The Tide Between Us

VINNIE:

The headache hits me more then the realization of pure and utter embarrassment I encountered yesterday evening. To be honest I can't decide whether anything I did at the party was more embarrassing or when Riven came.

Dragging myself out of bed, the headache hits me even more and the need to vomit grows as I run to the bathroom and throw my guts up in the toilet. Because the coach hates us, we have to go to hockey practice to 'prepare for the upcoming tournament'. Seriously? On a Sunday?

I wipe the vomit from my mouth and gag more, mainly because being sick and people being sick makes me really queasy, then I brush my teeth and put my hockey jersey on, the number 18 painted against my back.

The jersey feels heavier than usual, like it's dragging me down instead of fitting right. My head throbs worse when I pull it over, the fabric clinging to my skin with that faint, sour smell of sweat that never fully washes out no matter how many times it goes through the machine.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Pale, dark circles under my eyes, hair sticking out in every direction. I look like hell. And for some reason, the first thing that flashes through my mind is Riven's face when he was half-holding me up last night. His expression — not pity, not disgust, but something else I can't quite pin down — sticks to me like a shadow.

I splash cold water on my face, hoping it'll snap me out of it, but it only makes me shiver.

By the time I grab my skates and gear bag, my phone buzzes again. Team group chat.

Dude, hurry. Coach is already losing it.

Of course he is. He lives to make us miserable.

I sling the bag over my shoulder and head out the door, the chill of the morning air biting at my still-sensitive stomach. Every step feels like I'm dragging myself to my own execution, but I force my legs to keep moving.

The rink isn't far — ten minutes, tops — but it's enough time for my thoughts to spiral. About last night. About Riven. About the coach. My hands grip the strap of my bag so tight my knuckles ache, and I mutter under my breath, "It's just practice. Just practice. Get it over with."

But I know that's a lie. With Coach, it's never just practice.

My car speeds into the student car park, close enough so I'm not running even later but I know I'm already on death row being 30 minutes late. Coach always says that because I'm the captain I need to be there even earlier to help set up but I never am.

"What time do you call this?" Coach barks the second I step inside, his voice sharp enough to split my pounding headache.

I mutter, "Sorry, coach," and keep my head down as I yank open my locker.

"Sorry?" He's already on me, like he was waiting for this. "Sorry isn't enough, Parker." His voice drips into my ear, close, too close, his breath hot on my skin. My stomach turns like I'm back at the toilet bowl, throwing up again.

I don't answer. Just shove my legs into the pads, tugging my skates on so hard the laces bite my fingers.

"You think being captain means you get a free pass?" He's not yelling now — he's spitting, words slamming into me. He wants me small, wants me squirming.

I stand up, pushing past him without looking. If I look at him, I'll flinch, and I can't give him that satisfaction.

"I expect you to stay thirty minutes after as your punishment," he yells after me, voice echoing down the tunnel as I step out onto the ice.