Playing His Own Games | ✔︎

chapter fifteen | burying the grief

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"We should love, not fall in love, because everything that falls, gets broken."
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Carrie

WHEN KANE TOLD ME I needed to distract myself from the grief of losing my sister, after I spent a whole week locked inside my room, refusing to eat, I didn't envision this: Sitting on a cold wooden bench, shoulder-to-shoulder to people who chew popcorn too loudly and are overly enthusiastic about a game of ice hockey.

I suspect Kane assumed that the energy from the yelling, supportive crowd would boost my mood and take my mind off my dead sister. It didn't; it just made me feel more alone and disconnected from the rest of the world.

The pain is raw, the grief unimaginable, the misery unbearable. Everything is just fucking excruciating. And that pain, that misery, that grief it is a constant companion beside my heart.

"Carrie—" Kane waves his hand in front of my face, his eyebrows furrowed "—you still there, babe?"

I nod, resting my head on his shoulder and squeezing my eyes shut to stop the tears from leaking out. It feels good to have someone to rely on, someone who doesn't make me feel so alone, even if it's Kane, a shitty person with a jealous heart and an obsessive mind.

"It's okay," he whispers into my ear. "It will eventually get better."

I cling onto his jacket, burying my face into his shoulder, my voice muffled by the thick material, "When is 'eventually', Kane? How long?"

"I dunno that answer, babe," he admits, slowly prying me off him. "Let's just watch the game, okay?" He nods towards the scoreboard. "See, they're tied. A few minutes left."

Cheers break out across the rink as Masons stick collides with the opposition centre's, skilfully fighting for the puck. Despite the crowds yelling I can still hear nasty words being tossed back and forth between the two.

"Come on!" Kane shouts, leaping to his feet along with the rest of the crowd. I don't even know which team he is cheering for.

The oppositions left wing shifts forwards, blocking Masons path. Mason swerves to stop himself from crashing into the left wing, opening the opportunity for the centre to roughly shove Mason. Only he misjudges the force of the push and the momentum sends both boys slamming into the barrier surrounding the rink. The plastic rattles angrily and the crowd roars when the left wing plunges forward to steal the puck.

Mason curses loudly, his helmet not managing to conceal the determination and anger burning in his blue eyes. He skates forwards and when the left wing makes his shot he swiftly intercepts.

And then Mason Foster is gliding effortlessly down the ice, body hunched protectively over the puck as the opposition centre gains on him. Once again he shoves hard but Mason resists, his feet set on the ice, refusing to be knocked off balance. Scowling, he quickly passes to Chase Cowrie, the teams right wing.

While Chase skates forwards—keeping the puck close to his stick as he narrowly avoids collision with the other teams defensive players—Mason cuts his opponent off, opening up a space in front of the goal.

Their eyes meet and Chase knocks the puck towards Mason, who flicks his wrists around, sending the puck flying into the goal despite the goalies best efforts.