Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When I wake the next morning, it’s thanks to soft birdsong and warm sunlight filtering through the curtains, not a preset alarm.
Rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I notice something which wasn’t there last night on the bedside table: a hockey trading card of myself, a pen, and a note written from Eric.
He must have slipped into the room and dropped it off sometime during the early morning.
Would you mind signing this? the note reads. I’d like to add it to my own collection.
It’s one of my first hockey cards after I started playing for the Comets, nothing more than a bust of myself dressed in my goalie gear, staring at the camera with a bright, cheery smile.
I remember the photoshoot distinctly; the cameraman told me to act natural, like I was posing for a school yearbook photo.
God, what was I thinking having that goofy hairstyle?
Someone should have told me to run a brush through it. I had terrible helmet hair that day.
My thumb strokes the picture. I was a different person back then, hopeful about my career and happy with my family. I lived and breathed goaltending, so eager to prove myself to the league after earning my chance to compete. Time changes everything. At least I figured out how to style my hair.
Funny how of all the cards I’ve had made of me since, this is the one Eric owns. When did he purchase it? There’s no way he’s always had this. I’ll sign it for him, but he has some explaining to do.
A sweet smell carries through the house, coming from downstairs.
I follow my nose and stomach, heading for the kitchen with the card in hand.
Eric’s in front of the stove cooking pancakes, sausage, and eggs on a griddle.
I’ve never seen Eric like this before: dressed down in his pajamas, hair messy from sleep.
He smiles over his shoulder when he notices me.
“Hey! Good morning. I was just about to bring up breakfast. Did you sleep well?”
“I did.”
“Fresh coffee’s brewing, and the food’s almost done. Though, if you’d rather have cereal, I have a couple choices in the cupboard.”
“What you’re making smells delicious.” I prepare a cup of coffee and take a seat at his kitchen counter. “I’ve autographed your card.”
“Thanks. I didn’t show you my office yesterday. That’s where I have my hockey collection.”
Eric fills a plate full of breakfast delights and passes it across the counter to me. Despite my stomach growling, I wait for him to serve himself and join me before starting.
“When did you get that?” I ask, gesturing to the card with my fork.
“A few months ago. Managed to get into a bidding war over it since it's in such good condition. Hoping to get it graded now that it’s signed.”
“Graded? Really?” I tease with a wry smile. “You’re one of those collectors?”
“All my other goalie cards have been graded, so this one needs to be too. It’ll look great alongside all the others.”
I had no idea Eric was that kind of hockey nerd. “What other cards do you have?”
Eric lists some of the famous goalies whose memorabilia make up parts of his collection.
Goalies who made their mark on the league when Eric and I were growing up, goalies who have achieved legend status and gone on to immortalize themselves in the Hockey Hall of Fame.
Somehow, Eric thinks I belong in their company. I must still be asleep and dreaming.
“So, I’ll be honest,” he says, shifting the conversation away from hockey collectibles. “I’m still drawing up the itinerary of stuff we could do while you’re here, but I’m planning on taking you camping next weekend. Before then, we can go shopping to pick out some gear for you.”
Camping with Eric alone sounds fun and exciting—a chance to get away from the city and slow down.
Hiking through winding wilderness trails, taking a nap amidst peaceful nature, roasting marshmallows over the fire, and capping off the day with stargazing.
That’s what Eric promised, but I wasn’t expecting we’d go out so soon after I arrived.
“Don’t you have to have a reservation in advance for that kind of thing? We can just—”
“James, listen. I meant what I said last night. Just relax and let me take care of you.”
Eric has no idea what he’s saying and the effect it has on a closeted guy like me.
I’ve always fantasized about having a boyfriend who wouldn’t mind taking the lead.
I’m the poster boy for goaltenders who overthink and overwork themselves into the ground for the sake of the team, so I’d love the chance to turn off my brain and be the one who goes with the flow.
Damn, I really needed a vacation.
“Alright,” I concede, unable to hold back a smile over the rim of my mug. “You’re in charge then.”
Eric grins back, but there’s a strange spark of mischief in his eyes. I can’t help but wonder what exactly he has on his mind.
“Today I thought we could take it easy and go on a walk. Show you around the neighborhood. When we come back, we could chill for the rest of the day. Maybe game or watch a movie?”
“That sounds great.”
Is less than twenty-four hours in a new environment enough time to feel like a changed man? I’m not sure, but the results already speak for themselves. I didn’t wake up feeling exhausted, dreading the start of a new day because I was looking forward to spending time with Eric.
We spend the rest of our breakfast talking about possible ideas for other activities around the Puget Sound region. It’s clear Eric’s done his tourist research, and it was either crammed within the span of a few days or something he’s picked up after years of living in the area.
After breakfast, we each get dressed for the day and meet up again at his front door. Whenever I jog in the morning, it usually doesn’t involve another person, so this will be different but welcome.
“Ready to head out?” he asks while lacing up his shoes.
“Lead the way.”
Outside, crisp, cool air greets us. Tall trees line the sidewalk, offering shade from the morning sun. It’s easy to fall into a rhythm with Eric, walking at the same pace. There’s no rush, no hurry. He talks about the neighborhood and nearby town as if he’s a guide on a walking tour.
