Chapter Twenty-Five
Roman
My parents welcome me warmly with proud smiles even though I’m not a gold-medal winner.
“We’re still proud of you, Roman,” my mother says, holding my cheeks in her hands. “You played so well. And your team did a good job. The other was just a little better.”
“They got lucky,” I grunt out, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “Where is Taco?”
“She’s outside with your father.”
I head through the living room and kitchen to the back door.
I pull it open and step onto the porch, finding my father out in the snow-covered yard playing fetch with Taco.
She runs the green tennis ball back to him, dropping it at his feet, then scoots backwards, her tongue hanging out of her mouth and excitement on her face.
My chest warms as she takes off after the ball, my father smiling.
I love my family. I love my dog. And I love my home.
But there’s an ache in my chest because something is missing.
It’s done now, Roman. It’s over. It’s time to move on.
I head down the steps and whistle.
It catches both their attention. My father grins while Taco bolts for me, running as fast as her little legs will take her. I squat down and open my arms. She jumps into them, licking my face and waggling her butt so much that her whole body shakes.
“I missed you, girl,” I whisper, petting and kissing her head. “We’re gonna go home soon. Don’t worry.”
I lift her up as I stand, giving my father a one-armed hug.
“You played well, son.”
“Thanks, Dad. Could’ve done better.”
“You can always do better. Maybe next time.”
“Not sure there will be a next time.”
He waves me off. “Some of those guys out there were in their forties. You’ve got plenty of chances to go back. Stop being so negative.”
He heads inside and I watch as he goes, then look down at Taco.
“I’m not negative, am I, girl?”
She responds by barking, then lapping at my face. I’m not sure if she agrees or not.
We head inside and I put her on the ground, but she stays by my side. My loyal little girl.
“I made your favorite, Roman,” my mother says. “Pot roast, carrots, potatoes, and onions.”
“Don’t forget the bread!” my father calls from the den.
“Oh, yes. I baked bread last night. It’s a sour dough. Came out better than the last.”
“Can’t wait,” I say, a little bit of warmth settling in my chest.
We sit to eat dinner, just the three of us—well, and Taco by my feet.
My father and I have beer while my mother sips wine.
We eat seconds of her meal because there’s just something about it that is so good.
We chat about the Olympics, and as badly as I want to tell them about Nico, I can’t bring him up.
I can’t bring myself to talk about him because when I think about him, my throat gets tight.
So I dance around our time together and tell them about the games and practices and athletes.
When it’s time to go, my mother packs me a large container full of leftovers and a gallon bag of bread. Taco and I make our way home.
She trots inside, going right to her pink bed by the couch. I put the food away, then drop into my spot on the couch.
“Glad to be home, girl?” I ask. She looks up at me, wagging her butt. “Yeah, me too.”
I turn on the TV, which opens up to the last channel I was watching—ESPN. And of course it’s covering the Olympics, and the first person’s face I see?
Nico.
I raise the remote to change the channel, but as he smiles up at the crowd, I stop. I can’t change it. I want just another moment with him. Just one.
It cuts away to the female gold medal winner. They talk about her performance but it all sounds like mumbling to me. I push up off the couch and go to my room to change into workout clothes, then head to my in-home gym.
I spend an hour in there before I decide it’s not working well enough to distract me, so I run out to the car to get my bags and do laundry, which keeps me busy for about ten minutes.
Until I spot Nico’s sweatshirt tucked all the way at the bottom, and then I can’t breathe again.
I shove it under my pillow and take Taco for a walk.
I hop in the shower when I get back. My mind is racing and I just want it to stop.
Once I’m dressed, I stand in front of the mirror to look at myself.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I whisper.
My phone rings from the other room, and I jerk back, hurrying out to see who it is.
Disappointment fills my chest when I see it’s Connor.
“Hey,” I answer. “You get home okay?”
“Yeah, you?”
“Yep.”
“Wanna grab a beer?”
“Fuck yes,” I say.
He chuckles. “Eager much?”
“Sorry, I’m just…” I sigh.
“I get it,” he says softly. “Meet me at Down Denver.”
“I’ll be there in thirty.”
I change out of my sweats and into boots, jeans, and a flannel. I grab my jacket, kiss Taco goodbye, and I’m out the door.
Down Denver is a busy bar that athletes are known to hang out at.
It has a decent amount of security because of it.
They don’t allow fans to act crazy and bombard the athletes, which is why a lot of us locals like to come here.
Other places feed into it, wanting the extra cash flow.
They aren’t like that here because the owner is a retired Diamond.
He knows how it is to want to get a drink and not be bothered, so he made it so that can happen.
Connor is already inside and at the bar when I get there, the stool to his left free. I hop onto it.
“You made it,” he says, lifting his hand to get the bartender’s attention. She holds up a finger, speaks to some guy at the end of the bar, and then she’s in front of us.
“What can I get you?” she asks, looking between us.
“I’ll take another one of these,” Connor says before draining the rest of his beer and putting it on the bar.
“I’ll have the same.”
“So, what made you so eager to come out?” he asks, smirking at me. “Bored already?”
“Something like that,” I grunt.
He nods. “Yeah, I get it.”
He looks away, back at the TV screen that’s playing more Olympic reruns. Right now, it’s snowboarding. Hopefully it stays that way.
The waitress brings our beers, placing them in front of us.
“Just put it on my tab,” Connor says. “You talk to Nico?” he asks as he reaches for his beer.
I pick up mine and take a big gulp.
“No.” I take another mouthful. “You talk to… whoever it was you were hooking up with?”
“Nope.”
I nod.
“So, we’re in the same boat then,” I say.
“Seems that way.”
“Great. We’re going to have two depressed fucks on the team when we start in a couple days.”
Connor laughs, staring down at his beer. “I’ll get over it. Always do.”
“This feels different.”
He nods slowly but says nothing.
“Are you going to tell me who it is?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Maybe. But not today.”
I bring my attention back to the TV, which is now talking about hockey and how Canada won the gold.
“Bitches,” Connor mutters.
I huff a laugh. “They played a good game.”
“Abbot is never going to let us live this down.” He shakes his head, taking another swig.
Jared Abbot is a forward for the Diamonds… and was on the Canadian team and won the gold.
“I’ll put itching powder in his skates.”
Connor barks a laugh. “He’d fucking kill you.”
“I could use a fight right now.”
We have a couple more beers then call it a night. I cuddle with Taco and Nico’s sweatshirt to fall asleep.