I don’t say anything, because what is there to say? It’s probably better we ended it now anyway, especially with her moving to Chicago. I’d want to see her all the time, and I’d try to be her boyfriend, and I’d ruin it by messing around with someone else. It’s the whole apple-and-apple-tree scenario.

By the time we get to security, I’m feeling my hangover. I’ve got the sweats, and I think I’m going to hurl. I’m not very steady on my feet either. I take off my jacket and shoes and throw them into one of the bins. I follow with my belt and phone. Then I empty the contents of my pockets, starting with my wallet.

I check for change and find Lily’s wadded up panties. It’s the pair I bought her when I surprised her in Guelph. She looked so good in them. And out of them. I rub the soft lace between my fingers.

Lance is behind me. He elbows me in the side. “Balls, put your souvenir away.”

“It’s not a fuckin’ souvenir,” I growl.

He puts a hand on my shoulder. “Keep it together, man.”

I toss the panties in the bin and push it down the ramp. The security chick gives me a look, but I’m too morose to care. I wait while the guy pats me down, and then collect all my stuff, shoving the panties back in my pocket before anything else.

I don’t talk to anyone on the plane ride, mostly because I feel like a bag of shit, physically and mentally. I’m grateful for the hour of sleep I manage. The nap makes me feel marginally better. By the time we land, the nausea has passed for the most part, but all the other shit is still there.

As soon as we get to the hotel, I hijack the bathroom and shower to get rid of the booze smell. Miller’s lying on his bed, watching sports highlights. “Your phone’s been going off.”

I check it, but it’s not Lily. It’s my mom, wishing me good luck in the game. I feel guilty that I didn’t see her more over the holidays, especially since my sister didn’t come home, but I was with Lily. I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t invite her to meet my mom.

“Not who you wanted it to be?” Miller asks.

“Nope.” I toss my phone on the bed. I should call my mom, but I don’t feel like talking to anyone. I rub my chest, annoyed by the weird ache.

“You could call her, you know.”

I drop down on the mattress and lie back against the pillows. “What would be the point? I can’t make this something it isn’t supposed to be.”

“What does that even mean?”

“She said she wasn’t having fun anymore, end of story.” I don’t want to tell him what I said to her. How shitty I made her feel. How I blamed her when it was my damn fault.

“She say why she wasn’t having fun?” Miller asks.

“She said it was getting too intense. Look, I’m in a shitty mood. I know you’re trying to help, Miller, but talking about it makes me feel worse. I just wanna focus on strategy for the game, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. I’m gonna shower, and then we can go get something to eat with the team.”

***

I’m sitting on the bench, waiting for the whistle to blow so I can get on the ice and get out some of this aggression. We’re down one, and Waters has something going on with his shooting arm. He’s been rubbing his shoulder every time he gets off the ice. As soon as it’s my turn, I rush down the ice after the puck.

I put all my focus into getting close to the net. Westinghouse is parallel to me. I pass the puck, but one of the guys from Colorado manages to trip him up with a dirty move and gains control. He doesn’t keep it for long, though. Miller’s got things under control, and manages to get the puck back.

I camp out in front of the net, knowing if Miller can get it back to Westinghouse, he’ll pass to me. Colorado’s defense knows this, too. Number sixty-three is on me, nudging me in the back with his stick. I’m not in the mood for bullshit tonight.

I get behind him and give a little shove back. He elbows me, so I shift my foot between his and nudge the back of his knee, setting him off balance. We go down together. I wait until he grabs my jersey before I take hold of his. As we fall, I flip us.

When I’m on a slick surface with blades on my feet and I’m going down, there’s one essential rule: always be on top. He’s spitting obscenities, pissed because I pulled a shady move. But he’s been a problem all game. My plan isn’t to fight, though. All I want is to get him off my back. But he starts swinging, so I don’t have a choice but to deflect.

He grabs my cage.

There are very few things that really make me angry on the ice. Chippy playing is one of them. Asshole defense is another. And cage-grabbing makes me see red. I hold his helmet with both hands, pinning his head to the ice. I keep trying to get traction, but he’s still holding on to my cage with one hand, and trying to punch me with the other, so my feet keep sliding out from under me.

It takes three tries for me to get up. The crowd is going crazy. Colorado fans are screaming at the refs to do something. Chicago fans are just as wild. I shove off the guy as the whistle blows. I’m not surprised by the penalty, but at least Colorado gets one, too.

“Nice ice-hump there, Balls. That’ll look awesome on the highlights.” Miller pats me on the shoulder on my way to the penalty box.

We end up losing the game by one. At the bar some chick offers to make me feel better. She has dark hair like Lily’s, but it’s longer. Her lips are red, and her boobs are bigger. Her eyes are blue. I could try to fuck out some of the anger and whatever else is going on inside me, but I think it’ll have the opposite effect.