Chapter 11 I Didn’t Mean to Ruin Everything #2
“You’ve been trying that for months, Wyatt, and haven’t achieved a thing!”
My heart starts to feel heavy. “Then I’ll find another way. I’m going over to the training center, and I’m going to play next weekend. I don’t care how tough it’s going to be. And then I’ll get my money, and you can stop having to do all this stuff at long last. Promise.”
For a second there’s a glimmer of battered hope in her eyes, but then it’s gone again.
“Stop constantly promising shit you can’t deliver.” With that, she turns and stomps up the stairs.
For a few minutes I can’t move. I feel like absolute shit. It’s only when Camila comes back down without any makeup on and with her backpack that my muscles remember how to function. I follow her down the hall.
“I’m sorry, Mila. Really. You were truly beautiful with that makeup. I’m a dumbass. Take the coffee I made for you at least, and…”
“Vaza!” She opens the door and steps outside. Then she pauses, and it looks like she might be coming to her senses to make peace, as it just plain sucks to leave things like this. Or maybe she wants her coffee.
But all she does is turn around and throw her wallet at me. “I don’t want this anymore. I’m going to buy a new one.”
My sister knows just how to hurt me and manages it a little bit more every time.
I close my eyes, rub a hand across my face, and for a moment enjoy the fresh air coming through the open door.
Leaves are rustling over the street, and the world sounds peaceful.
But when I open my eyes and watch my sister get into the car with teary eyes, there is not a single ounce of peace within me.
I’m a dad even though I don’t have any children.
I have a daughter even though I’m not a dad.
And I have no idea what to do to make it better.
Everything within me wants to be there for Camila, wants to know that she’s safe, and wants to take away whatever’s bothering her.
But nothing I do seems to work. It dawns on me that all this time I’ve been preoccupied with myself, with my own fucking feelings, and I haven’t paid attention to my little sister at all.
Is it possible to sink any deeper? I mean, can I possibly feel any shittier?
It’s no goddamn surprise that she feels like shit when I’m not there for her.
She’s a teenager without any parents, for God’s sake.
I’ve got to start taking care of her. I’ve got to start taking myself out of the frame here and putting her in the foreground.
Across the street, Jocelyn is raking leaves. She’s always been old. My first memory of her is her handing Camila and me strawberry ice cream from the ice cream van. I was seven, and Jocelyn looked just as old then as she does now.
She waves and gives me a wrinkly smile. She always tells me how strong I am and that she admires me. “You’re a good kid, Wyatt. You’re doing things right. Your folks would be proud of you.”
No, Jocelyn. No, they wouldn’t. They’d hate me for everything I’ve done. They’d hate me for letting their daughter down.
All the same, I give her a quarter smile in return.
She seems happy enough with that and turns away.
The wind is cold and eats into my dry skin.
I take my phone out of my pocket and check the time.
Just about seven-thirty. I call a cab, get in, and give the driver the address.
His watery eyes keep flitting back to the rearview mirror, and every time I look up and notice, he quickly looks back at the road.
Pulling up at the training center, he clears his throat and says, “That’ll be seventeen dollars. And, umm, best of luck this weekend, Mr. Lopez.”
“Thanks.” I need it. I give him a twenty and open the door. “All good.” To be honest, I could use the change for detergent, bread, or shampoo, but, come on, how bad would that look? I can see it now: “Wyatt Lopez, the Aspen Snowdogs’ forward, doesn’t even tip his taxi driver!”
The NHL building is huge. It’s made up of six rectangular blocks and an immense outdoor area. When I was still playing in the minors, I’d often stand right here, right in front of the entrance, my eyes closed, imagining being a part of the whole thing.
And now I am, but it sure doesn’t feel like it. It’s like I’m dangling with one leg over a cliff, in constant fear of falling.
Since coming here to sign my contract, so much has changed. Every time I had to go up to the second floor for PT, I’d get a knot in my stomach. Meanwhile, that knot has grown huge, and it’s smothered any feeling of happiness I’d associated with the building.
