Long minutes later, there are a million things running through my mind, and before I realize it I’m at the Quickie-Mart. I stop and take a breather, my head aching.

I think about Reece and Willow. I knew he loved her, but to actually make a move on her and then lie…

My mind is still churning when I buy my pack of smokes and light up in the alley.

The nicotine is sharp and visceral as I blow a puff of smoke up in the air. It tastes good, this little rule break, and I lean against the wall.

I think about fate and how we have no control. People come into our lives and they slip away from us. They make their own decisions. I think about how young we were, the bad decisions we made. Willow drove that car herself. It wasn’t me. It wasn’t Reece. Maybe the outcome might have been different if I’d showed up to the party or if Reece hadn’t kissed her…but there’s no certainty in that.

I suck down the cig, watching the tip of it burn.

Out of the corner of my eye, I think I see a familiar banged-up truck pull up in front of the donut store next door, and my gaze sharpens as I see Sugar get out.

She’s got a knit hat on her head, one of those with the hole in the top so her messy bun can spill out. She’s wearing her glasses and her black coat.

I immediately light up another cig, but then she always did make me crazy. My body strains to go over to her, to take her in my arms and tell her she’s mine, but we’re past that. I hold myself back. It’s the only way I know how to protect my mind from going off the deep end.

The closer she gets, the more I tense up. I blow my smoke up in the air, making rings, but my eyes are on her, all her, and I wait for her to feel me looking, to know the force of my gaze as she walks toward the entrance of the shop.

It happens.

She glances up, her hand on the door, and halts. Beautiful, intelligent blue eyes widen as she runs them over me. My chest heaves.

All it would take…

All it would take…

All it would take is one indication from her, a crook of her finger, a longing in her eye that she wants me, goddamn just anything and I would slay anyone in my path to get to her.

But she doesn’t give it to me.

She inhales a deep breath, turns away, and goes inside the store.

And that’s why I have to leave her alone—because she will break me—and focus on making myself better.

I stub out my cigarette, throw it in the trash along with the pack, and adjust the backpack. Jogging away quickly, before she comes back out and I change my mind, I cross the intersection and head to Willow’s grave. As I have so many times before, I follow the path to her plot, a small one near her grandparents. I was fortunate that her family buried her here, just a few minutes from where her parents live in the city. There’s a fresh bouquet of flowers, magnolias and evergreen inside a stone vase, and I wonder if perhaps it’s Reece who’s been leaving them all these years. I don’t know. He and I…we have more long conversations ahead of us. I take the letters out one by one and place them inside the vase with the flowers. Some of what’s written on those pages is an outright lie, and I guess somewhere up there Willow knows the truth.

I think she’d forgive me.

I talk to her. I tell her about Reece and our fight. I tell her about hockey and how I don’t think it’s going to work out for me. Most of all, I talk about Sugar, my voice gentle. I tell her how someday when I’m ready, I’m going to get her back; I’m going to win this fight with darkness and make her see that it was her all along.

The air brightens and the sun is rising as I stand and stare down at her gravestone. I feel lighter, my shoulders lifting as I kiss two fingers and send it to her. “Rest in peace, sweet girl. I won’t forget you.”

And then I’m gone with the wind, running, always running.

I run all the way back to the house.

Reece is sitting on the couch, an ice pack on his hand.

I walk over and sit down next to him. He’s looking at me, and shit, he looks so young, even though he’s only a year behind me. I feel fucking ancient.

He stares down at his hand. “Are we okay?”

“We can deal with this,” I say, my voice thick.

His eyes gleam with emotion and he hugs me, and all that shit between us, the tension…some of it eases. Our relationship has a long way to go, but somewhere inside me, I know we’ll make it through this. I think about Sugar and the poem about the bird. Like hope, no matter the storm, I’m not giving up on the people around me.

38

Zack

Several days later, I sit inside Coach’s office. ESPN is waiting in a conference room down the hall, full of reporters, cameramen, and lights. It’s a show and we’re about to perform. We’re huddled together—Coach Swearingen, myself, Eric, and Reece—and I go over my words, running through them in my head, hoping like hell I’m making the right decision.

We lost our conference championship to Minnesota-Duluth, but our team managed to qualify on an at-large bid by the Division I Men’s Ice Hockey Committee. Somehow, with me barely playing, we clawed our way to the quarterfinals, and now the semifinals loom in front of us. There’s still a chance we can take home the trophy.

I have to finally respond to the rumors.

It’s the only way to make everything right and wipe the slate clean. My heart beats erratically. Shit. I’m actually doing this, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.

“You ready?” Eric says, and I nod, gut churning.

Reece slaps me on the back. “We’re behind you all the way, man.”

A few guys rumble their agreement behind me as we walk down the hallway. I catch Boone’s eyes and he gives me a thumbs-up.

“Nothing like baring your soul to millions of people,” I say just as we enter the room and flashbulbs burst and people rush toward the podium.

Hands wave and a cheer goes up from the crowd.

“Over here, Zack! How does it feel to be in the championships?”

I toss a hand up and send a small smile, but it’s hard. Still, I can do this. I can.

“Is it true you’re suffering from a mental illness?” someone calls out.

That one stings, the stigma I hear in the voice, and I cringe. I want to change that point of view and make them see that I’m not weak.

I’m just me.

I keep my face straight, stoic as Eric, Reece, Boone, and several other members of the team follow me down the aisle and up to the long table that’s the center of attention.

Coach talks for a few minutes about our season then introduces me. I stand and take the podium, checking the mic.

I straighten my shoulders and run my gaze over the sea of reporters. A deep breath fills my chest. I’m a warrior and there’s no quit in me. And sometimes, just maybe, rock bottom is the perfect place to rebuild.

“First off, thank you for coming out at our request and giving our school the publicity about our upcoming tournament.” I pause, seeing the expectant looks on their faces. “As you know, I’ve had some issues this season that impacted my game, and today I’m here to tell you what’s been going on.”

I clear my throat, my hands clenching the podium. Stan gives me a nod from the back.

“This season brought along the usual pressures of leading a highly ranked hockey team, countless trips out of town, late practices, and the tense games against our most bitter rivals. At the Minnesota-Duluth game, I had an anxiety attack and couldn’t go back out. It was not the flu. I’m here to tell you that this has been an ongoing issue in several games this season, and my coaches and teammates have done their best to stand behind me, even when I didn’t know if I could go on. Through continued therapy and time, I’ve focused on each game one increment at a time, one play at a time as I tackle this. I’m fighting a winning battle with this illness, and I plan to keep forging ahead.”

My voice strengthens. “We’ve had our ups and downs, but we’re a team that can withstand a few knocks to the ice. Sometimes the best leadership comes from the heart, and this team has mine. I want to lead by example, which is why I’m being as transparent as I can. I want to make sure our team reaches the Frozen Four, and there’s no doubt we can kick anyone’s ass in this tournament. We are going to climb this mountain.”

“Z! Z! Z!” calls the pep band in the back, and I smile briefly.

A tall reporter from the local station manages to wrangle his way to the front of the big ESPN guys, and I nod my head at him when he points his mic at me.

“I applaud you for admitting you have an issue. Are you worried about how this will impact your plan to play in the NHL?”

Ah. Isn’t that the million-dollar question?

“I have an open dialogue with them. They are aware.”

Several reporters turn to look at Stan, but he doesn’t make eye contact with any of them, just holds his hand up, letting them know he isn’t taking questions.

I survey the room, full of these people who live and breathe hockey in our state and even further. “I’m willing to do what it takes to win—and be healthy.”