I’m actually loving the classes I’m in right now—my senior capstone, Analysis of Sports Scandals in the Early 2000s, and two other classes, Ethics in Sports Media, and Digital Media in Sports. Eight credits total. I had had a vague idea before my accident on what I wanted to do after graduation, but now I’m starting to really seriously weigh some options.
If my life had gone even a little bit closer to how I’d envisioned, I’d be gearing up for a future in competition commentary, maybe coaching other Olympic hopefuls. I loved the idea of ethical sports coverage, of being a voice in women’s sports. I had tossed around the idea of starting a figure skatingcommentary podcast with Aaron a couple of years ago—Just Lutzing Around—but he’d thought it was stupid, so I dropped it.
Now, I wonder what I’ll do with my degree once I’ve graduated. Would anyone care about the opinion of a failed, almost-Olympic has-been? I mull it over for a moment, but I already know the answer. My laptop buzzes and heats up on my lap, reminding me that I’ve been using it for several hours now without a real break.
Another first for Monroe—a full day of homework. An empty iced coffee cup sits on my coffee table, surrounded by papers.Gilmore Girlsis on in the background, on mute. The colors from the TV screen feel comforting in my dim living room.
I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling. My apartment is quiet. It usually is. My phone is quiet, too.
It used to buzz constantly—Nationals team group chat, my mom, my dad. Never a boyfriend, though, not in a long time. The last one was an absolute disaster.
Jacob Pearlman, my freshman and sophomore year at school. He was an NHL hopeful skating for U of C’s team with dreams of going pro. When he didn’t get drafted, and it was obvious I’d keep competing long past college, he got pissy and took his frustration out on me. Two long years of subpar sex, not a single orgasm I didn’t give myself, and one-dimensional conversations that rarely strayed from skating. It ended with a leaked video of Jacob and his dick inside a bouncing puck bunny. Fun.
I swore off hockey players after that, and focused on skating with the occasional hookups, and drunken dalliances with strangers over the last year.
I’ve isolated myself so much that now, nobody calls. Nobody invites me out. There’s nobody lefttoinvite meout. The girls on the Nationals team might as well have thought a shattered ankle was contagious, for how fast I was erased from the group.
I glance at my empty phone, picking it up. My fingers hover over the screen.
The loneliness isn’t new. But noticing it is.
Aside from my dad and Elsie—ish—there was only one person left. And I wasn’t even sure if he counted.
The realization stings a little more than I want to admit.
Shit.I think Rhodes might be my only friend. Friend? I roll the word over my tongue, next to Rhodes’ name. Friend-adjacent, maybe. A friend-adjacent that I am doing a really bang-up job of pushing away right now. For some reason I can’t fully fathom, he’s shown up for me more than once now. Rhodes certainly isn’t hurting for friends, and the thought that he might be taking me on as a charity sits heavy in my chest.
I snuggle myself deeper into the couch. Maybe if I suffocate, I’ll stop feeling the sting of the constant embarrassment that is my life.
Pathetic.
I open up my messages app and type his name. Our last conversation glows on the screen.
Me (9:47pm):Meet me at the rink.
He hadn’t responded. But he’d been there anyway. I let out a groan, slumping back against the couch, thumb hovering over the keyboard as I debate texting him again. Is it pathetic to double text your almost-friends?
Before I can overthink it too much, a banner notification slides across the top of my screen.
Score App: Game day—Wolverines vs. Predators. Puck drop at 7:00 p.m.
It was Rhodes’ first game back on the ice. I had almost forgotten after my day spent elbow-deep in coursework. Since it wasn’t a home game, I wasn’t working at the rink tonight.
I glance at the time—six-forty-nine p.m. Puck drop was in eleven minutes.
For a second, I hesitate. Then I grab the remote off my coffee table, flipping through channels until I find it—Connecticut Wolverines vs. Nashville Predators.
Dad had flown out with the team to Tennessee this morning. When the camera cuts to the Wolverines bench, I spot him instantly, arms crossed, watching his players with sharp-eyed intensity.
Three minutes to the game.
The camera shifts to Rhodes, and the sports commentators launch into their discussion about his season.
“And here he is—number ninety-one, Rhodes McKnight, back on the ice after serving his suspension. And you can tell he ishungryfor this game.”
“No doubt about it. McKnight has a lot to prove tonight—not just to the fans but to his teammates. He’s got a reputation for being a tough, gritty player, but the Wolverines need him to be more than that.”
I watch the screen intently. Rhodes skates forward for the face-off, stick ready. The ref blows the whistle, drops the puck, and Rhodes moves like lightning to shoot the puck to Beck.