At the reception desk, I lift my team ID and walk silently past. The digital faces of my team grin at me from the support beams in the lobby.
Even I’m there. How was I ever able to do that?
Smile and mean it. The doors to the elevator close while I’m staring at my photo.
I was so proud when that shot was taken.
It was the first day I was allowed to put on the green Aspen Snowdogs jersey.
I can see the white twelve on my shoulder sticking out.
Right. I’m not going without a fight. I don’t care how bad my arm’s doing; I’m going to play.
I will give it my all. I did not bust my fucking ass my whole life long to make it to the NHL just to lose it all again thanks to a temporary injury.
The doors open again and deposit me into the tenth-floor hallway. The big dudes’ floor. None of us ever finds out what happens up here. This is where decisions are made, money flows, and power is at play.
Carl is standing behind the highly polished reception counter. The crystal chandelier is lighting up his face and pitilessly bringing every wrinkle to light. He’s talking with the secretary, his back to me, his ass leaning against the tabletop.
I rap my knuckles on the counter. “Hey.”
Carl turns around. “Oh, Lopez.” He looks at my hands. “Where’s my soy latte?”
“I’m a hockey player, Carl, not your assistant.”
His eyes dart to the secretary, and his ears flush red.
“Remember that in the future,” I hiss.
Carl purses his lips but doesn’t respond. He seems to have realized he can’t pull that shit with me.
“Come on.” He walks out from behind the counter and down the hall. “Zayne’s waiting.”
He says his name like he was a god whose feet we needed to lick or something. But what Carl doesn’t seem to get is that, without us players, Zayne would be nothing but a businessman without a hockey team.
Carl stops in front of a glass office the size of an indoor amusement park and knocks on the glass door. Zayne’s behind his desk, making a call. Seeing us, he waves us inside and hangs up.
I sit down in front of him in a designer chair. The window on the right gives a direct, pretty impressive view of the Rockies.
“Okay, Wyatt.” He turns his chair halfway to the left and puts his black-and-gold Armani sneakers up on his desk. I’m jealous, I admit, and decide to buy myself the exact same ones if my NHL salary ever makes its way to my bank account. “What are we going to do with you?”
I shrug. “Let me play.”
His gray eyes zip to my right arm, then back to my face. “We both know that you’re in no shape to play.”
“We don’t,” I reply.
A half-amused, half-annoyed smile appears on Zayne’s face. “Would you like me to read you every single report I have on your condition? Don’t make that kind of face. Did you think I wouldn’t inform myself?”
Yep.
Sighing I put one leg over the other and bend forward. “My muscles aren’t in the best shape, I’ll give you that. But I can play. Let me prove it to you.”
Zayne cocks an eyebrow. “And risk ending up last in the league?”
“I could show you today, out on the ice, at the exhibition game.”
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Carl blurts out. He takes a quick step forward and waves his arms, as if he actually had some influence. “The press is going to be there today. Journalists. Bloggers. Fans. If Lopez screws up out there…”
“I’m here, thanks. Don’t refer to me in the third person when I’m sitting right next to you, Carl.”
Our spokesperson gnashes his teeth, but Zayne looks strangely amused.
“Well then, Wyatt, the exhibition game begins in,” he looks at his smartwatch, “ninety minutes. Get changed and join the others. They’re warming up downstairs.”
My heart skips a beat. I wasn’t expecting this. In ninety minutes my feet will be back out on the ice for the first time in months. I can feel my stomach beginning to tingle, partly out of excitement, partly out of happiness. But the happiness wins out.
“Got it.” I push back my chair and am happy to see Carl looking so pissed off. “My jersey is…?”
“I’ll have someone bring it to your locker. Skates, too. What size?”
“Eleven.”
“Right.” Zayne tilts his head. “I bought you based on your performance assessments. They convinced me. You’ve got talent, I know that. Don’t make me regret my decision, Lopez.”
“The ice is my life,” I reply firmly. “You’ll see.”