Page 13 of The Switched-Up Playbook
I may have a whole season left, but the Rebels are already working on my replacement.
***
“Nooo! Hoff! What the fuck kind of pass was that?!”
I do a double take to my linemate as I circle behind the net. Aldridge has just missed out on my third pass in a row, and yet he seems to blame me for his lack of scoring. For a sophomore the guy has a lot of attitude, which doesn’t make it easy to cater good assists to him.
“You know you have to makesomeeffort yourself, yes? Standing around and looking pretty isn’t going to get the puck into the net,” I grouse as I skate back toward him, then come to an abrupt stop. I take the weight off of my injured leg as I stand.It’s been hard to figure out if it’s hurting—specificallyhurting—ever since I’ve gone back to training. During the season, a hockey player’s body feels like one giant bruise. Everything hurts to some degree.
“Well,youcan’t just play your own game! You have to fit in with Jacob and me, and you’re never where I need you!” Aldridge berates me, his gloved hand gesturing between our right wing and him. Dunn, who hasn’t done anything other than skate up and down the right side throughout the scrimmage, holds up both of his hands in defense.
“You’re never where I need you, either,” I counter lamely. There’s not a lot of conviction behind my words, just the lingering feeling that maybe Aldridge is right—I’m not where I’m supposed to be. Skating down the left side feels like chasing the ghost of my past seasons: always a second or two too slow, my legs not pumping hard enough.
Not to mention that my mind is still in the locker room, circling around that fucking article. Over the past ninety minutes I’ve analyzed that short headline to death, trying to tell myself that it doesn’t mean the deal is closed yet, that maybe it’s just speculation. I’ve rummaged my brain for Autin’s stats, trying to estimate if I could measure up. It’s a stupid game that gets me nothing but missed scoring opportunities and sloppy passes. And whenever that happens, I feel De Andre’s gaze lingering on me.
It happens again when I line up for the next face off, which Miller wins with so much ease, he actually throws me a confused look before passing the puck along. My cheeks burn with shame as I mentally tally this loss on my long list of today’s shortcomings.
I purposefully hang back after Coach blows the whistle on today’s session. Some of the guys stay behind for extra passingdrills, but when I make an attempt to get in line with Dunn, Coach just waves me off.
“You do not need passing drills,” he tells me, which makes me grit my teeth. Because while I technically know I don’t need extra drills, I am still clueless about what Idoneed to get back to where I have been.
“Will you come to my game on Saturday?” Milo asks, hopping down from where he spent the past two hours pretending to do his homework in the stands. During the scrimmage I caught a glimpse of him holding his math book upside down, so he probably didn’t make a lot of progress.
“I don’t know if it’s a game day.” I pretend to think hard about this as I collect the pylons with the end of my stick, then hold them out to the boy, who eagerly takes them from me.
“Nooo, you play on Friday,” he corrects me promptly, causing me to bite back a grin.
“Is that so?” I tease, but the grin feels fake on my lips.
If I see any ice time at all, a mean voice promptly whispers inside my head.
“Yup,” Milo confirms happily, then pouts at me a mere second later. “I think it’s stupid that you don’t come to our training anymore.”
I snort at the quick change of emotions, shaking my head.
While my teammates were enjoying their summer break with their families, I had taken Coach up on the offer to assist him with the local hockey camp. It was mostly a chance to get some ice time alone in the evenings, but now that it’s over, I almost miss the kids. It’s easy to impress them with a few tricks at that age, and not one of them complained about my game. I wish I could go back a month or two, to those summer days that still held so much hope for me.
“I would, but your dad probably won’t like that idea if it means missing my own training,” I chuckle, then ruffle his blond hair asI finally make my way off the ice. “But you can save me a seat on Saturday.”
Parting ways with Milo, I stalk toward the locker room. Despite the news about the Rebels’ trading plans, the short exchange brought a small smile to my face. I could probably manage to convince Linden and Olli to visit the game with me and cheer Milo on. From what I’ve seen during camp, he doesn’t have a lot of friends and–
“Honestly, I think by now we would be better off without him.”
I come to an abrupt halt at the sound of Aldridge’s haughty voice. Even though I’ve just caught the end of the conversation, I instinctively know it’s about me. I draw up my shoulders as I stay rooted to my spot in the hallway, suddenly hyper aware of the sweat running down my back and forehead.
“I mean it’s not his fault what happened to his knee, but he’s just not playing the same anymore, you know? Why else would the Rebels have traded for Autin?” Aldridge continues. I’m only a few steps away from the entrance to the locker room, and the door is slightly ajar, so I get an eyeful of his pale ass as he towels off without a care in the world. My eyes are fixed on the pimples on his back as I try to control my breathing.
Nate would know what to say right now—he always does. He’d easily remind Aldridge of his own shortcomings, like how he’s refusing to help out the defense despite his center position, or about how whiny he is, contesting the ref’s every decision. My mouth, however, is dried up, my tongue in as many knots as my stomach as I stand there, motionless.
I wish I could just dissolve right on the spot and not hear one more word coming out of his mouth.
No, I wish I had it in me to lunge forward and push him up against the wall, getting right into his face for talking shit behind my back. I want to ask him what he’s done for this team in the one season he’s played so far, how many beatings he’s taken forit, how many games he’s attended with crutches just to watch helplessly from the stands. My blood is burning with rage, my jaw clenched so impossibly tight.
I’m waiting for the eyes of my teammates to find me. For one of them to stand up and fucking say something. But there’s nothing except for some quiet mumbles that could be agreement or disapproval, while lockers slam and showers run in the background. Aldridge continues talking, but I can’t hear him anymore. My ears are filled with white noise as I step away unnoticed.
My instincts tell me to go back on the ice—skate up and down until my lungs are burning and my eyes sting from the sweat—but I can’t possibly face the rest of my team. I can’t look at my former linemates, Zollweg and Kristiansson, and ask myself if they think the same: that they are better off without me, too.
I aimlessly wander the tunnel, then randomly push open the next door I pass. The storage room is completely dark, the stuffy smell of dusty shelves and damp mops greeting me as I get comfortable between forgotten pieces of equipment. I’m in excellent company here—broken and redundant.
