Chapter 2 #2
Thankfully, Riley’s most recent photos are in fact from Wes Harper’s party.
No better than a voyeur, I swipe through image sets hungry to unearth more glimpses of Eric, but to my dismay, there are no more, just pictures of other guests at the party.
In the background of many of them, I find Glenn Callahan, my team captain on the Comets having a grand old time.
He could have invited me to come since we’re fellow Comets, but he didn’t.
Riley at least tagged the partygoers who also have Pixstagram accounts, so I continue my hunt for glimpses of Eric, clicking through each post to look through individual profiles hoping to strike gold.
Okay, so maybe my dad was right. Maybe I am a little obsessed, but isn’t that what social media’s for? Vicarious living?
Success comes in the form of Oliver Owen, the social media manager for the San Diego Starbirds.
I don’t question why he’s there, if Harper invited him or if he’s there as someone else’s friend; the reason doesn’t matter because I’m rewarded for my diligence with a candid photo of Eric glancing to his side, seeming to be lost in thought in the middle of the party.
Unlike Nathan Riley’s picture which was no more than a quick snapshot, Oliver took his time capturing the moment—from the framing to the way light and shadow plays on Eric’s features in the dim restaurant to the exact second when he pressed the button on his camera.
Oliver’s caption is simple, only three words long:
The Goaltender, contemplative.
Thus begging the question: contemplative over what? What’s on Eric’s mind? Tell us more, Oliver!
A picture can only utter so many words, and like Riley, Oliver only posted one of Eric. To scour the internet any further would border on stalking, and my guilty conscience has arrived.
Eric had invited me. I could’ve gone to this party. I could’ve been right there on the other side of Eric, enthralled by his stories, his presence. His contemplative gaze could’ve been focused on me… but I was a coward.
It’s fun to imagine what it would have been like to be there, if only for a few seconds.
Dinner’s long since finished, so I shut off my phone and stack all the emptied clamshells onto the cart.
I crash back into bed, sprawling out atop the mattress to stare at the ceiling.
From this high up in the hotel, Los Angeles gives off the illusion of quiet stillness.
The hum of an ice machine down the hall.
The soft opening and closing of doors. Voices muffled by walls.
My breaths, my thoughts, and the emptiness of the room.
Why didn’t I just accept Eric’s invitation? How could I have been so foolish? Chances like that don’t come often, but who wants to go to a party they weren’t invited to and play third wheel? Probably the people who hog the world’s confidence and leave none for the rest of us.
This mistake is my own making. At some point in my career, I became used to coming back to the hotel or my apartment after games, expecting a call from my mom.
Sometimes we would just talk, and she would give updates about life back home in Massachusetts: if dad was working on a new collection of poems, if something funny had happened with one of our neighbors, if the weather was unusual or pleasant, if the flowers in her garden had bloomed yet.
Sometimes we would go over the night’s game and discuss key moments, sometimes frame by frame if she had access to the VOD.
As a former goaltender herself and the parent most devoted to my hockey development, she would give feedback, pointing out areas I needed to go over in practice or to acknowledge improvements.
Phone calls with my mom were a much needed lifeline to keep me grounded and give me a mental break.
But three years ago, during the season I was promoted out of the AHL, she was diagnosed with an illness which turned her and my dad’s lives upside down. Those phone calls may have happened less, but they still happened. For the past year, however…
I’ll always be grateful she at least saw me play a few seasons in the NHL.
It was her dream to see me succeed ever since I put on my youth goalie helmet and stood inside the crease for the first time all those years ago.
If I focus hard enough, sometimes, I swear I can still hear her cheering from the crowd.
I don’t want to think about it.
Maybe a few pages from my favorite fantasy novel will help me fall asleep. I retrieve my tablet out of my luggage, and then settle back into bed.
When my eyes catch the first few lines from chapter one, the real world fades away. I’m swept into my imagination, transported to another time and place. These familiar words, they’re much needed company to take my mind off my problems.
My dad instilled a profound love of books in me when I was a boy.
After a long day at school or out on the frozen lake near our home, he would read to me late into the night when I should’ve been sleeping.
I would always hang on every word, eager to find out what would happen next in the story.
I enjoyed the level of detail, the vibrant, well-rounded characters, and the hard-fought happy endings.
Fantasy is his favorite genre, so it became mine too, the purest form of escapism. In fantasy worlds, anything can happen, anything can exist. Magic, dragons, time travel, reincarnation, coming back from the dead. Perhaps most important: true love, which triumphs over all.
Real life, in comparison, has limits. Heartbreak. Grief. Silence. I’m well-versed with all three.
After putting so much of my mental focus and strength into hockey, sometimes all I want is to be whisked away to another world, to step into the shoes of someone else, someone who can let down all their burdens and be themselves without fear of reprisal.
So much of my spare time during this year’s regular season has been taken up by rereading this series.
I try to pace myself and stretch out my time with this world before the journey ends once more, but it’s always a challenge.
It’s so easy to immerse myself in the universe, plot, and lives of the characters instead of my own.
The romance subplot between the two main characters—a runaway prince and his loyal knight—is especially enjoyable.
The author has carried on their slow-burn relationship over the course of two books.
So many will-they, won’t-they moments. So much unresolved sexual tension.
If other fans of the series are anything like me, then they've been praying for ignition for several years. It’s agony.
It’s perfect. It’s certainly pushing me to swipe to the next page.
I read until my eyes droop and my e-reader slips out of my fingers and drops onto my face.
I turn off my device and place it on the bedside table.
I check the time, wondering if Eric is still out with Wes Harper and everyone else at the party.
How tired will he be tomorrow? Will he remember to show up for breakfast?
I turn off the light, plunging the hotel room into darkness. What does it matter if they’re still out or not? It doesn’t concern me. I’m not part of that world.
I roll onto my side, clutching the corner of my pillow, and fall asleep within minutes.