33. Chase
Chase used to wonder when his new identity would finally sink in.
Some part of him was desperate to shed the old one and put the past behind him, but now—minutes away from stepping on stage for Round Six—he realized he was no longer running from that media portrait of a failed future-hall-of-famer. He was running after something he could keep for himself.
He started believing Zak when she told him he belonged there. The stomach-turning nausea backstage transformed into caffeine-like jitters. Energy, raw and coursing through his veins.
The number of people in the crowd had never been the problem. The rink was a stage all its own, and it had taught him from the outset how to stay focused through the sounds and stares of outsiders. If anything, thousands of strangers had nothing on a few dozen helicopter parents, let alone the fandoms who had encircled him in the stands.
Back then he had been “Number Ten—Payton, from sunny Los Angeles, California,” and now, he was more his first name than his last.
There was protection beyond the physical that came with all those layers of foam, plastic, and Kevlar. Shoulder and elbow pads, neck and shin guards, helmet and gloves. Nobody in those bleachers had given a damn about who he was off the ice, as evidenced by some of the shit his teammates had gotten away with during the off-season. They were just there to ride the highs and lows. Scream at him when he missed a shot, scream for him when the other team fouled.
As a musician, he was performing live for those people with their watch party at the Brownstone Tavern. For rock fans on their couches, finished with reruns of Unplugged or Alternative Nation and looking for names to remember the next time they hit up the music store. For the people on the flip side of the black velvet curtain right now, cheering them on in three-syllable bursts like the name Saint of Spades had been created with the intention of someday becoming an arena chant.
“This is real,” Zak said, like she was trying to convince herself.
It was a full house again for the second live show. The crowd was thick and boisterous. Camera crews lined the front and flanks of the stage, plus another dedicated to the judge’s booth.
And people weren’t buying tickets for the sake of curiosity or promotional offers anymore. They were showing up to see Saint of Spades, or one of their eight competitors, perform.
“Cheers to no more Bloody Marías,” he said, taking a swig from his water bottle and then passing it to Zak.
They’d missed their ritual coffee toast this morning for the second time, but for a much better reason. She had surprised him at his door instead of at the balcony, wrapped in nothing but a towel and asking him if he wanted to squeeze in a shower before heading to the dressing room.
The reminder of that missed moment brought him back to all the ones he’d traded it for. Zak’s long black hair, soaking wet and slicked back against her spine. Eucalyptus-scented soap suds and water, slippery and shiny on every bare inch of her skin. His hands sliding over it, his mouth sliding over hers.
She bit the inside of her cheek and looked up at him from under a thick set of makeup-coated eyelashes. Wholly as he wanted to abandon “Number Ten—Payton, from sunny Los Angeles, California” for “Chase Payton, lead singer of Saint of Spades,” he wanted even more to abandon the hectic grind backstage for an empty room with her.
“Cheers to second chances,” she said.
The band before them exited stage left, and Saint of Spades was called out.
The lights dimmed to a soft flicker, mimicking the glow of candles as they took their places on stage and waited to be queued via in-ear monitors.
Just like they’d sorted out during dress rehearsals over the past two days, the glow of a single spotlight on Chase faded in after the commercial break. For the first time, it was up to him to set the tone, rather than bass, drums, or guitar, and he found himself second-guessing his pitch and tempo a thousand different ways before he grabbed the mic off its stand, took a deep breath, and began.
Once the music started, his mind shut off. His eyes drifted closed as the first solo verse cascaded out of him like a monologue. It was as silent as a crowd that large could be, nothing but the sound of fabric rubbing against fabric.
That was why he always sang along to his favorite tracks when there was no one around. Singing was like letting someone else do the thinking and feeling for him. The songwriters came up with the right words, and all he had to do was absorb them. But it was different now that the words were Zak’s, and they were about the man who came before him.
They must have done a hundred run-throughs of “The River” before tonight, and wrong as it was, every time he found a different way to connect the imagery of her words back to the way he felt about her.
He wished he had known Link, so he could have something to ground him to that loss. Something to stop his mind from floating away with the lyrics, wondering about Zak. If she wanted him to stay the night instead of sneaking back to her room or kicking him out of hers. If she laid awake afterward waiting for the clock to hit six-thirty so they could watch the sunrise together.
The instrumentals kicked in.
Zak’s playing was like the sound of rain falling, the sound of wind howling. Something full of rage, longing, and beauty so effortless it seemed a product of nature. Anytime he watched her fingers fly over the fretboard—her picking hand moving in sweeps that looked singular but hit tens of notes per second—he was enraptured. She was this band. She was the show, she was the reason behind every hushed admonishment traveling from whisper to ear in that audience.
People would remember her long after they left this amphitheater. Music would remember her for generations. He couldn’t help his gaze from straying to his left to watch her carve that first letter of her name in history.
As always, she was decked out in a skin-tight outfit that left very little to his vivid imagination, and as spectacular as her curves were, he couldn’t believe that sex was the angle they were trying to play when she was a fucking legend.
