the responsibility to look after her, I could pack my bags and head to Boston without feeling a drop of guilt. The bond between siblings, which is another form of love, is remarkable. Leaving her behind doesn't sit right with me because of it.

We spend the rest of the walk and then the drive home discussing primitive things such as homework, dates for the Winter Formal (which I'm not going to), and the upcoming party at Connor's house. I don't want to go, but it counts as a bonding session with the hockey team. Connor has a habit of spewing shit about you behind your back if you don't show up, too.

After KJ's dropped me off, unloading my hockey equipment and tossing it in the garage for me, I thank him and head inside. Someone left a light on in the kitchen, so I'm not stumbling around when I enter the house through the mud room. It's eerily quiet. I don't take the silence for granted. This is one of the rare times I've come home without witnessing a fight or having Chelsea sob into my shirt. It means Mom took care of her tonight.

I'm just about to head upstairs when I hear footsteps padding down the hallway. I freeze in place and wait. A few seconds pass before I see Mom. A wave of relief washes over me. I thought Chels had waited up for me. Mom's dressed in a fuzzy blue housecoat and her bun looks like a rat's nest. "Jesus Christ, Shea," she breathes, rushing over to me. She pulls me into a hug, careful of the sling. "What happened?"

I pull out of the hug. "I injured my shoulder at tonight's game." Yet another game you or dad didn't come to. "I texted you and Dad saying KJ was taking me to the hospital. I'm fine, Mom. My shoulder's been strained and I have a moderate concussion. I have to take a little less than two weeks off from hockey, but I'm okay."

She flashes me a weak smile. "Okay, well, I'm glad you're okay."

My mouth twists to one side. After pinning the responsibility of tending to Chels on me, I find it difficult to believe my mom cares. Or either of my parents, really. If they cared, Mom would've rushed to the hospital with Chels to make sure I was okay. For all she knows, I could've been bleeding to death from a skate across the throat. My heart sinks a little. As it does, exhaustion hits me hard. The emotional turmoil is too much for me. "Look," I murmur, "I'm going to bed. I've got school tomorrow." Pushing past Mom, I head for the stairs.

"Is there anything you need?" Mom asks.

My foot sticks to the bottom step as I stare ahead, up into the dark hallway. The answer sits on the tip of my tongue, but I'm too afraid to answer. Mom won't like my answer. It'll offend her.

Because what parent wants to hear their kid wishes they'd get a divorce?

"No," I mutter, continuing my ascent. "I need nothing."