RHETT

          There are matches you know the result of from the minute you step out onto the ice.

          Call it intuition, a gut feeling, over or underestimating yourself and your team whatever it might be. It doesn't change the fact that, sometimes, you just feel it deep within you, buried in your bones, and you feel powerless. Your future hangs in the hands of fate, whether it's a good or a bad outcome; though you don't want to complain when you win, you also don't want to mention that feeling after you lose out of fear of it sounding like a 'gotcha!' moment.

          The lesser evil in our loss is that it can't be attributed to one single bad play or one player that's not having a good day on the ice.

          The downside of that is that there's no way of pinpointing exactly what has gone wrong so we can improve on it and ensure we won't make the same mistakes. It also leads to finger pointing and mutual blaming, emotions heightened thanks to the adrenaline pumping in our veins, and the frustration brought by the loss only worsens the situation, especially when we can't afford to lose.

          We're not out of the championship yet, but, as Coach Gonzalez wisely (and furiously) pointed out after the end of first period, we might as well be if we continue playing this miserably and can't get along. We were too busy fighting with each other to even bother arguing with him, but we also knew he was right.

          It should have pushed us to do better once we headed back to the ice, when there was still time to turn the match around, but we were too distracted and caught up in our own egotistical ways of thinking to focus on the task at hand. We've only had one job on the ice—keep our heads in the game, do whatever it takes to win, trust our teammates, and pull our own weight. Sounds simple enough in theory.

          Not even Andy could salvage things.

          It's complicated when the one person you can always count on to keep their head cool and be the voice of reason just so happens to be more distracted than the entire team combined.

          I want to give him some grace, remembering he has a lot more on his plate than most of us, but there are times when I need to concentrate on myself and what I'm doing instead of attempting to keep an eye on whatever everyone else on the team is doing. It's probably why I've never been captain material.

          When the person you've been trusting all along to shoulder the responsibilities of the captain position doesn't step up like they should (and like they know they should), however . . . that's a whole new can of worms.

          I know he's more frustrated about his poor performance more than any of us or Coach Gonzalez could possibly be, so I don't give him hell once we're off the ice, especially after the screaming sessions we've had to endure, but not everyone is like me, unfortunately. I have to politely ask Jeff to back off and lay off of him halfway through his listing of adversary points that didn't have to exist yet did because Andy wasn't the perfect goalie, even though I agree there were some slip ups that are, in my eyes, slightly inexcusable. At this point in the championship and in his career—he's been playing for far longer than I have, even though I'm the legacy player, modesty aside—there's no reason for him to be making amateur mistakes.

          As the locker room vacates and everyone runs off to lick their own wounds in private, it's just me and him. I know there's nothing I can do or say to make the sting of defeat burn any less, much like I know he doesn't expect me to give him a pep talk (that's his signature move, not mine, anyway), but I still stay. Maybe the company will help, or so I'm hoping, but there's a chance it will have the exact opposite effect by being another reminder of someone he has let down.

          "Go on, then," Andy finally croaks out. "Say it. I know you've been dying to."

          "Huh?"

          "Rub it in my face that I fucked up. I know that. The whole team has already let me know, Coach Gonzalez wants my head hung on his wall, and you're hovering like you want to say something and pretending like you don't. Let it out, dude."

          I cross my arms, leaning my back against a locker. "What is it with the self-pitying act all of a sudden? You want me to criticize you for playing badly when the whole team played like shit just so you can turn it into a moment of teaching to make me grow as a person. Sorry to burst your bubble, but I'm not falling for the bait."

          He scoffs. "Bait? What bait?"

          "Man, I don't know where you're going with this, but I'm not going to let you spiral out of control by picking an argument with me. If the roles were reversed—"

          "If the roles were reversed, it would make sense. I'm the team captain; I don't get to make this kind of mistake."

          We both stare at each other in sepulchral silence as the reality of his words dawn on us.

          I know he didn't mean it, that he's just going through something that's affecting him at a deeper level than he wants to show and he's lashing out, but I'm wincing inward from the weight of what he said. Maybe he didn't mean it, but it still came out, which means he must have thought about it at some point in our lives—I'm the one who's supposed to make mistakes. I'm the screw up. He's the fixer. Rinse. Repeat.

