17. Rowan
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rowan
The house is unbearably quiet, an oppressive silence that feels as though the very walls are closing in on me, suffocating with their stillness.
I awaken to a grim emptiness, the kind that wraps itself around my chest and tightens with each breath.
Thomas has been coping by immersing himself in relentless drills, his skates slicing through the ice as if his life depends on it, driving his body beyond its limits with a fervor that borders on obsession.
Meanwhile, Bruno, ever the brooding soul, has sought solace in the bottom of a glass, his nights stretching into the wee hours, leaving him to rise long after the morning skate has come and gone.
Since I was benched due to my injury, all of the goalie duties have fallen on Bruno and the new guy. Bruno is my reserve though, that’s what he’s there for, but I’ve seen that take its toll on him, and now with Jinx gone, I’m not sure how he’s going to manage on the team at all.
And me?
I feel paralyzed, a statue frozen in time.
What’s the point of making breakfast if she’s not here to roll her eyes at my abysmal attempts at cooking? What’s the purpose of anything in a world where she no longer exists by my side?
I’ve been involved with puck bunnies before, many of them, each an ephemeral distraction. But the thought of returning to that life, of pretending she didn’t turn my world inside out and leave me hollow, makes my stomach churn.
I pull out my phone, my eyes squinting in the cold glare of the screen, and I realize how dark it is in my bedroom without the blinds open.
I stare at our last conversation. The words feel like ghosts, lingering reminders of what once was.
She still hasn’t responded to the texts I sent after she left, and the silence is deafening.
My fingers move almost of their own accord, driven by a deep longing I can’t quite quell.
Jinx, please. Just talk to me.
I miss you.
You don’t have to come back, but don’t shut us out. Just let us know you’re okay!
I watch as each message sends, the little whoosh sound hanging in the air like an echo. The read receipts remain blank, an empty void that offers no solace.
Nothing.
It’s like before, back when I was trying to get her to go out with me and she just sidestepped my attempts, always dancing around a real answer, leaving me in a state of hopeful anticipation.
I run a hand down my face, feeling the roughness of my skin against my palm.
God. I can’t keep doing this.
Feeling desperate, I resort to an action I haven’t dared to take since the entire scandal erupted.
I dial my mom’s number.
My stomach twists itself into an anxious pretzel as the phone rings.
Maybe she won’t answer. Maybe she’s ashamed of me, just like Coach.
But then?—
“Rowan?”
Damn.
“Uh, hey, Ma.” My voice betrays me, cracking like I’m a teenager in trouble again.
There’s a brief silence on the line. “Well, this is a surprise. Is everything okay?”
No. Not even close.
I let out a long breath, my hand moving to rub over my heart as if that could soothe the persistent ache. “I don’t know. Everything’s just awful. Especially since that… news… came out…”
There’s another pause, but this one feels gentler, like the calm after a storm. Then, my mom’s laughter rings out.
“Well, yeah, I bet. Who was that girl? Another groupie?”
“No, no, she was the team PT…” I mutter.
“The team PT?” Mom nearly shouts. “Goodness, I assume she’s not the team PT anymore, then?”
“Yeah, she’s not. She quit. She quit and…”
My words fall short, I don’t know if I can put my emotions into words that my mother would understand.
To my surprise, though, it seems she already does.
“You’re really sad she’s gone?”
“Yeah, I am. I think I loved her…”
“I could tell,” Mom says. “I’m glad the pictures weren’t more graphic than they were, but the way you were looking at her… the way you all were looking at her… I don’t know how that kind of relationship works, but I can also hear in your voice that you’re heartbroken.”
A silence wedges between us again, until Mom’s voice cuts through like the sun during a rainstorm.
“Does she make you happy?” my mom finally asks, her voice gentle yet probing.
I swallow hard, feeling the lump in my throat. “Yeah. More than anything,” I admit.
“Then you wait,” she says simply, her voice steady and reassuring. “If she comes back, she comes back. If she doesn’t… well, that’s a risk you take when you love someone.”
I stare blankly at the wall, the truth of her words settling over me like a heavy, unyielding cloak. “It’s not just about me, Ma. The team, Coach, the way people look at us now. This isn’t normal. It’s not?—“
She cuts me off with a snort, dismissing my concerns with a wave of her hand that I can almost see through the phone. “What? You don’t have enough money as a star athlete to weather a little bad press?”
I laugh, a reluctant chuckle escaping my lips despite myself. “It’s not about the money,” I reply, shaking my head even though she can’t see it.
“Then what is it about, baby?” Her voice lowers, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace. “Because it sounds like you’re making a lot of excuses for why you shouldn’t be happy.”
I press my lips together, my fingers tightening around the phone as if it could somehow anchor me in this storm of emotions. “Get her back so she can make sure you heal up good,” she teases, her laughter a gentle balm to my soul.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter, unable to suppress a small grin.
