It’s a shit night at the end of a shit week, and the last thing I want to do is fight my way through this nightmare storm to play hockey. On my way to the arena, I catch a weather report saying several funnel clouds have been spotted off the coast and naively hope the game might be canceled due to inclement weather.

But the Badgers fans are die-hard ones, and “cancellation” isn’t in management’s vocabulary.

I arrive in the locker room soaked through from the brief dash from the parking lot and find the rest of the team in similar spirits. The fact that we’re playing one of the lowest ranked teams in the league—a new expansion team out of Kansas City with a meh fan base and a meh reputation and a meh game—doesn’t help improve morale. There’s no rivalry to get us fired up, no history, and not much on the line for the Badgers.

We know we’re going to beat these guys, it’s just a matter of by how many goals.

We’re cocky, yes, but we have reason to be, and I have no reason to assume this game is even going to distract me from my miserable life for a few hours.

We hit the ice a few minutes after seven o’clock, accompanied by a roar from our fans and a crash of thunder, and that’s about as exciting as things get for the next hour and a half.

First period, we score three easy goals right in a row, so quickly the fans start to seem a little let down by the lack of drama. But by the time Nowicki slams goal four into the opposing team’s net, our fans are chanting the Kansas City goalie’s name in a jeering way that leaves the poor bastard so red in the face he looks like a blister about to pop.

The second period is more of the same, until the score is six-zero and we start to feel bad for being so awesome. But then again, we’re not actually playing all that well.

Comparison…it’s the thief of joy.

If I’d never had these past few weeks with Hailey, for example, I wouldn’t be on the verge of ripping my own hands off to keep from texting her again. I would still be missing her and wishing we could have worked things out, but I wouldn’t know how perfectly with fit together as Dominant and submissive. I wouldn’t know beyond a shadow of a doubt that we were meant to be, perfectly matched in every way, crafted by some higher power to fit together the way my custom molded skate boot cradles my wedge-shaped foot.

She is my woman, and I’m her man.

I will never belong to anyone the way I belong to Hailey, and the thought of her moving on without me, of her sharing her body and her heart—that beautiful, brave heart that no man could ever treasure the way I do—makes me physically fucking ill. Even as I play as hard as I can be expected to play against such subpar opponents, my stomach is roiling, threatening to bring up my chicken and rice for a second showing on national television.

And that’s before I see a Kansas City defenseman taking a run at Nowicki as he heads to the bench. My teammate’s back is turned, and he has no idea that two-hundred and thirty pounds of sore loser is about to slam him into the boards. I take off fast, moving first and thinking somewhere between center ice and the bench that I should have probably eaten more protein. I’m one hundred and eighty-five pounds on a good week, when I haven’t been fucking when I should be carbo-loading. Back when Hailey and I were a couple, I was so grounded in her, in us, that I never forgot to take care of myself. But these past few days without her, I’ve slipped.

I haven’t slept, I’ve barely eaten, I’m low on energy, and when I try to slip between Nowicki and the bastard with his stick clutched in both hands, ready to crosscheck my friend, I’m two seconds too late.

I don’t make it in time. I watch in slow motion as Nowicki takes the stick hard to the shoulder and goes tumbling head first into the bench, no chance to break the fall he never saw coming.

There’s no time for me to slow down, either.

Bright arena lights reflect off of something in motion, but before my mind can process what it is, the blade of Nowicki’s skate is already slicing across my throat.

Mostly I feel pressure sharp in soft skin. Then heat. More heat. Flowing under my shoulder pads making sweat-slick skin even stickier. The pain hits a good five seconds later, at the same time our trainer jumps over the boards with a towel he presses urgently to my throat.

I’m confused for a moment, and then I realize that I’m bleeding. Badly. Not long after, before I can decide whether to crawl over the boards to the bench or to sit down where I am on the ice, I start to feel cold. Really cold. And dizzy, despite the fact that I’m not bothered by blood.

I’m a gallon donor. And I grew up playing pond hockey. Bloody noses and split lips were a daily occurrence. Also, I’m not a fucking wimp; I’m a grown man who plays hockey for a living. I do not get weak in the knees because I have an owie.

But that’s what happens. My knees go weak, the lights of the arena blur and spin above me as I go down hard, the trainer following me down with his towel. It’s wet now and heavy. Hot and heavy. Something has really fucked up that towel.

Something that smells like metal and meat.

And me.

It’s blood. A lot of blood.

Shit.

That’s my last upright thought—shit. And then I’m flat on the ice in a puddle of my own blood. As the world goes dark, I wonder if I’m going to be the second ever on-ice death in the NHL, and I hope that Hailey isn’t watching. No one should have to watch the person they love die on national television.

She still loves me, even if we didn’t work out. I know that much, and it’s enough to give me some cold comfort as I go black.