off the ice and radiates in my eyes like toxic waste, and I can't focus on anything. My teammates' bodies blur around me. The cheering of the crowd is a cluster of static in my brain, but I try to keep it together as I take my position.

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. I can't believe I told Lucy I love her. She's right, it's too soon, I should've waited longer. Of course I meant it—I do love her, but now I look like such a pathetic loser and oh God, what if she dumps me because of this? I'd deserve it. I'm so pathetic.

The buzzer goes off and rattles in my skull.

"Wexler, move!" someone shouts, so I skate forward. Someone tackles me and hurls me onto the ice. I get back up, but I still can't see straight. I clench my teeth and push forward. Somehow, I end up with the puck—but when I shoot, I miss. I never miss. My skin pricks with anger and I bite down hard on my mouth guard. I dive for the puck again, but when I shoot, it bounces off the walls and a guy on the other team gets it.

"Fuck!" I shout. The ref blows his whistle, and Luke whizzes by me.

"Nice going, fuckhead," he says, and for a moment, everything is black.

I don't know how long I'm out for. But when I'm awake again, Luke's hockey stick is in splinters over the ice. Red droplets leak down my gloved hands and onto the white. My arm is cut open, but no pain throbs through me. Just nothingness. Everyone around me gapes with wide eyes, like I'm some kind of circus freak. The silence in the arena is deafening—it drills into my eardrums—so I leave my stick on the ice and get the fuck out of there.

I can't process what I just did to my career. Lucy. My team. Luke. I don't know. It's all a blur. The only thing I'm certain of is: I need to forget it ever happened.

After I ditched the arena, I couldn't be bothered to change out of anything more than my skates. Now I'm trekking through my neighbourhood in my full hockey gear. I don't think I've ever been so drenched in sweat, but I don't give a shit. I need out of my skin.

I knock on my dealer's door. From booze to pot to narcotics, Aaron Deegan carries it all. And he doesn't ask questions, so when I tell him I need a 26er of rum, he just gives it to me.

From Aaron's house, I float to my old elementary school, St. Marks. A thin layer of fog sweeps across the field, and rain clouds muddle the sky. There's not even a crack of light, just a big, dull layer of grey. Thunder rumbles in the distance. I sit on the cold, wet bench take a swig of rum. It burns. Burning is good.

I've lived in this area my whole life—you'd think I'd find comfort in something, like a good memory attached to the monkey bars or the jungle gym with the slide shaped like a snake, something, anything, but everything's tainted. Even this playground is ruined by memories of Katie. I can't think. I can't breathe. I need to stop, so I drink more and more and more.

My phone keeps buzzing. I ignore every phone call and text from Lucy, Mom, Dad, Coach. It's already been two hours since the game ended, but my memory is in pieces. The light from my phone strains my eyes and adds to my headache. When a message from Katie pops up, I open it. It's a link. I click it, and it loads to a video of a Godfrey Ice Sharks game. Number 47 tries to shoot and score but misses. Number 61 skates past him and says something, and 47 snaps. He shoves 61 away and smashes his stick off the ice. Everyone freezes as 47 cuts himself and splatters blood everywhere.

Something drips off my face and onto the screen; I can't tell if it's blood or sweat or if I'm crying. Number 47 is me. Someone uploaded it to Instagram, and it already has four-hundred views.

Humiliation tears through me, so I chug more booze until it doesn't hurt anymore. Another message from Katie pops up, simply saying, I hope you're okay, but I ignore her. No, I'm not okay. I don't even know what I am.

My stomach boils from the booze. I'll fill myself up until I can't think if it means forgetting this. Maybe if I get drunk enough, I'll convince myself none of this ever happened. There won't be an embarrassing video of me on the internet. In another universe, we won the game, and I didn't freak out, and everything is normal. I'm normal.

For a minute, I almost believe it. The thought makes me laugh. Normal is a word that's never existed in my dictionary, no matter how hard I tried to fit into the mold created for me. Dad wanted me to be a perfect hockey player; Mom wanted me to be happy; Coach wanted me to succeed. But I was always supposed to end up like this, drunk, alone, and crying on a bench. I should probably kill myself, but I drink more instead.

