RHETT

          Our first game of the year starts off uneventfully, so painfully average you'd think something is amiss.

          In my case, when things feel too normal, too okay, more often than not it ends up being a red flag, a clear reason for concern. Naturally, the rational side of my brain is well aware this is no way to live and that I need to enjoy the moment, but, if I had my way, that side would always overpower the one that's governed by my anxiety and perpetual fear that something will go awry.

          The game doesn't start when we step out into the rink, blades speeding across the ice. The pregame, all the preparation—that matters too, sometimes more than the match itself, as it sets the tone, the mood, the morale of the team.

          With our captain still being trapped in a slump, a spiral of self-destruction following the breakup, any missteps can be deadly damaging, and I'm trying to be as careful as possible around him. He's never been one to snap at people or to wreak havoc in a fit of rage, but I convince myself I can never be too cautious, even if this is one of the few human beings in the world I unconditionally trust.

          I trust him to handle himself and the team when he's doing well, which is far from the current circumstances, and I'm still a bitter asshole who can't let go of the words that came out of his mouth the day I found out he and Jackie had broken up.

          Realizing even my best friend sees me as a screw up has been eye-opening.

          Even if he didn't really mean it, even if those words were only uttered out of desperation, out of heartbreak, they had been floating around in his brain. He didn't conjure them out of thin air. And that hurts like a bitch.

          Although the wise thing to do is to simply move on from that, I've never been great at that; even when it's counterproductive, even when hanging on to a painful event is the worst possible decision I could make, I'm still there. I'm still believing myself to be unworthy of the benefits of getting over something for my own benefit.

          "I know the conditions are far from ideal, but we need to make do with what we have and prove to those guys out there that no one messes with us and gets away with it," Andy begins, as we form a semi-circle in front of him. "Ideally, we'd be playing in Bennington for the home advantage, but we're here in New York and know the odds are stacked against us. We've been through worse and made it out, so this is no different."

          Some things never change, including his signature pep talk before a match to encourage and motivate us, and I'm learning to not take those for granted.

          My therapist has been a true saint, being patient with me in spite of my increasing frustration about not being able to function like everyone else around me. Whenever my thoughts start going downhill, taking a nosedive straight to rock bottom, he helps me center myself, return my world to its axis, and has me rely on simple techniques that are surprisingly effective. By focusing on things I can objectively feel with my senses, I somehow manage to stay grounded in the present instead of going off on a tangent to follow a subjective idea or train of thought.

          It helps when there are constants. The familiarity is welcoming and comforting instead of boring. It helps my brain internalize the idea that not everything is out to get me and that these never-changing aspects of my life are positive.

          So, when Coach Gonzalez pulls me aside right after we exit the locker room, the break of my routine makes my blood freeze. He pulls me by an arm, the same way you pull someone away in what you think is a covert manner and hide with them in a dark alley, and my mind instantly starts racing, just like that, wondering what I could have possibly done wrong this time.

          I think I've been a model player these past few weeks.

          Realistically, objectively speaking, I've been borderline perfect. I've made no mistakes on the ice, both during practice and matches, and off the ice, never missing any workouts, never eating outside of my meal plan, and going to bed at appropriate times. This body is a goddamn temple.

          I socialize with other people, never really being alone with my thoughts except right before I go to sleep (and Brie sometimes sneaks into my dorm room, so there are nights when I have to share a bed). I support my teammates—all of them, not just Andy—and help both coaches come up with new strategies. I make everyone proud—Coach Gonzalez, the team, Brie, my family.

          All things considered, I could be doing a lot worse, and I'm not. Like I always say—I don't lose. This is why I can't come up with an explanation about why I'm being pulled aside, away from my team immediately before an important match when I'm supposed to be focused on what I need to do on the ice. Everything else can wait; now, I need to be Rhett Price, ice hockey player. Rhett Price, friend/boyfriend/son/human being will have to wait.

          "I'm sorry for dumping this on you last minute," he tells me, in a completely non-apologetic manner. I shoot a panicked look in Andy's direction, but he replies with a noncommittal shrug, throwing me to the wolves. I suppose I deserve that; there comes a time in every young man's life when he has to take full responsibility for his actions and deal with stuff on his own. I'm a bird set free. "We need to talk. It's important."

