The second game of the season descends into chaos, a catastrophic mess that could only be described as a bloodbath. As we shuffle into the locker room, a heavy silence envelops us, the weight of our humiliation trailing behind like a thick fog, a tar pit of disgrace we can’t escape. It feels as if we’ve stood naked before the entire opposing team, directly inviting them to deliver a thorough spanking. We didn’t merely lose; we granted them a mercy, a shutout that left us reeling. With a fierce tug, I rip off my jersey, each fiber of the fabric bringing back a barrage of bitter memories from the ice. The mistakes we made tonight are etched into my psyche, branding me with shame. Losing gnaws at me; losing at home cuts deeper. I can already picture the throngs of disappointed fans at Malone’s tonight, their faces a mosaic of discontent, and the thought sends a shiver down my spine. Hunter, my fellow teammate, stands nearby, stripping off his uniform with a wild urgency as if it were ablaze with fire ants. “You had some great shots on goal tonight,” I tell him, trying to offer a sliver of solace. It rings true; we didn’t lack effort and perseverance. The issue lay in the sheer determination of the other team. “Would’ve been nicer if one of them went in,” he mutters, disappointment dripping from his voice. I can’t help but suppress a sigh. “Their goalie was impenetrable tonight. Even G couldn’t slip one past him.” At that moment, Garrett lumbers over, a comforting giant who ensures Hunter that all is not lost. “Don’t sweat it, kid. Plenty of games left this season. We’ll bounce back, trust me.” Hunter’s skepticism lingers in the air, thickening the tension among us. There’s no time to offer further encouragement; Coach Jensen strides in, the very embodiment of authority, followed closely by Frank O’Shea. Without missing a beat, Coach launches into one of his characteristic post-game monologues. Precise and to the point, his words tumble forth like a stark list of facts. “We lost. It feels terrible. Don’t dwell on it. This just means we have to push harder in practice and bring it for the next game.” With a curt nod, he spins on his heel and storms out, leaving behind a semblance of motivational spirit that feels as thin as the veneer of an old varnish. If not for his abrupt exit, I’d mistake his stony demeanor for anger, but even his victory speeches follow this same monotonous pattern. “We won. It’s fantastic. Don’t let it inflate your ego. Stay focused in practice, and more wins will follow.” Freshmen expecting a grandiose pep talk fashioned after Kurt Russell’s legendary speeches in “Miracle” are in for a disheartening letdown. O’Shea tries to hang around as he ambles toward me, and I instinctively brace for a critique. Instead, he surprises me with an unexpected compliment. “Solid coverage in the defensive zone tonight. That block in the second was impressive.” My brows furrow in skepticism at his rare praise, yet before I can dive into scrutiny, he’s already off to commend Logan for a successful kill during the power play. I toss my gear into one of the immense laundry bins, then stride towards the showers to wash away the stench of defeat that clings to my skin. I despise losing, but I grant myself no more than ten minutes to stew in it. It’s a technique my father drilled into me after a particularly crushing loss in lacrosse when I was eight years old. “You have ten minutes,” he said, clicking the button on his watch to time me. For those ticking seconds, I immersed myself in anger, absorbing every misstep I made while envisioning myself retaliating against the players on the opposing team. Once the alarm sounded, he casually assured me, “There. It’s done. Now, look ahead and figure out how to improve.” I can’t help but love my dad for that. By the time I step out of the shower, the bitterness of our loss has ebbed, neatly tucked away within my internal filing cabinet labeled ‘Shitty Stuff.’ As I reconvene with Garrett in the parking lot, he’s almost glowing, and I can’t help but wonder if he employs a similar system for managing disappointment. He sweeps Hannah into his arms and greets her with an affectionate kiss. “Hey babe.” “It’s freezing out!” she exclaims, edging closer to him. “I wouldn’t be shocked if it snowed.” She’s right. The chill wraps around us, and the air we exhale crystallizes into wisps of white clouds. “Bar or home?” Logan calls, joining us as he approaches his car. “Bar,” Garrett declares, the hint of reluctance in his voice. “No one feels like hosting tonight, right?” “Bar,” Logan agrees, and I nod, already prepared to drown our loss in beer and camaraderie. “Are we waiting for Tucker?” I glance around, searching for our missing roommate. “What about Grace?” “Tuck’s already left with Fitzy,” Logan replies, looking unfazed. “And Grace isn’t coming. She’s at the station.” Feigning disinterest, I cast a teasing smile at Hannah. “What about your other half?” “I’m right here,” Garrett grins smugly. “I mean her other other half,” I chuckle, winking at Hannah. “The little blond drama queen you hang out with?” “She didn’t want to go out tonight. Too busy moping,” she explains, rolling her eyes slightly. “About what?” I can already hazard a guess, but I ask anyway. “Sean called her this morning,” Hannah admits, her voice dropping a notch. “It really affected her. I think she’s been in a funk ever since. I almost stayed in tonight, but missed the game.” Garrett bends down to plant a soft kiss on her chilly cheek. “Glad you didn’t. We really appreciate your support.” “I’m bummed you guys lost,” she sighs, but my thoughts are with the forlorn Allie, likely curled up in a blanket with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s while Mumford & Sons croon in the background. “Shouldn’t you go home and cheer her up?” I suggest to Hannah. “You know, like, braid her hair or something?” “Of course, Dean. That’s what we do. Hair braiding, naked pillow fights, and kissing practice,” she quips. “Can I join?” Logan and I chorus, laughter bursting forth. “You wish. And I’m not going back. I texted Allie during the third period, and she claims she’s fine. Drinking margaritas and binge-watching this awful show. Seriously, it’s trash. There’s no way I’m heading back tonight.” “What show?” Garrett asks, curiosity piqued. “Likely the worst thing ever to air on television,” she scoffs, eliciting peals of laughter from us. Logan raps his knuckles on my Beemer’s hood. “Ready to roll?” I hesitate. “Mind if you ride with G and Wellsy? I have a few stops to make first and will meet you guys there.” “Sure,” he shrugs, wandering towards Garrett’s Jeep. As I slide behind the wheel and rev the engine, I resist the urge to pull out until their vehicle clears the parking lot. I only have one errand, and it’s one I prefer to keep under wraps. --- *Allie* When the knock resonates through my door, panic thrums in my chest, and my first instinct is to hope it’s not Sean. After our unsettling conversation this morning, I’m far from ready to face him. “I forgive you,” he had blurted, the second I answered the call. My gut twisted at his proclamation. Forgiveness implied guilt on my part for sleeping with someone else, and that wasn’t the case. I hadn’t cheated on him. My actions didn’t betray him; sure, I felt guilt about my night with Dean so soon after our breakup, but rebound sex wasn’t a crime. Despite the irritation sparked by his “forgiveness,” I felt a glimmer of relief. Perhaps that absolution was what I sought when I confessed to Sean about my night with Dean. Yet even that doesn’t prepare me for a face-to-face with Sean. He’d proposed meeting up for coffee to discuss matters in person rather than via phone. I’d wavered, wanting to avoid that confrontation at all costs. Another knock reverberates through my living space, igniting my anxiety anew, and I open the door with trepidation. Instead of Sean, standing before me is Dean, his trademark grin lighting up the room. “Hey there, baby doll!” he declares, breezing inside as if he owns the place. “Wellsy said you were sulking, so I dropped by to turn that frown upside down.” “I’m not sulking,” I grumble, the words heavy with annoyance. “Even better. Saves me from having to do any work,” he chuckles, shedding his jacket and tossing it onto the couch, leaving nothing but a snug sweater to cling to his form. Is he really stripping? I blink in disbelief. “Did you just take off your shirt?” “Yeah. I don’t like shirts.” What exactly am I supposed to think of him? With a languid grace, he plops down on the couch, and my eyes inadvertently follow the enticing curve of his body beneath tight denim, the memories of our passionate night pooling in my mind. Desire blossoms, unwelcome yet undeniable, evoking a flush that warms my cheeks as he casually rests a muscular arm along the back of the