“Love you, kid.”
“Love you too, Ma,” I respond, my voice full of warmth and affection.
We hang up, and I find myself staring at my phone once more, the screen glowing with unanswered messages to Jinx that seem to mock my uncertainty.
We don’t have to tell her about the baby yet, this conversation was a good starter…
I imagine telling mom about the baby and how different that conversation might be, but ultimately, I’m happy this one went better than expected.
I sit in my silent bedroom, the stillness only broken by the quiet hum of the ceiling fan. My mom’s words echo in my mind, circling like a persistent breeze.
She’s right. I can’t make Jinx want to be with us. I can’t force her to see that we could be a family, that she doesn’t have to face life’s challenges alone.
Jinx is a free spirit, always has been, and perhaps we were too much for her—too settled, too predictable. Like a bird in a cage, she probably felt trapped.
With a sigh, I rub my eyes with my palms as frustration builds. The last thing I ever wanted was to hold her back.
If she felt like we were suffocating her, then yes, leaving was probably the best thing for her. But god, it hurts deep inside, a dull ache that refuses to fade.
I glance at my phone once more, the screen glowing gently in the dark, displaying the unread messages that taunt me with their silence. With a resigned breath, I finally shut the screen off, plunging the room back into darkness.
If she’s happier on her own, going back to school and chasing whatever new dream she’s got, then I hope she soars into the sky like a bird released, free to fly wherever her heart desires.
But what about the baby?
I shift my position, my knee bouncing with restless energy as I lean forward on the edge of the bed, the fabric creasing under my weight. A swirl of uncertainty fills my mind.
Is it even mine?
The thought lingers in the air, unanswered. I will probably never know. Yet, strangely, the truth is, I don’t care.
My mind drifts to visions of raising a baby alongside Thomas and Bruno.
I imagine the three of us huddled together, grappling with the mysteries of diapers, the bleary-eyed exhaustion of late-night feedings, the exhilaration of witnessing first steps, and the joy of hearing first words.
Three dads, each a novice in the realm of fatherhood, bumbling through the myriad challenges, finding our way as we go.
A slow smile tugs at my lips, spreading warmth through me.
Yeah. I want that.
I wonder if Thomas and Bruno feel the same way. If, like me, it’s not about DNA for them either. If they, too, simply yearn to be part of the child’s life because it’s Jinx’s.
Because, in our hearts, it’s ours.
Moping around isn’t going to resolve anything. I need to take action, to do something, to shape the future we all might share.
I order an Uber and set off for the rink. As we navigate the bustling city streets, I sense a rare and vibrant energy bubbling within me—excitement.
This isn’t the heart-racing thrill that surges through me before a game, but rather a steady, determined wave. It’s the kind of feeling that reaffirms I’m still a player, still someone capable of making an impact.
The driver steals a glance at me in the rearview mirror as we pause at a red light. “You look like you just had an epiphany or something,” he remarks.
A quiet laugh escapes my lips. “Something like that.”
When we finally arrive at the rink, I hand him a crisp twenty for the modest five-dollar fare. “Keep the change,” I say, hopping out with a quick step.
Inside, I barely take ten strides before the custodians notice me. One of them, an older man named Dale with a knowingly smug attitude, calls out, “You looking to sleep with the next PT, too?”
The others chuckle, their laughter echoing down the hallway, and I force a smile, letting the comment slide right off me.
I don’t have time for this nonsense.
I push onward, my focus set firmly on reaching the glistening expanse of the ice.
I settle into the wooden booths, the familiar scent of aged varnish mingling with the crisp, cold air of the rink, and begin watching the practice unfold.
The new goalie is… well, just mediocre.
There’s nothing particularly striking about him. He’s young, with an obvious layer of nerves clinging to his movements—they lack the fluidity of a seasoned player. He’s reacting to the puck rather than predicting its path, allowing the play to dictate his position instead of asserting dominance over the crease.
I frown, the dissatisfaction gnawing at me.
No, that approach simply won’t cut it.
I rise from my seat and make my way down to the benches. The players cast glances in my direction as I step up to the glass, tapping it with my knuckle.
The new goalie, Trevor, Tyler, or whatever his name is, catches my eye, and I gesture for him to skate over.
He complies, his uncertainty evident in his hesitant approach.
I nod toward the expanse of ice. “You’re overthinking it,” I state bluntly.
He blinks, caught off guard. “Uh?—“
“You’re waiting for the puck to find you instead of commanding the space. You need to own the crease,” I advise, my tone firm yet encouraging.
The coach stands nearby, arms crossed, observing the exchange without interruption. I step back, offering a nod of reassurance.
“Again,” I instruct.
The team reassembles into their positions, and I immerse myself in the rhythm of the game, the heartbeat of the ice beneath me. No, I don’t have Jinx by my side right now.
But I do have this moment.
And for now, that’s enough.