“You seem like an expert,” I say. “Have you always lived out here?”
“No, I used to live in Seattle proper until a few years ago. Braydan and Kaori live a few streets over, and they told me a few homes in the area had just come on the market. This ended up being a happy medium between the city and a small town.”
At the mention of Braydan, I can’t help but wonder if Eric’s best friend is aware Eric invited me to Seattle for the summer. Would he ask questions, or would he understand that Eric acted out of kindness towards a fellow goalie?
“It’s a nice area. Why did you pick this house in particular? Was it because of the view?”
“That was a large draw for me, but it wasn’t the only reason. The first time I saw it in person, it was clear it needed some work to restore and modernize it, but that wasn’t a problem for me. It was an opportunity to make it mine.”
“It must’ve been fun adding exactly what you wanted. I love the patio and outdoor kitchen especially.”
“Thanks, I enjoy having company over and want everyone to feel comfortable while they’re here. It’s nice to come home and have somewhere to relax after a long season on the road.”
Us hockey players spend half the season away from home.
Some guys might not mind the distance, some might even enjoy the wanderlust and the fact we never stay in one place for more than a few days.
Others might miss home, whether it’s a person they’ve left behind or a place that feels safe and consistent.
Sometimes we’re caught between the liminal spaces, neither home nor away, living stretches of our lives in transition from one place to another.
Eric’s lucky to have a place he can solely call his own and friends who live close.
As we pass another house, the middle-aged woman I saw tending to her plants yesterday is back outside again, now dressed in a flowery blouse, jeans, and a gardening apron.
The pink roses blooming beside her white picket fence are well-taken care of and smell lovely.
They remind me of the roses my mom used to have in our own garden back in Massachusetts.
When the woman notices us passing by, she stops watering and waves. “Well good morning, Eric! Who’s the handsome young man with you?”
“This is my friend James,” Eric calls back. “He’ll be staying with me for the summer.”
“Oh that’s lovely!” She finishes watering her porch plants and joins us at the sidewalk. She introduces herself as Mrs. Smith, a local florist. “Are you from around here, James?”
“No,” I answer. “I’ve been to Seattle a few times for work, but I haven’t really had a chance to see the sights.”
“I’m sure Eric will be glad to show you around. If you’re as much an outdoorsman as him, then you’ll love it here.”
“I already do. It’s nice to get away from the city.”
“We’re happy to have you.” She brushes her hands on her apron and glances to Eric. “Would you be a dear and bring me one of the big potting soil bags from the shed out front? I would really appreciate it.”
Eric jumps at the opportunity to help without hesitation. “Of course.”
“I can help,” I offer. Two big goalies are better than one when it comes to heavy lifting.
“No, no. I’ve got it,” Eric reassures.
Before I can protest further, Eric leaves us, heading for Mrs. Smith’s backyard. When he’s out of earshot, Mrs. Smith turns her attention to me and smiles. “Are you a hockey player as well?”
“Yeah, I’m a goalie.”
“That explains why you and Eric are friends. What team do you play for?”
My expression falters, and I swallow hard. “The Chicago Comets.”
“Oh,” she smiles sadly. “I thought you looked familiar. My son had his friends over for the games a few weeks ago, and he was quite mad at you. He’s a diehard Seadogs fan.”
I’m not sure how to respond. Are you supposed to apologize for being one of the antagonists who knocked out a beloved team?
“You can imagine how he felt when Eric became our neighbor down the street. I won’t tell him you’ll be here for the summer,” she teases.
I rub my neck and shift my weight. “Maybe I could sign something for him?”
As an apology, at least, for ruining the Seadogs playoff dream.
Mrs. Smith waves me off. “Oh, no. That’s not why I mentioned it, but it’s very kind of you to offer. Eric himself has tried to do the same.”
I chuckle sheepishly. “That doesn’t surprise me. He’s a great guy.”
“One of the best. And so handsome! I still can’t believe he’s single.”
Neither can I, honestly.
“He’s always been a good neighbor, if a little quiet.
He doesn’t have company often. Just his teammates now and then, but they’re never too rowdy.
The team has been quite generous to the community every year with their time and money, especially Eric.
I’m glad he’ll be spending time with someone this summer. ”
Before we can continue our conversation, Eric reappears with the heavy potting soil bag, carrying it in his arms without trouble. He drops it off by Mrs. Smith’s front porch.
“Thanks, hun. You make it look so easy.”
“No problem.”
We leave Mrs. Smith’s front yard and continue our walk, passing by some of Eric’s other neighbors who are getting started with their Saturday.
Everyone says hello to Eric and I, and it’s clear the neighborhood shares the same sentiment as Mrs. Smith.
There was never any doubt in my mind to Eric’s character, but it’s clear his presence is welcome in the community.
It’s a side to him I’ve only caught glimpses of before through texting: the regular guy who enjoys his weekends off like anyone else.
I could get used to just being James, starting my mornings with Eric and strolling through a kind, welcoming neighborhood.