couch. “Are you sitting or what?” he beckons, his playful tone irritating me further. “I’ll stand, thanks.” “Aw, come on. I don’t bite.” “Yeah, you do,” I retort with a glare. His emerald eyes twinkle with mischief. “You’re right. I do.” His presence is magnetic, a golden adonis draped across my couch. In an alternate universe, he could easily be a model, with a face that radiates sexuality, potentially making millions with his looks. “Seriously, Allie-Cat, sit down. You’re making me feel unwelcome,” he pouts. “You aren’t welcome,” I snap back. “I was having a perfectly nice evening until you barged in.” He feigns hurt, but I can’t dissect if it’s genuine or just another one of his antics. “You really don’t like me, huh?” Guilt pricks at me. Maybe he’s more sincere than I initially thought. “It’s not that. I do like you. But I meant what I said about not being into casual sex, okay? Every time I think about this weekend, I feel—” “Horny?” he interrupts, his smirk infuriatingly confident. “Slutty.” His expression hardens momentarily, irritation flickering in his eyes. “You want some advice, babe? Erase that word from your vocabulary.” His assertion pulls at my conscience, and as I reluctantly take a seat beside him, keeping a safe distance, I discover he’s right; the stigma of that label looms far too heavily. “Stop slut-shaming yourself. And to hell with the word ‘slut.’ People should have the right to explore their desires without judgment. What we did was fun and safe, and it’s nobody’s business what happens in the privacy of our lives.” Oddly enough, his words offer a sliver of comfort to the guilt weighing me down since our escapade. Yet something remains lodged deep inside. “I told Sean,” I blurt, my conscience gnawing at me. Dean’s frown deepens. “Not about you.” I scramble to clarify. “I only told him I had sex with someone else.” “Why the hell would you do that?” His expression shifts to one of incredulity. “I don’t know,” I moan, frustration bubbling within. “It felt like I owed him honesty, but that’s insane, right? I mean, we’re broken up.” Another groan slips from my lips, this one laced with anguish. “But we were together so long. I’m used to sharing everything with him.” Dean absently glides his fingers along the cushion behind me, drawing my gaze toward his impressive biceps, a reminder of his physical prowess. “Be honest,” he finally presses. “Do you want to get back together with him?” Slowly, I shake my head, certainty growing. “Sure about that?” “I am.” The memory of our relentless arguments forms a clear picture in my mind. Sean’s detrimental words echo, and my resolve solidifies further. “We weren’t right for each other anymore. If college life could last forever, maybe we’d still be together. But it’s time to grow up, and we want different things for our futures. At least I think we do. This breakup is tearing me apart; I can’t even process everything.” “You think too much,” Dean counters bluntly. I can’t help but laugh. “Is that your grand advice? Just stop thinking?” “Stop obsessing,” he insists, shrugging off my sarcasm. “You broke up with the guy for a damn good reason, so follow through. Quit engaging with him and second-guessing yourself.” “You’re right,” I finally concede, though with hesitation. “Of course, I am. I’m always right.” He leans in closer, placing a large hand on my knee, his cocky demeanor radiating confidence. “Alright, here’s the plan for tonight. First, we’ll relieve some tension. Afterward, pizza to refuel, and then round two. Sound good?” Frustration twists inside me. Just as I think there’s more depth to Dean than just his incessant horniness, he deflates that notion with his crass proposal. “Have you considered therapy for your delusions?” I counter, maintaining my politeness. “Because there’s not a chance in hell we’re boning tonight.” “Fine. How about we just go down on each other instead?” “Why don’t you just leave?” “Counter offer—I stay and we dry hump.” Inescapable exasperation rushes over me. “Counter offer—you can stay, but you’re not allowed to talk.” He retorts, “I stay, I’m allowed to talk, but I won’t hit on you.” Thinking it over, I respond, “You stay, you can't hit on me, and you’re watching my show without a complaint.” A broad grin brightens his face. “I accept your terms, madam.” And just like that, our conversation veers back to a playful banter that distracts me from the turmoil encasing my mind.