          I gulp. "Can't it wait, Coach? I—"

          "In case you didn't catch what I said—I said I'm sorry for dumping this on you last minute. That means no, it absolutely cannot wait for you to be prepared for a serious conversation, whenever that might be. Shut up and listen to me for once."

          "Sorry, Coach."

          "Long story short, there may or may not be a scout for the New York Islanders here tonight"—I almost have to pick up my jaw from the floor after that reveal—"and I may or may not have received some insider info that they're wanting to recruit new blood. Whether you've considered them as an option for a professional career or not doesn't matter, but surely you understand how big of a deal this is."

          If it weren't for his colossal figure standing in front of me, I would be sprawled out on the floor out of shock by now.

          The Islanders have never been my first choice, but I'd be lying if I said I never considered playing for them. They're known because they're good, and I'm known because I'm good and because of my last name. And my reputation. But that's different. All things considered, we're a great match for each other, the Islanders and I, but New York . . .

         New York isn't that far from Vermont, and this isn't a guaranteed thing. The scout might not want to recruit me after all (if Andy plays well tonight, I'm certain he'll be the one getting recruited if there's only one spot available) and I don't want to plan ahead any more than what I absolutely need to, even though my anxiety wants me to worry about every possible outcome. Creating big expectations will only set me up for disappointment if they don't come to fruition.

          I do want to be recruited, though. It's what I've been chasing my whole life, so desperate to make my family proud, so desperate to make me proud of my accomplishments; if there has ever been one night when I can't afford to screw up, it's this one.

          "The Islanders," I blurt out. "Wow."

          "I need you to play like you've never played before, but I also need you to be extra cautious. Don't pull a Jeff and try to go for flashy plays if you're not one hundred percent sure it's going to work out in your favor. Jeff has the luxury of having one more year of college left; you don't." I purse my lips. I'm well aware I won't have many second chances this school year. "For crying out loud, play for the team, not for the scout. We still have a championship to win, and we need you if we want to win. That includes not putting your health at risk."

          "I'll be at the top of my game and impress the scout, Coach. I promise." I raise my hand, index, middle, and ring fingers up. "Scout's honor." A pregnant pause befalls us. "Get it?"

          Unsurprisingly, Coach Gonzalez doesn't chuckle or laugh. He doesn't even crack the faintest of smiles. Instead, he stares at me like I just told him I've kidnapped his daughter and that he'll find me.

          Then, he pats me in the shoulder, a bit harder than necessary, still without as much as a smirk. It takes me quite the considerable effort to remain upright without losing my balance.

          "Good thing you're a hockey player instead of a comedian, Price."

ᓚᘏᗢ

          I don't embarrass myself, my family's good name, or the team on the ice.

          In fact, none of us do, shockingly enough, and we're not the ones running away, tail between our legs, following a humiliating defeat—for once. After that one loss, the one that stings hard even now, weeks later, everyone was determined to not allow such a thing to happen again.

          We play to our strengths—namely defensively, taking advantage of the stronger, wider players, their build, and stability to help protect Andy, both literally and figuratively. The defensemen are vital to secure a victory; they attempt to anticipate the opponents' moves, cutting their options short before they can think of an alternative, forcing them to the side to block the straightest path. The way they move to back each other up, creating 1-on-2 situations to steal and secure the puck, is so smooth it feels as though they've been doing it since forever.

          There are things you only fully understand when you've played a team sport for as long as we have—and have played together for that long, too. You learn to anticipate your own teammates' moves, not needing them to announce how they're going to move aloud, which ends up being an advantage. That way, the opponent can't see it coming, and those mere seconds they spend being caught off-guard end up being precious.

          It takes a monumental effort—the guys from the NYU Violets are no slouches—but we come out on top, one step closer to the coveted championship title and trophy, one step closer to a professional contract. A part of it is in my hands, but I hate that the bigger part of it isn't; I can't force the scout to choose me out of everyone else, I can't announce to the world I'm so desperate to go pro and prove to my family I'm not the disappointment they believe me to be.

