Alex by Sawyer Bennett

doesn’t think this will ever go any further than orgasmic release.
    Walking up to the house, I can hear the sounds of kids squealing and adults laughing from the backyard, so I don’t even bother with the front door, choosing instead to walk around the house.
    As I come around the east side, I’m brought up short by a small orange ball flying at my head. Luckily, my reflexes are good and I’m able to duck in plenty of time.
    “Shit—sorry, Crossman,” I hear and see my teammate Sergei Annikov standing there with an unapologetic grin on his face. He’s holding a small, plastic hockey stick, and I see a little boy of about five standing up against the brick exterior of the house. The kid is wearing a goalie mask, decked out with a goalie glove and stick.
    Walking over a few feet, I pick up the lightweight plastic ball from the ground and toss it back to Sergei. “No problem.”
    Sergei drops the ball to the grass and says, “Okay, Darius, keep your eye on the ball.”
    Putting the small stick to the ground—which looks ridiculously minuscule in his large hands—he flips the orange ball gently to his son. At least I think that’s his son. Fact of the matter, I know virtually nothing about most of my teammates.
    The little boy tries to raise his glove to catch the ball but it bounces just off the tip and ricochets off the brick wall behind him.
    “Good try,” Sergei says in affirmation at the boy’s attempt. “You almost got it.”
    My head swirls and I feel faint, a memory clawing its way up to my consciousness and I try desperately to tamp it down. It’s too strong, though, and it assaults me hard.
    “I’ve never been so embarrassed,” my dad snarled as we pulled into the driveway. He took out a small flask from the inside of his jacket, angrily twisting the cap off and slugging back a huge gulp of liquor. Putting the flask away, he turned ice-blue eyes my way and glared at me. “Drills. Get suited up.”
    “Dad…it’s late and I’m tired,” I complained. It was something I knew better than to say, but I was so tired I just didn’t have it in me to play any more tonight.
    “Get your fucking gear on and get your lazy ass in the driveway,” he screamed at me.
    Sighing, I pushed open the car door and slouched my way into the house. I didn’t even bother going any farther than the mud room, where I reached into my equipment bag—which I had been carrying—and put on my pads, still wet with my sweat from the game I’d just played. I didn’t bother putting my jersey over them, but I did put my helmet on with full face guard. I needed that protection for sure.
    My older brother, Cameron, stuck his head in the doorway of the mudroom and whispered, “Bad game?”
    He was fifteen years old, and Dad didn’t mind him staying home alone while he took me to my hockey games; Cam never wanted to come watch.
    “I guess,” I replied, even though I thought I’d had a pretty great game. Two goals and an assist. “Dad wants to do drills.”
    Cameron just stared at me, his eyes sad. He watched me put on my helmet, grab my stick and head back outside. He didn’t say anything else, didn’t come outside to watch, didn’t offer words of encouragement. There was no way you could ever paint a good picture over what was about to happen.
    When I stepped out onto our driveway, softly lit by the two lights flanking the garage door, my dad already had his stick in hand and the driveway lined with hockey pucks. He pointed to the position he wanted me to take and I went to stand in front of the garage.
    “Why are we doing this?” he asked, his voice still tinged with anger.
    “Because I messed up,” I answered woodenly.
    “And how did you mess up?” he asked, toying with one of the pucks on the ground with the blade of his own stick.
    “I didn’t make the sacrifice,” I said tiredly.
    “You didn’t make the fucking sacrifice,” he affirmed, his voice filled with disgust. It didn’t matter that his son