after the death of her mother, leighton's father sends her to a boarding school halfway across the world to be taught a lesson. she knows no one and no one knows her.
but the cherry on top is who her roommate is.
#2 in ptsdawareness
#2 in anxiety
#...
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"and shit like that don't change up overnight, sweet."
-consume by chase atlantic ft goon des garcons
⎯⎯⎯
The puck hits the ice, and everything around me fades.
All I can focus on is the game—the slap of sticks, the thud of skates cutting into the ice. I move fast, cutting through the other team's defense like I've done a hundred times before. My chest tightens as I weave around a player, flicking the puck to my teammate.
The score's tied. One minute left. We need this.
I need this.
I need this.
I need this.
Just manifesting shit at this point.
I skate hard, feeling the burn in my legs, the cold air biting my face.
The puck flies toward the goal, but the other team's goalie snatches it. Fuck.
It's back in play before I can even react.
They're fast. Too fast.
The puck flies back down toward our end, and I'm chasing it, pushing harder, my heart hammering in my chest. I have to stop them.
I can hear the crowd, but it's just noise—background to the pounding of my pulse.
I get there just in time, cutting off their pass, the puck bouncing off my stick.
For a split second, relief surges through me.
I've got it.
Now it's my turn.
I take off down the rink, ice spraying up behind me. The goalie's in my sights. It's just me and the net, and the clock is ticking down. Fifteen seconds. I have to make this.
I pull back my stick and shoot.
The puck sails through the air, everything slowing down as I watch it head straight for the corner of the net.
Clank.
Fuck.
It hits the post and bounces wide. I freeze, the air knocked out of me, but the game isn't over. The other team snatches the puck, charging down the ice.
I can't even react, my legs heavy like lead. I watch helplessly as they make their play, a perfect pass to their forward, who slams it into our goal.
The buzzer blares, and the scoreboard lights up. 3-2.
We lost.
I stand there, my breath coming in shallow gasps, the sting of failure pressing down on me. My teammates pat me on the back as they skate past, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is that shot I missed.