          It's pathetic, but I find myself on the verge of tears once the whistle is blown for the final time, marking the end of the match and announcing our victory over the Violets. It's not even because I'm sad; it's mostly because I should be happy that we won, but I'm so overcome with nausea and nervousness that I can't even enjoy the win or partake in the celebrations.

          Instead, I search for the scout on the stands, despite knowing they know how to blend in with the crowd, mostly to prevent players from worrying too much about being visible to them instead of keeping their head in the game—something I barely succeeded at doing. I was good, but not perfect, and professional teams demand a level of perfection I have yet to attain. Andy, on the other hand . . .

          The green-eyed monster living in my head almost jumps at the chance to spin a selfish thought about how I deserve it more than my best friend, but I rush to push it away before I start spiraling. It's never a good thing to lose control and end up alone with my negative, most hurtful thoughts, and it's humiliating to have to shake my head to physically make them disappear and leave me alone.

          If Andy gets signed, I'll be happy for him, regardless of how badly I want the same thing. That's both a certainty and a promise.

          So, as I drag my sorry ass out of the rink, fully convinced I missed my shot despite playing my best (which clearly wasn't enough), I feel so drained, so saturated I don't have the energy to watch where I'm going or who I walk right into. The person I run into is built like a truck, too big to be one of the guys or even my dad, and I grumble a half-hearted apology through gritted teeth.

          "It's fine," they say. "Do you mind if I steal a minute of your time?"

          "No interviews, sorry," I groan, sounding a lot snarkier than intended. No one asks me for interviews these days; the only one who did was Magnolia, and that was without my knowledge or consent. If she didn't care about my feelings, why did I care about protecting her all along, especially when she won't leave me alone? "I have to go. I need to get changed—"

          The man standing in front of me raises an eyebrow so high it nearly bleeds into his hairline. "It won't take long. Take my card. Here"—I reluctantly take the business card he hands me, thinking I couldn't care any less about some random man interrupting my self-deprecation session, but then my heart skips a thousand beats once my eyes scan the words—"just take it."

          "You're the scout," I breathe out. He flashes me an amused smirk. "Fuck. I mean—God, I'm sorry. I was stuck in my head. I'm so sorry."

          "Tough day?"

          I let out a bitter laugh. "Something along those lines."

          "I understand. It's not an easy sport. It's not an easy life, that of an athlete." I stiffly nod, praying I haven't blown my chances, even though I'm clutching the business card for dear life. "I should've expected I wouldn't blend in as well as I hoped I would."

          "To be honest, I didn't see you. I was focused on the game. I wanted to score. I wanted to help carry my team to victory."

          "And that you did, son. You sure did." I allow myself to exhale. "This isn't binding, but just know we have an eye out on you. Not just you, but you were the first one I ran into. Figured I'd shoot my shot." He gives me a one-shoulder shrug, looking effortlessly calm while doing so, while there's not a single muscle in my body that isn't stiff and aching. "We'll get in touch. Keep up the good work."

          He pats me in the shoulder, a lot gentler than Coach Gonzalez, and, for a moment, I almost believe I'm out of the woods. I almost believe I've done something right, but then everything comes crashing down as soon as my stupid fucking brain reminds me there was no contract or formal offer—it was just a business card.

          The NHL operates in a 'don't call us, we'll call you' manner, something I've known since I first picked up a hockey stick, so I'm unsure why I expected preferential treatment just because of my last name. Haven't I spent enough time battling against nepotism claims? Why should this be any different, just because it's my dream? Just because it's my family's dream?

          Once I'm showered, clean, and dressed, I find Brie waiting for me. She's wearing one of my jerseys, which looks comically large on her—she's even had to roll up the sleeves, and it looks fucking adorable on her—and the bright smile she throws me is almost enough to make all the anxiety go away.

          Almost.

          "Walk with me?" she asks, reaching out a hand towards me, and I take it without a second thought. "You could use a breather."

          I'd follow her anywhere.

          And I do.

‧₊˚❀༉‧₊˚.

they <3

(also if this chapter gets more engagement than the previous one just because it's a rhett chapter i'll seriously lose my mind)