Page 7 of Xander

“Half the reason fans pay good money for tickets is to watch grown men beat the shit out of each other,” I shot back. “I don’t want to let them down.”

“Just giving people what they asked for, eh?” Mark skidded to a halt as one of the opposing team’s players jabbed me on the side with his stick.

I didn’t think before taking off my helmet and gloves.

“Damnit, Maxwell!” Coach screamed as I pounced on the New York Islanders’ center, which quickly escalated into a fistfight.

I clocked him in the face, and he also got in a punch. The hit was a welcome distraction. The pain dulled away the gaping ache of disappointment, one I’d become agonizingly familiar with, and made me feel alive.

The roaring crowd egged me on, and I was suddenly grateful for loving a game that glorified violence. I never allowed myself to lose control off of the ice. This was the only time I had a pass. I barely felt it when he punched me again, and a penalty was announced.

The penalty only fueled my fire. The moment I was back, I darted across the ice for my first goal. Canadians loved their hockey. What they lacked in number on American soil, fans made up for with enthusiasm and cheered until their voices gave out.

I wasn’t done chasing this high, though. Since she wasn’t here, there was only one way I could seek euphoria. I played with a single-minded focus, channeling all my pent-up frustration into the puck. Before the end of the second period, I made three more attempts at the net, one of them making successful contact. The continuous roar of the crowd was intoxicating, urging me on as I slammed opponents into the glass and racked up goals.

It still wasn’t enough to numb me. The three-hour game made me feel alive with adrenaline and ice spray, knowing I’d crash and burn from this high right after. It was always the same—I was all right on the ice, then it was empty numbness until the next time.

We were up 4–2 by the final buzzer, but the high was already fading. Unable to help it, my eyes drifted once more to the stands. The familiar wound ignited in my chest as I looked out at the unfamiliar faces. Like always, I was disappointed when her radiant face didn’t pop up in their midst.

Even though today’s game was set during the day, it was five o’clock when I left the arena. It was the last game before our bye week, and we had to tie up loose ends. As soon as I threw my duffel in the back seat of the rental car, my phone pinged with a fury of incoming texts.

Jasper: Did anyone make it to Xander’s game today? I have a group project until 8 p.m. Otherwise, I would’ve been there.

I studied the first message in the group thread. Guilt was evident in Jasper’s tone, even through a text. He had been my number-one fan since the day I picked up a hockey stick, and I was the reason he started playing. I didn’t want him worrying about attending my games, though. I wanted him to focus on school, hockey games, and being a college kid.

All the same, I internally cursed him for shedding light on forgetting to inform my cousins about being geographically close.

Caden: Xander’s in town?

Damon: I would’ve gone to his game had I known.

Jasper: Oh, shit. I thought he told everyone.

Damon: Nope.

Bitterness seeped through the messages. Perhaps their complaints were justified based on my prolonged absence from the group. I was honestly too distracted about seeing her again.

Xander: It slipped my mind.

Caden: Really?

Damon: How does it slip your mind that you’ll be in New York?

I stared at the disgruntled messages and tried to make amends.

Xander: My bad. Let’s get together. I’m free after dinner.

Against my best judgment, I scheduled a visit with my father… and her. Unfortunately, I had to brace against her alone since Jasper had bowed out. At least I could line up a distraction for later in the evening. When it came to her, lots of distractions were required.

Caden: Damon wants to crash an Ambani party tonight.

Jasper: What!?

Damon: I’ll explain later.

Jasper: Have you guys lost your minds?

Caden: Calm down. It’s a masquerade party. No one will recognize us with masks on.