During more repetitive riffs she got out of her head and danced or messed around with the rest of the band. Sometimes she’d sway her hips and swing that long hair around, but when it came time to bust out one of her signature, ridiculously complex licks, she was a pacer. Keeping time with her head, her posture board-stiff and every muscle in her arms taut with control.
The applause sounded even louder than the amplifiers as the instrumentals faded to silence. Chase held on to that last note for a stretch longer, feeling himself smile instinctively as he took in the reception of their song.
He had never desired the limelight, but despite being thrown into it again, this time, he was happy.
“Don’t be mad at me.”
Every time Lydia uttered those words to Chase, he ended up being mad at her. But it would have to be something catastrophic to counteract the fact that she’d flown all the way to New York City to see their next show in person after two months of minimal contact.
He was about to assure her that he wouldn’t be, as she hugged him with duffel bags still slung over each shoulder, when a second taxi pulled up behind hers.
And their parents climbed out of it.
“Did you invite them?”
“Not exactly, but I didn’t uninvite them.” She laughed nervously. “You know how they are. They said they wanted to come see you. I told them I only had one ticket, but then they got on the same flight, and—what was I supposed to do?”
“Nothing.” He shook his head with a smile. “It’s good to see you, dudette. I’m just happy you’re here.”
“Wow.” Her eyes widened. “I didn’t expect you to be so okay with this after the whole job thing.”
“I’m not. But like you said, it’s how they are.”
There were two ways this could go, and Chase mentally speed-ran through both as Richard and Holly entered the revolving glass door. Either A: They would offer an apology to patch things up on the surface, which would ultimately devolve into an explanation for why they had been right all along. Or B: They would deny any wrongdoing and present a case for why he should take the coaching job they had so graciously pulled strings to connect him with.
Richard pulled him into a half hug and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well hey there, son. Good to see you again.”
Holly embraced Chase and chatted about all the things she wanted to do while she was in the City as they ordered drinks from the bar and found seating in the hotel lounge.
It seemed Chase had neglected to account for Option C: Everyone pretends like nothing happened.
“Just so you know, I didn’t put in a request for three tickets,” he told them.
His mother may or may not have finished rattling off the literal checklist of items she held in her hand, but he needed to set some boundaries straight away if he had any hope of surviving their visit.
“You didn’t tell me you were coming.”
“And you really should have. You’re going to miss one heck of a show,” Lydia tacked on brightly. She shoved Chase’s arm to get his attention. “You know you’re the clear frontrunners, right? That’s what everyone’s been saying. They’ve done polls on this talk show I listen to on the way to work, and you guys blow everyone else out of the water in the ratings. As you should. You rock. Who knew?”
“We certainly didn’t,” his father said half-humored, the blue eyes he’d passed on to Chase and Lydia unblinking. “Sounds exciting.”
As always, his mother attempted to salvage the rough start with a smile. “We don’t have to see your show, we just wanted to see you, sweetie.”
Later, Chase imagined they would have to repeat this reunion all over again at the studio for the camera crew. He would help his parents with their bags, and they would hug and laugh and look like a Sears catalog luggage advertisement. But for now, his parents were the people who never called because they were too busy making decisions about hislife behind his back.
“Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t mind missing the show.” His molars grated as he managed a tight smile. “Considering you obviously didn’t want me to be here in the first place.”
Holly kneaded the fabric of her skirt. “That’s not true.”
“Did you write a list of things to do in Atlanta already, too?” He looked at his father. “Or was that one all your idea, Dad?”
His tone shocked them into silence for a moment. The fizz and crackle of Lydia slurping from her soda can was the only sound in those long ten seconds it took for Richard to get his bearings.
“Did you ever see that psychologist the league referred you to?”
Chase’s first thought was, singularly, Fuck you. Hanging around the band had started to rub off on him in that way, but not even a swear, no matter how vulgar, seemed like enough.
He’d done his time in that hospital and in the mental health clinic, but there was only so much therapy could do. It could give him the tools to walk again, to manage his pain, to cope, but it couldn’t fill the gaping hole hockey had left behind. Funny, his parents thought he was crazy for joining a band when the band was the only thing keeping him sane. The only thing that had dragged him out of a grave of self-hatred and pity.
“My anger is not a symptom of a psychological issue,” he articulated, leaning onto the edge of his seat. “It’s a symptom of us never having a real conversation about anything remotely uncomfortable, anything we disagree on. And part of that is my fault, because I have wanted nothing more than your acceptance and approval my entire life. But now I want something more. I want this band, and I’m not leaving. I’m not coaching. I’m not working in admin, recruiting, or broadcasting. This is my life now. You can either ignore it or get used to it, but you’re not going to schedule interviews behind my back anymore. Okay?”
Lydia hid her smile of disbelief behind the Diet Coke logo.