          I expected some sort of comment like that from anyone but him—literally anyone on the team but him. Not my captain, and certainly not my best friend.

          "I didn't mean it like that," Andy mutters, burying his head in his hands. I've never seen him look this shattered, which cracks the ice in my heart just a little bit, but it's still hardened and frozen. There are things you just can't take back or pretend to not have heard, not even if you trust the other person with your life. Sometimes, they just fuck up, even those you spent years looking up to. "I wasn't trying to say—"

          "I know."

          "—but it still came across that way."

          He abruptly rises from the bench and proceeds to pace around the locker room, fingers intertwined on the back of his head. Even his demeanor is different, more hunched forward, and I know it's not just because of our defeat. It stings, but we can always get over it, even in December. We're still in the running for the championship trophy and title and he's not that sore of a loser—not explicitly, at least.

          "Look, man," I continue, making my way towards the door, now that it's clear the damage has already been done. "It's fine if you want to keep it to yourself. I know you've had to put up with my mood swings all these years and never complained, but, in case you feel like venting . . . if you want to talk about whatever is bothering you, you know where to find me. Just don't try to turn this loss or what happened in your personal life onto me because we both know I have nothing to do with this."

          Andy turns to me like he wants to say something. I look at him like I want to beg him to open up like how he's done to me so many times before, but our pride will forever speak louder than anything else. Even if he doesn't let it show nearly as often or as exuberantly as I or other guys on the team do, he's nursing his wounds and pretending they don't bother him.

          He's been there through all my turmoil, my most heartbreaking lows and most epic highs, and I can't even do the same thing for him because I hate seeing him like this. I can't do the same for him because he's right; he's the one who never screws up, who always picks up our pieces, and I need him to be that person for himself.

          That's not fair.

          It's what should push me to invite him to grab a bite at Mona's, like some comfort food will be the magic cure, but I'm hurt by the implications of his biting comment, damn it. I'm petty enough to let it blind me.

          So, for his sake, I linger just a while longer. I trust our telepathic bond to do its job and send him the message I'm too big of a coward to voice.

          When he speaks, the three words that come out of his mouth shatter my entire world.

          "We broke up."

          The thing about Andy and Jackie is that they're one of those couples you just know belong together.

          They've always been attached by the hip, ever since I can remember, and it's been Andy-and-Jackie from the start. Maybe that's the core issue; they've always been seen as unbreakable, their separation being the most unthinkable concept, that maybe they thought they really would survive anything.

          I thought they would be able to survive anything, too; hell, how many times had we all joked about the three certainties of life? Death, taxes, and Andy and Jackie withstanding every hurdle, every obstacle in their path. Roaches during a nuclear catastrophe would have nothing on them.

          Until now. Until I stare at my crestfallen best friend, shattered after one loss after another. It's no wonder he couldn't stay focused on the game or on defending the goal, and I can't even begin to fathom how shipwrecked and lost he must be feeling right now.

          They were the couple that just stays together, that gets together early on and gets married, one of those epic love stories Brie adores so much and swears by, and I think even he was convinced of it. They were the dream couple, everyone's relationship goals both on and off social media, and they even have Daisy to complete the picture perfect ideal of a family.

          Even I, someone who has never really considered that version of what my future will look like—not until Brie, anyway; everything has always revolved around my ice hockey career until she turned my world upside down and made it feel more familiar somehow—aspired to be that kind of guy, coming home to a loving family.

          What happens when the dream dies? What then?

          "Holy shit," I blurt out, ever so eloquently. Andy saves me from the embarrassment of watching him roll his eyes at me, like I'm the one who gets to get all the comfort. It's what he wants, I think—the comfort, just the thought of having someone be there for him unconditionally—but it's coming from the wrong person. It's Jackie he wants and, at the end of the day, she's always been the one who truly got him. "Holy fucking shit."

          "You tell me." He exhales, attempting to relax his shoulders, but falls back to the bench like he's simply giving up. I don't even know what to say—if there's anything I can blabber that will make it hurt less, even just a tiny bit. Nothing I say will help. "Yeah. It's been a really shitty day. I'm not trying to justify the pitiful way I played out there and I don't think anyone should be cutting me some slack, but everything's just . . . piling up, you know?"