So, there's a fucked-up video of me freaking out on the internet. Okay, I can deal with this. It's not that bad. Cradling my head, I remember what Lucy said to me before she left the first time, when she reminded me that the opinions of the people I go to school with don't matter. She's right. The only important opinion is hers. Sure, she didn't respond well to me telling her I loved her, but maybe she didn't believe me. Maybe I need to tell her again.

Yeah, if I tell her again, everything will be fine. That's exactly what I need to do. My arms get all tingly with excitement. I need to get home now so I can tell her, but when I stand, it's like I've been hit by a transport truck—my head spins and I topple over. I scramble to my knees then onto my feet again, and everything steadies.

Cold globs of sleet bleed through my jersey. I sprint to the house as fast as my legs will take me. I'm almost there. I take out my phone. Ten p.m. A million missed calls. Whatever, they'll see soon enough. I've got this all figured out.

The lights inside the house hurt my eyes as I push open the front door. Mom rushes out and says something, but I mutter that I'll be right back and stumble to the basement.

"Lucy?" I call out. "Lucy, are you here?"

The stairs are long, dark, and narrow. Have they always been this steep? My foot slips and my ass numbly thumps down every step until I reach the bottom. Lucy stands above me, her bangs framing her face perfectly. Everything about her is perfect, from her coffee-brown eyes to her button nose to the freckles that splatter her face like... whatever. She's beautiful. The most beautiful girl I've ever seen.

"Jesus, El, we were worried. Are you okay?"

"Yes." I hoist myself up, crash into the pool table, and land on the couch.

"Wow." Lucy's above me again. "You're seriously wasted."

I forget why I'm here. Oh right—I have to tell her. I stand and grab her hands, and Lucy's eyes widen.

"I love you," I say. "I love you, and I want you to trust me. Everything's gonna be fine, okay? Forget everything my dumbass siblings said and stay here with me. We'll find a way to make your fucked-up ex go away forever. We'll be together forever. And get married, too, if you want."

My words don't produce the results I expected. There aren't any tears of joy or smiles or yesses, just a twisted, confused frown on her lips. Why isn't she happy? Doesn't she love me too?

"What's wrong?" I ask.

Lucy pulls her hands away and steps back. "Elliot, stop."

"No, it's okay. Everything's gonna be okay, I promise. Let's get married, Lucy. I love you. Let's get married."

She shakes her head with tears in her eyes. "You're scaring me, El. What are you talking about?"

"What're you talking about? I'm telling you that I love you. I thought you'd be happy."

"No, you're acting weird. You're really scaring me."

Why? Why am I scaring her?

Voices echo around my head. Mom and Dad are here now too.

"We need to take him in."

"Don't be rash—we may be able to handle this."

"Look at him, Liz! He's a mess!"

"What are you guys talking about? He's just drunk and freaked out, right?"

"Lucy, honey, you don't understand."

"He's a danger to himself like this. We need to take him in. There's something wrong with him."

Wrong with me? There's nothing wrong with me. Everything's fine—I've figured it all out. So why are they looking at me like that? Dad's eyebrows are furrowed and his hands are on his hips, Mom holds one hand over her mouth, and Lucy's crying.

I can't hear what they're saying. It's like I'm stuck inside of a glass box with water slowly seeping in. My vision ripples, but I get it now—they're gonna try to take me somewhere. I can't let that happen.

"Adam, he has that look again..."

"What look?" Lucy asks. "Okay, seriously, what's going on?"

Why are they talking about me like I'm not even here? This isn't fair—I didn't do anything wrong. "What the hell are you guys talking about?" I shout. "I'm fine! Luce, come on, let's just go."

She shakes her head. "I'm not going anywhere."

Anger fires through me. "Why're you taking their side on this? You're supposed to be on my side, you're supposed to be with me!"

Lucy blinks out tears, and Mom touches her shoulder.

"Don't listen to him, dear," Mom whispers as if I can't fucking hear her. "He's not himself when he's like this."

Dad steps closer. I step away, but my back hits the wall. When did I get so far away from them? I'm across the room now, and Lucy's still crying.

"Son." Dad holds up his hands. "It's gonna be all right, okay?"

"Get the fuck away from me!"

My blood pressure drops. I'm as cold as ice. I glance at the stairs, then back to the others.

"I'm not going to the fucking hospital."

I make a run for it.