He nibbles on my neck. “You don’t mean to do it. You’re somehow oblivious and self-aware at the same time, and you unintentionally lead people on. You blink your pretty eyes, and they fall under your spell. I might not survive you, McKinnon.”
I thread my fingers through his, yawning. Couldn’t sleep to save my life last night. But with Luke? I’ll be out cold soon.
“You’re right, I don’t get it. I mean, I know I’m pleasant to look at.”
“There’s the self-awareness.”
“But I’m up front with everyone. I never promised Andy anything.”
“This is where the obliviousness comes in. You’re a celebrity. To a guy like Andy, that was an invitation from the king. Imagine how disappointed he was when he thought you had a girlfriend. Still doesn’t justify his actions, but I can understand the psychology of the whole thing.”
“Yeah, I get it. I have to be more careful. Didn’t pick up on Katrina on my own either. I figured it out through your cues—I’m fluent in Daddy. That’s something, right?”
“That’s something,” he says. Luke presses a kiss to the back of my head. “Let’s hope she doesn’t join the ranks of people who want revenge because you won’t sleep with them. I’d hate to have to add her to my list—I liked her.”
“Liked?”
“She wrote nice articles about you. Didn’t you read them? She quoted you in interviews.”
“Online interviews. I was sent forms, I filled them out, and hit send. Welcome to the future, Daddy.”
“You’re lucky I just wanna do this right now.” He pulls me against him tightly. “Go to sleep, princess. I’ll watch over you.”
Luke won’t let me out of his sight, and it’s so fucking sweet. It’s like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop, or for me to break down. I have in small ways, mostly with anger. At myself, at Andy, at this whole fucking year for being so fucked. For the restof the week, I have to put up with stares and a few comments from douchebags about my “alcohol addiction”. But then it leaked that Larson McAnderson has a Benduovr Fans account he uses to pay for his tuition, and everyone moved on to that.
Thanks, bud.
But Coach hasn’t been able to locate Freshman Andy, and neither have we. He’s gone AWOL. So we’ve carried on, with our eyes peeled, trying not to buckle under the weight of the fallout.
We have a home game against Spokane this weekend, and practice is … well, it’s going. Coach announced that we’ve officially lost seventy percent of our funding. The mood is heavy.
Not just heavy. Suffocating.
No one speaks. No chirping, no swearing, just the brutal silence of impact.
In the locker room afterward, I sit on the bench like it’s a courtroom drama and I’m waiting for my sentencing. This is all my fucking fault. Some Team Captain I am. We’re not gonna have a team next year, and it’s all because I couldn’t keep my shit together. I’m not leaving a legacy; I’m leaving the ashes of one. Is this the meaning of irony? The team finally got its name on the board because of my name and Dad’s money, but it looks like I’m taking it all with me.
Whatever they have to say to me, I deserve it.
The gear around me feels too loud—sock tape rips, water bottles crack open, skates pound against the rubber flooring. My throat burns, and my heart wells with agony. I can’t let this team die.
“I should’ve been better,” I say. “I should’ve been careful, put the team and frat first. Instead, I let my own shit get in the way and now we’re paying for it.”
The root is my grief about Mom. I’ve been doing my own version of coping, except unlike Dad, who has worked on letting go, I was trying to bring her with me. Mom can’t come with usanymore. I have to fucking accept that or I’m gonna keep ruining the lives of everyone around me.
I stand up, letting the tears fall. I shouldn’t be doing this. They need a real leader. Not some grief-stricken fuck up that just wants his mommy. Because I do. I want her here so damn bad. She was supposed to do this with me. I miss her in the stands, holding up her handmade McKinnon signs. Even the cheesy one that said, “We’ve Got an Ace on the Ice.”
I miss the fucking sound of her voice.
I’ll never, ever hear it again.
Ripping off my jersey, I take a final look at the bright letter “C” on the front.
“Someone else should be captain. I don’t fucking deserve it.”
“No,” Shep says flatly.
“No fucking way,” Bender echoes.