Richard did not hide the deep lines of his frown. “Do you know how long I spent making follow-ups to get through to Abbott? I bowl with a guy whose second cousin works in the human resources department there. It’s a long way from HR to GM, son. And that’s an opportunity of a lifetime, the best way to get back into the game.”
Chase’s father was a staunch believer in the six degrees of separation theory, which only further incriminated him. Chase wondered how many conversations Richard had carefully steered toward his poor, struggling, disabled child over the past few months to get that call set up.
“Didn’t you hear me? I’m not getting back in the game. Hope it doesn’t take that many calls for you to tell him I’m out. And while you’re at it? You can inform all the tabloids the Raptors have given statements to.”
“Please give it some more thought.” His mother reached out and clutched his knee. “We know you’re having fun out there, but it’s not all fun. And I’m worried about you. You might like listening to rock, but being a rock star is something else. There’s young men like you in the news all the time, going to jail, dying from drug overdoses, sharing needles and getting HIV. That’s what that kind of music is all about.”
“Do you even realize the kind of life you helped me pack all those boxes and move to five years ago?” he said. “Do you think athletes never go to after-parties? Never get wasted or have reckless sex or make bad decisions? In case you’re forgetting, I didn’t just lose my leg. I almost died because of hockey.”
“I could never forget that.” Holly’s eyes watered, then spilled over in a matter of milliseconds. He’d only ever seen that face at his hospital bedside before, and it was a straight shot of guilt. “It was the most terrifying moment of my life. Did you stop to consider that’s why we’re scared to see you out there again?”
“We’re just trying to help.” His father said. It was as much of a concession as he’d ever seen Richard utter to anyone before, but it still wasn’t an apology. “Seeing your kid in a coma, on the verge of multiple organ failure, is something you never forget. That stays with you forever.”
Being the one in that hospital bed, dying, listening to his parents interrogate and berate every medical professional who walked through the door, would stay with him forever, too.
“I’m okay now. I’m alive. I’m here.” Chase placed his hand over his mother’s. He hated the tone of sympathy his voice took on, but some part of him still felt responsible for managing everyone else’s pain on top of his own.
“It’s not enough to just be alive though. I want to live again. And I want to share my life with both of you, but I’m tired. I don’t have any energy left for people who think they know me better than I know myself. I’ve spent a lot of time on my own over the past five years, and I’m not scared to do it again.”
“Are you threatening to cut your mother and I off?” Richard asked, red-faced and steaming at the ears.
“I’m offering you the chance to be accepting and supportive. The first you’ve ever had,” Chase countered calmly. “I love you both no matter what you do or say, but I can’t be the person you wanted me to be anymore. I went to all the sports camps, I made the grades, I never talked back, never said ‘no.’ And I appreciate everything you did for Lydia and me, but now it’s my turn to make my own choices.”
“Chase?”
Zak’s voice rounded the dividing wall between the lobby and the lounge, followed by the click of her heels against tile. She peeked around the corner.
Dallas stood next to her, still looking worn out but in seemingly better spirits than he had been during the past few practices. Zak had never explicitly talked about how concerned for him she was, but she didn’t have to when he was clearly using, and she was stepping on eggshells like her choices had the power to change his.
She appraised his parents with a cool look that said everything he needed to know about how long she had eavesdropped on their conversation before getting involved.
“Hey, Zak.” A Cheshire grin crept up on Lydia’s face and made Chase second-think ever sharing personal details about his life with her.
“Lydia, always a pleasure.” Zak matched his sister’s chaotic energy. “How have you been?”
“Oh, you know. Same old, same old.”
Chase knew, for what he thought was a fact, that the two of them never talked, but Lydia was acting like they’d caught up over the phone ten minutes ago.
Dallas ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Chase, you never mentioned your sister’s a model.”
“I’m not.” The smile snapped off of Lydia’s cheeks. “I’m an accountant.”
“Huh. Somehow, that’s even hotter.”
Zak smacked the back of Dallas’s head and spoke over his curse, “And you’re Chase’s parents, I’d imagine. Those are some strong genes. Nice to meet you.” She didn’t extend a hand. “I’m Zak. Yes, that’s my real name. This is Dallas. Yes, he’s got dick-for-brains. I went to school with your kids, now I play guitar with your son. He’s just the best, right? What a talent.”
She didn’t wait for them to respond, either, which was all the better because it would take Holly and Richard more than a moment to process the way she’d brazenly used the word “dick” during her introduction to them. He could kiss her in front of his parents, the production team, and the entire lobby for it.
Zak’s eyes flitted back to Chase, and she smiled. “Anyway, are you ready for rehearsal?”
They weren’t rehearsing for another hour, but she was spot on with the escape offer. Chase pushed to his feet. “Yeah. Give me a call once you find out your room number, Lyd.”
He was ready to leave it at that, but as they walked out the door, Zak called out, “Hope to see you in the audience on Monday, Mr. and Mrs. Payton. It’s going to be one hell of a show.”