Playing for Real - Book 2

Chapter 8

Cash 

"Brooks! Brooks! Brooks!" the crowd's chants. Hymns of praise echo into the rafters as I fly from one blue line to another.

The puck dances against my stick as I weave past the opposing team's defensive line. I break free and come face-to-face with the goalie. The crowd ripples into a heated frenzy of cheers and screams as I crack a shot on the net. It slices past the goalie's helmet and pings on the top post, tipping into the mesh.

The sirens go off. The crowd's cheers vibrate in the ice beneath my skates, and music booms through the Jumbotron. I shoot my fist in the air and slam into the boards. My teammates skate into me, patting my helmet and back.

I've tied the game against the Ohio Bulldogs, the team hockey critics said we'd never beat.

The crowd goes wild again, their cheers rising and getting louder as the replay of my goal is shown on the Jumbotron. I glance up at it, my brow furrowing. It was a wicked play, and I buried the puck hard into the net, but as I watched it, I had no desire for the spotlight that would come with my game-tying goal. I'd rather not be here, pretending to be something I'm not when all I can think about is how much I've fucked up my life.

The announcer's voice comes over the PA system: Santa Anna Tornadoes goal! Scored by Number Seventeen, Cash Brooks...

We skate back to center ice, ready for the next puck to drop. Sweat drips from my brow, and adrenaline pumps through my veins. I glance up into the crowd, breathing heavily as I scan the sea of bodies calling my name. They roar and throb with fervour, cheering me on. I love being back up in the pros. I am exactly where I need to be. No matter how many goals I score or how many fans worship the ground I walk on, it's painfully evident that something is missing in my life. Or, more pointedly, someone. My fans think I have it all together, but they don't know that once I untie my skates and hang up my jersey, my life is a living hell.

For a brief moment, I feel lightheaded, my vision blurs and my hands shake. I take a deep breath and ignore my rapid heartbeat as it pounds in my ears. The puck drops, and our sticks tangle as I steal it from the opposing centerman. A quick pass to my teammate on my right sends him flying down the boards. I can hear my coach hollering my name from the bench.

It's time to switch it up.

Skating back to the bench, I step up through the open gate and sit. Our trainer handed me a water bottle, and I squirted it into my mouth, swished it around, and spit it back out. I wish it were whiskey. I'm not stupid enough to drink before a game, which is probably why my hands won't stop shaking like a motherfucker. I can't wait for this game to end. I need to get the fuck out of here and have a goddamn drink. My self-disgust spurs me to keep slamming more water. These tremors in my hands need to go away. Unfortunately, I only know how to get rid of them is to slam a glass of whiskey. This water isn't doing shit. Thank God, I'm going out with some of my team after the game.

My teammate Jason nudges me. "Nice goal, Brooks."

"Thanks," I grumble and splash another bit of water into my mouth.

"Brooks! Get back out there!" Our coach yells at me to make the next shift change. I grab my stick and head over to the bench door. "Get me that winning goal, Brooks," he says before I bolt out from behind the bench and back onto the ice.

I pass, skate, and shoot for the rest of the game. But I can't catch a break. The tremors in my hands worsen by the second period, and an opposing defender is pissing me off. With minutes left in the game, he slams me into the boards, and I lose my footing.

Coach yells at me from the bench, "Get me that goal! Dig harder, Brooks!"

The coach wants that winning goal, but I want to smash that defender's face. Adrenaline pumps through my veins, and all the pent-up rage I've been suppressing over the past few months boils and steams inside me until I see red. I know I shouldn't do it. I've been warned to keep my temper under control. But I want to smash that son-of-a-bitch for knocking me off of my game. The faster I skate, the harder my heart pounds in my ears.