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Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
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I SHIFT UNCOMFORTABLY in the office chair and tug at my tie, my burgundy school uniform as itchy as ever. Sweat beads on my forehead from the heat blasting on full—I'm pretty sure my guidance counsellor would survive in the fiery depths of Hell considering how hot it always is in here.
Our Monday meetings have become so routine that whatever Mrs. Pickle is saying fades into the background noise of my head. Front and center: everything Dad's said to me since Friday. "You need to stay focused, El. You need to be better, El."
He pissed me off so much this weekend that I didn't even feel remotely bad about letting that Lucy girl get away with breaking and entering. Not that I would've felt bad anyway. It was the right thing to do, but the more I think about it, the more I realize I should've offered her food instead of hot chocolate. She was probably hungry.
When Mrs. Pickle clears her throat, I snap out of it, and she narrows her eyes beneath her circular glasses. They're like Harry Potter's, but they're slapped on a sixty-year-old woman with a red perm and no patience for my bullshit.
"Elliot," Mrs. Pickle says slowly, "I know you're only here to make your parents happy, but I need you to talk to me."
She's a school guidance counsellor now, but she used to be a full-fledged shrink. I don't know why she'd rather talk to kids like me over adults with real issues, but I've had weekly meetings with her ever since what happened last year. To "keep my mental health in check."
"What's left to talk about? All I need to do is score more goals, win more games, keep my GPA above 3.5, survive the season without having a mental breakdown, and get into the NHL. No sweat."
Mrs. Pickle lets out another unimpressed sigh. Her desk has neat stacks of sticky notes next to pens and photo frames of her husband, her teenage daughters, and Jesus. Saint Jacob's Catholic High is all about the Lord. Being sarcastic with her just makes her life more complicated, so I suck it up and uncross my arms.
"Sorry, I'm just dreading practice tonight," I confess. "My dad's being a dick to me again. Not intentionally, I don't think. I'm pretty sure he just doesn't realize how much pressure he puts on me. In his eyes I should think, breathe, eat, and sleep hockey, and anything else I feel is stupid."
"Nothing you feel is stupid, Elliot," Mrs. Pickle says. "Although, even for someone with your talent, professional hockey is an incredibly competitive and ambitious career path. I don't agree with your father's methods, but he is trying to prepare you for the real world in his own way."
"I know that. And that just adds to the pressure. I love hockey, of course I do. It's my life, but..." I pause, and my heart twists brutally.
Ever since I was a little kid, getting into the NHL has been my dream. I still remember the first time I saw Wayne Gretszy play—it was one of Dad's recordings of an old game. I must've been like three years old, and I was curled up in front of our old TV in the living room, drinking hot chocolate, when I watched him zip around the ice like not even air could touch him. It was like watching an entirely different species. From that point on, I knew exactly what I had to be: a really fucking good hockey player. Someone worthy of the NHL.