          Boy, do I know the feeling.

          I walk up to him, as shy as a teensy mouse, and give him an awkward pat on the shoulder. Hug your best friend, damn it. "You were bound to collapse eventually. You've been under a lot of pressure these past few years."

          He stiffens under my touch. "I'm not used to feeling this overwhelmed. I've always been so good at juggling everything, and there's a side of me that thinks I should've seen it coming. Things hadn't been great for a while, but . . . I guess I still held on to that sliver of hope that I was wrong. That I was just self-sabotaging. And then, it exploded. Imploded. Whatever. I don't care about semantics. I feel like my heart just got blown into pieces."

          It's times like these that make me wish I was raised differently, as selfish as it sounds. Though my family has generally been great, we've never been experts at discussing our feelings with each other or having emotionally charged conversations; most of the time, we pretend those complicated little gremlins in our brains aren't there and just brush them under the rug and close the curtains.

          I don't blame anyone but myself—after all, Lorelai turned out just fine, as charismatic and empathetic as one can be—for being emotionally stunted. Everyone has done the best they could, but, as with everything in my life, it doesn't feel nearly enough.

          I wasn't a good enough son, failing to protect my father from prying eyes and leading to his secrets being splashed on an academic paper, even with all identifying information having been removed; anyone who knows either of us at a deeper level will know what those paragraphs and analyses are referring to. I still am not; instead, I'm a disgrace to the family name.

          I wasn't a good enough boyfriend to either Brie or Magnolia, wrecking both relationships in different yet definite ways. Even if my relationship with Magnolia wasn't more than just a situationship, even though Brie and I have somehow made it work after all the chaos, it still doesn't erase any of the hell I put them both through thanks to my inability to process a single complex emotion.

          I wasn't a good enough player to carry us to victory today, and I've witnessed individual players completely change a game on their own before, so it's not impossible in theory.

          I'm not being a good enough best friend to the one person whose faith in me has never wavered. He's right in front of me, giving all the signs he needs me to be there for him properly, and I can't do that. I'm just blabbering dumb shit, failing to even hug him. The only emotion this failure of a brain is recognizing and holding on to is, ironically, confusion.

          Still. Why in the world am I thinking about my upbringing and my flaws when my best friend has just had his entire world collapse and slip so far out of its axis it can't even find a new orbit?

          "What happened?" I insist. "Like, I'm . . . I guess I'm trying to make some sense out of—"

          "There's no rational explanation. It just ended."

          "I get that, but . . . you were so in love. It just—"

          Andy sighs, and it's the saddest sound I've ever heard. "It wasn't enough. Most times, it's not enough. You know things hadn't been okay for a while, and it wasn't hard to figure out we were both miserable. I think at this point we were just staying together for the sake of familiarity and nostalgia and comfort. For Daisy. We tried so hard to stay together for Daisy's sake, but it wouldn't be fair to her. She's young now, but she would end up picking up on it later on."

          "How is she taking it?"

          "She's not familiar with the concept of breaking up, right? To her, she just won't see Mom and Dad together in the same space as often. She'll wonder why, we'll come up with excuses, and she'll grow up resenting us for all eternity. It's what my parents did to me and my sisters, so you'd expect me to know better; instead, I'm just here following in their footsteps. Broken parents create broken homes."

          My chest clenches. "You couldn't have known."

          "I could have. It's the only thing I've ever known about relationships; you can try all you want, but you always end up making your parents' mistakes at some point. You mimic the main relationship you grew up around. The adults are supposed to know better, but they still pass on these patterns down to their children, who pass it down to their own children, and that's how you build generations and generations of people who shouldn't have been allowed to procreate."

          I don't think things are necessarily that linear, but that's not the point. Nothing I say will convince him we're not our parents and nothing is ever that predetermined, so I finally get my head out of my ass and ask him out on a proper best friend date at Mona's—just the two of us, no girls, no kids, no depressing talk. Shockingly enough, he accepts, and we make our way outside, where I'm expecting to find Brie—the one comforting thing about today.

          However, Brie isn't the one waiting for me outside the rink. Magnolia is.

          "Hey," she timidly greets, tucking a blonde lock behind her ear. "Can we talk?"

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rip andyjackie you would've loved exile by taylor swift and bon iver